Chapter 73 Danica #2
"I need no man's permission to venture forth, silfrhár," Bryn declares, pure warrior goddess attitude.
Her tone screams badass Valkyrie, but the way she's eye-fucking Erik tells an entirely different story.
For someone who decapitates Draugr without breaking a sweat, she turns to Norse pudding around our silver fox.
I groan, slumping back. Busted by the testosterone trio.
"Fine."
Rhyland's voice vibrates through the car as he leans in, his big body blocking the steering wheel. Sandalwood and clean sweat flood my senses.
I lift my head slowly. Did I hallucinate that surrender?
His devastating half-smile sends my pulse racing. Workout sweat still clings to his temple, black hair damp at the edges. His navy tank top might as well be painted on, and those tattooed biceps cage me in, turning the driver's seat into our own intimate universe.
"Really?" I arch an eyebrow, not entirely trusting this sudden surrender from Fort Knox himself.
"Mm-hmm," Rhyland hums. "You deserve freedom. I won't cage what's mine." His ocean eyes pin me in place, that alpha stare brooking no argument. "But you will be safe. That's non-negotiable."
Victory bubbles up inside me like champagne. "Cross my heart," I chirp, stretching up to kiss his lips quickly before attempting my escape.
His sexy body doesn't budge. Typical.
"Not good enough," he growls, that commanding eyebrow arch making my insides flutter. "I want a proper kiss as payment, baby."
The conflicting urges to smack him and climb him like a tree war within me, but I settle for option three.
I slide my fingers into his damp hair and pull his mouth to mine, kissing him with enough heat to trigger a fire alarm.
His low groan vibrates against my lips, his thumb tracing my cheekbone in that possessive way that turns my bones to liquid.
Heat rushes my face as I register our audience—Emily's dramatic gagging sounds, Bryn's appreciative murmur, Seraphina's soft giggle. The realization that everyone's watching only heightens the electricity between us, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
"Jesus, get a room!" Lucian interrupts. "Save the Viking mating ritual for OnlyFangs, people! Some of us just ate!"
The penny drops.
I break away, catching that telltale glint in his eyes, the ghost of a satisfied smirk playing at his lips.
Oh. My. God. This devious man planned this whole thing— he's weaponized my exhibitionist streak against me.
Well played, Fjord Lord. Well played.
Nestled in a cozy booth at Ray's Boathouse, with a stunning view of Puget Sound, we girls grab our menus, ready to indulge in much-needed sustenance. After hours of pampering—mani-pedis and Brazilian waxes that left my legs and vag silky smooth—I'm practically purring with contentment.
On the other hand, Bryn is shifting gingerly in her seat, her face a mix of discomfort and annoyance. "Is this what men on Midgard truly prefer? A hairless mound?" she grumbles, her eyes narrowing. "I fail to see the appeal."
I can't help the snort that escapes me. "Oh, honey, just wait until Erik gets a load of your newly bare goods. Trust me, he'll be worshipping at the altar of your smooth snatch faster than you can say 'Valkyrie.'"
Bryn's lips twitch, a dangerous glint in her mismatched eyes. "The silver-haired fífl has never complained about my natural state."
"Oh, he won't be complaining," I assure her. "He'll be too busy thanking every god in the Seven Realms."
The esthetician's warning about waiting 24 hours suddenly pops into my mind.
"Just remember—no test-driving the new look for at least a day. Gotta let things... settle down south."
Bryn's eyes flash with genuine outrage. "What treachery is this? You failed to mention this crucial detail before I allowed that woman to pour molten wax on my nethers!"
I shrug, trying not to laugh at her expression. "Oops. Must have slipped my mind during your screaming fit."
Bryn grumbles something under her breath in Norse, but the way she smiles tells me she's already plotting how to drive Erik wild with her new look. I lean back, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done. Operation 'Valkyrie Makeover' is officially a success.
Our waiter appears, looking slightly overwhelmed by our giggling group. He places a basket of bread at our table—notepad poised and ready. "What drinks can I get you, ladies?"
Sable, trapped at the end of the booth, launches into her drink order first—something fruity with enough alcohol to tranquilize a miniature horse.
I catch Bryn eyeing the waiter's tattooed forearm with interest as if she's cataloging the differences between Midgardian men and their Asgardian counterparts.
"I'll have the blackberry mojito," I tell him, then gesture to Bryn with a mischievous smile. "And my sister here will try the Bloody Viking." I can't resist adding with a wink, "Extra spicy."
Bryn's eyes narrow, her warrior's posture suddenly alert as if I've just announced a battle strategy. "Bloody Viking?" she whispers with deadly seriousness. "They serve the blood of fallen warriors in this establishment?"
Emily snorts into her water while Seraphina's eyes widen to celestial proportions.
"Jesus, Bryn," I stifle my laughter behind my hand. "It's just tomato juice and vodka with horseradish. No actual Vikings were harmed in the making of this cocktail."
Bryn's expression shifts from battle-ready to slightly disappointed. "Midgardians have strange customs of honoring warriors," she mutters. "Very well. I shall sample this bloodless tribute."
Emily orders something with enough caffeine to power a small city, while Seraphina requests a virgin pina colada with such sweetness that the waiter practically trips over himself, promising extra cherries on top.
"It wasn't that terrible," Seraphina muses, her honey-gold eyes scanning the menu as our waiter leaves.
"Much easier than my first time, thank goodness.
" Her lips curve into that sweet smile that's picked up a hint of wickedness since falling for Lucian.
"Though the 24-hour waiting period doesn't apply to me. Celestial healing has its perks."
She glances at Bryn with a conspiratorial smile. "If you have similar healing properties, you wouldn't need to wait either. Men don't really know the difference—you could use it to your advantage. A little teasing goes a long way."
Bryn arches an eyebrow. "Please, I'm a Valkyrie. A little wax isn't going to slow me down."She smirks, her gaze turning predatory. "Something the silfrhár is about to find out firsthand."
"Oh, well that's just wonderful," Emily explodes, throwing her hands up. "Some of us humans don't have magical healing coochies! Twenty-four hours of throbbing lady bits while you supernatural types get to prance around pain-free? The universe is a twisted bitch."
I burst out laughing at Emily's outburst, nearly choking on my water. "Well, Em, maybe Brax can kiss it better? I hear demons have magical tongues—though I'm not sure that's what the brochure meant by 'aftercare.'"
Emily narrows her eyes at me. "You know what, Pierce? Just because you're getting Viking thunder every night doesn't mean you get to be smug about my human recovery time. And Brax isn't even going to—" She stops abruptly, her cheeks flushing.
Emily's eyes suddenly widen as she catches my expression, and I can practically see the "oh shit" moment flash across her face. Nice try, witch bitch, but you're not escaping this interrogation. She's been dodging me these past few weeks, and I'm officially done with her shit.
I place my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my folded hands and batting my eyelashes with exaggerated innocence. "So... ready to spill the tea on why you've been walking around like you rode a mechanical bull for eight hours straight?"
Emily takes a long sip of her water, the ice cubes clinking as she stalls. "What?" She shrugs with practiced nonchalance. "Like you can judge anyone's sex life, Miss 'I'm-Banging-A-Thousand-Year-Old-Corpse.'"
"Excuse you," I fire back, brandishing my breadstick like a tiny sword. "My Viking's preservation status is not the topic of discussion. We're talking about why you've been sneaking around like you're smuggling contraband dick across state lines."
"Fine. Jesus," Emily throws up her hands in surrender, nearly knocking over her water glass. "Yes, I'm sleeping with Brax. Happy now, Nancy Drew?"
"We already knew that," Sable chimes in, like Brax's shapeshifting abilities are yesterday's news.
I bite back a grin—I already know how Brax transformed into a perfect replica of Captain America (shield included), but now I'm dying to know what other celebrity skins my best friend has test-driven in the bedroom.
I immediately soften, my inner scientist pushing through. "I need to know," I lean in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Does his... you know... equipment shapeshift, too?"
Emily gives me a wicked grin that tells me everything before she even speaks. "Well, yeah," she says, like I've just asked if grass is green.
"Oh my god!" I practically bounce in my seat, giddy with the implications. "Okay, spill everything. Details. Dimensions. Diagrams if necessary."
Emily rolls her eyes but leans in. She knows our friendship contract includes full disclosure on all sexcapades—I told her every delicious detail about Rhyland's performance at the Playful Pint. Then that night at the sex club, it's only fair she shares the mechanics of her customizable demon dick.
Talk about the ultimate upgrade from store-bought toys.
"His default mode," Emily says, lowering her voice, "is absolutely..." She holds her hands apart in a measurement that makes my eyes bulge. Brax is packing something that belongs in a stable, not a bedroom, if what she's indicating is accurate. "Let's just say demons are... proportional."
"Sweet Elysium," Seraphina whispers, her cheeks flaming pink.