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  Dark clouds overtake the sky as thunder and lightning dance above me. The ocean slams against the rocks, spraying my skin with cold saltwater. I close my eyes, spreading my arms to let nature have its way with me. The memory of the woman flashes in my mind as the sea angrily beats against the rock below me. I see her face. Her dark hair. Her tears. The fear on her face. The blood.

  Aye, so much blood.

  I gasp when a large gust of wind nearly blows me over the edge, making me snap my eyes open just in time to stop myself from falling over. The gods are waking me up and telling me to get my shit together. I wipe my face, removing the salt from my eyes and giving the sea one last appreciative look before I turn on my heels and walk toward the one place that brings me the most peace—the one place that brings me peace at all, honestly.

  I’m a warrior through and through, as was my father, and as was his father. It’s in my blood, deep in my veins. It’s my soul. It’s who I am, but I want to be different than they were. I want to be better, but just as fierce, something that comes with a toll of sacrifice and death. My goal is to rule the North, South, East, and West. I want to conquer all of the villages that choose to fight me instead of being protected by a warlord.

  There’s just one thing that stands in my way of that goal.

  King Leif. He rules the North and has a large army—bigger than mine—but his men are not as blood hungry as mine. I need to figure out how to get him as an ally. If I can do that, I’d be the most powerful warlord that has ever lived, and he will be the only King to have ever made allies with Vikings.

  Steam rising up ahead pulls me from my plans. After walking about a mile, I finally come upon the hot springs. The heat will feel so good against my tired body. I shuck my furs off, laying them on the ground alongside my pants. I groan, as the cut on my side stings as I bend over. I hold my hand to it when the cut opens, and blood starts trickling out. “Mother fucker,” I grunt.

  After all this time, I’m used to getting hurt in battle. I have the scars all over my body to prove it. And the beads strung through my hair signify each of those victories. I’m proud of my strength, but damn it, there are some days where I hurt so deeply, I can barely roll out of bed.

  Once I strip the last piece of clothing, I sink into the hot pit of the bubbling water.

  “Oh, fuck yes!” I tilt my head back and groan to the sky. I dip my head under and scrub my face, trying to get the grime off. I whip my head back, pushing the long, shoulder-length hair out of my face.

  My muscles relax, and my head starts to clear from the fog that invaded it earlier at the feast. Using the ledge of the hot spring, I support my head as I gaze into the darkened sky and spread my arms along the mossy ground. Lightning veins over the trees, and the light hiss of rain starts to fall, pelleting against the leaves.

  I love it when it’s like this. I love being in the type of weather that matches how I feel. It's like being caught up in my own storm. It’s been a heavy few months. Winter took much of our meat by killing our animals, and many of the elders passed, taking their knowledge with them. The battles, while brutal, have been successful, but I need more.

  The clouds swirl above me, and the wind whips my hair over my shoulders, stinging my flesh, and that’s when I remember…

  King Leif has a daughter—a princess. And the last I heard from the Jackals, a rogue group of the exiled from other kingdoms, she is beautiful. The kind of beauty a man can only hope to lay eyes on once in their lifetime. The stories say she has long, dark brown hair, and eyes so blue, they can seduce a man into a begging fool for just one kiss.

  But no man has ever received one.

  There is one Jackal, a man who comes from Leif’s kingdom, who says that she is a tyrant. A woman with a mouth that makes even the weakest man’s blood boil.

  I love a mouth like that.

  I want a woman who challenges me, who maddens me, who tests me. I don’t want a woman who submits to my every word.

  She sounds perfect to rule by my side. A woman like that doesn’t belong in a castle or hidden away from the world because she is stronger than the men who barricade her. Maybe not by strength, but by a lash of the tongue. A woman of that caliber deserves to be set free, because it will only be a matter of time before her spirit becomes too much for those weak men to take, including her father.

  “Oh, Princess. How could I have forgotten about you?” The perfect leverage against an old man. A smirk plays on my lips as my plan unravels itself. It’s simple. I tell him he will be overthrown if he doesn’t give me his daughter’s hand in marriage. And he will know he doesn’t have a chance against the Vikings—against a warlord.

  If the rumors are true, she will not be happy once she finds out she is to be betrothed to a savage. She will fight me every step of the way, trying to piss me off, but the only thing it will enrage is my cock. Thinking about the feisty woman has blood flowing south, filling my shaft to half-mast.

  I don’t touch it, because I don’t want to get off on a fantasy that isn’t real or set myself up for disappointment. I want to be able to see her first, to see just how unruly she really is. First things first, I want to ask around about her. Maybe Einarr will know more about her than the rumors that have spread across the lands.

  Smirking, I lean back, closing my eyes and letting the hot spring heal my body because it has already done wonders for my mind.

  Chapter Three

  Sassa

  “Sassa! It’s time for your Latin lesson. Get up!” my father calls as he bangs on my bedroom door loud enough to wake the entire kingdom.

  I grab a pillow and shove it over my head to try to tune out the loud drumming noise. It doesn’t work. It’s just as loud, if not louder because I’m starting to actually wake up and feel the enormity of the vibrations from how hard he is hitting the wood. If he keeps going, he may just break it down.

  I know the Latin lessons are such a privilege. Many people in the kingdom do not have the same luxury to learn as I do. Most do not know how to read or write, and yet I here I am, knowing three different languages, going to the library, reading story after story, and writing in beautiful script. Some days, I don’t find it fair that I can have all these wonderful resources and other people do not.

  It is another reason why I wish to leave the life of a princess behind, to be a schoolteacher. I want everyone to have the ability to do anything they love. But if Father never lets me leave the castle, then my dreams will never be reality. Perhaps I can convince him to let me teach the children here.

  The idea has me jolting out of bed, gasping with the realization that it might be an actual possibility. I’ll be safe, protected—by those imbeciles, Kai and Achim—but it would be better than nothing. Father might say yes to it. It won’t be the amount of freedom I want, but still.

  I was going to say I didn’t feel well to try getting out of the lesson, but not now, as this idea brews so harshly that my stomach turns into butterflies.

  “Sassa!” my father shouts again, and the door handle jiggles with his attempt to come in, but he can’t, because I always lock my doors.

  “I’m coming,” I grumble a bit, tossing the extravagant gold comforter off my body and flinging my legs over the mattress. I stretch and stumble toward the door and unlock it.

  A scowling, disapproving face stares at my sleepy appearance. His lips pinch together. “You look a mess, Sassa.”

  “Yes, that tends to happen when one has just woken up,” I say with a yawn and decide that I am going to play sick. Then, I’ll just escape out of the window and into the village to see if I can teach on my own. I don’t want to go to my lesson. Especially if Father is going to be so moody today. “I’m actually unwell today. I’m feeling under the weather, so I won’t be attending the lesson.”

  His eyes soften with worry, and he places his hand on my forehead to check for a fever. “You do feel a little warm. I’ll have Aala come and bring you some soup and water.” He moves his hand to my cheek, and his c
old fingers bring relief to my warm skin. “Yes, you are warm. I’ll tell everyone. Just rest.”

  A wave of nausea hits me, and I double over, grabbing my stomach. Well, this was not in the plans today. Of course, the one day I want to pretend, I’m actually ill. Just my luck. That’s what it is. It’s the world turning my lie back onto me.

  “Sassa!” My father catches me as I lose all my ability to stand. “I’m getting the physician.”

  He carries me back to bed, and the soft feathers make me sigh as they form to my body. He grabs the covers and pulls them to my neck. “I’ll be right back with a cloth and cold water.” He runs his hand over the top of my head, pushing my hair back to get it off my forehead. “My poor girl,” he croons.

  His worry makes me feel loved, and for a moment, I feel awful about the fact that I was going to lie to him about being sick. He cares for me. It is in moments like these when I remember that he isn’t just a King, but he’s also my father. “I’ll be right back. Get some sleep.”

  “Yes, father,” I whisper. Aches start to rack my body, and I groan. How is this so sudden?

  “I hate that you aren’t feeling well,” he says, stopping at the door to turn back to me. “The Latin teacher wanted to see if you were available.”

  “I’m not. I’m sick.” I roll over in bed, pulling the covers with me.

  “For marriage, Sassa.”

  Now I really feel like vomiting. “I’m never available for that. Can we please not talk about how you want to marry me off? I’m sick enough as it is.”

  “Not sick enough to curb that smart mouth, I presume,” he mumbles.

  I give him a small smile. “Never.”

  He shakes his head and swiftly walks over to me and places a kiss on my clammy forehead. “I’ll be back.”

  His light cotton pants sway as he leaves, shutting the door with a soft click. I kick the covers off, take a lighter blanket, and wrap it around my shoulders as I try to get up. I want to sit next to the window where I can feel the breeze rush over my hot skin. It is laughable, really. The fact that I was going to act sick and then here I am, wanting to submerge myself into freezing water just for a small amount of relief.

  Unlocking the latches on the large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows, I sit on the bench my father made for me, tightening the hold on the blanket as I stare off into the lush, green fields and tall trees touching the heavens. It is so beautiful I wish I can be outside forever. Nature is so much better than stone walls.

  I lay my head against the wall, letting the breeze wash over me. As the leaves sway on the branches of the trees, I think about all the time my father has spent trying to convince me to marry someone. I’ll never admit it to him, but I long for someone that makes me fall in love. I long for the friendship, the companionship, the lust, the consuming feeling of never wanting to be without that person—I want it.

  I will never admit that to my father, or he will only work harder to get me married. What he doesn’t understand is, I want love of my own. I don’t want it plucked off the field like a flower for me. I want to pluck my own flower, to know I will get the one I like most. Because heaven forbid if someone does pick one and I’m allergic.

  The thought makes me giggle. Allergic to a man. Maybe that shall be my new excuse to tell my father. I can imagine his face turning the brightest shade of red, boiling with anger. I know he wants me to be taken care of if anything happens to him. Now, I’ve never had my hand asked for; I want to clarify. Men get interested but learn of my mouth, and they run away like a coward.

  Weak men. Why does my father insist I need a man like that? If they can’t handle words, how can they handle battle?

  Apparently, my mouth has a reputation, and the requests to meet me are becoming less and less frequent. While it makes me happy, there is a part of me that feels the spear of rejection, even if I am getting exactly what I want. Can no one handle a personality like mine? Why must a woman always bend to a man’s will? Just the thought of having to do that has my fever spiking.

  “Sassa, I thought I told you to stay in bed?”

  I turn to see him carrying a silver basin and Aala, our maid, follows him with a tray. I can smell the warmth of the broth from where I sit as they come into the room. “I wanted to be by the window. The breeze is nice. It feels good against the fever.”

  “My lady, dear, you look dreadful,” Aala says as she sets the tray in front of me. She gathers the material of her dark blue dress in the small fist of her hand as she sits. “Poor thing… eat up. We need to make sure you are better soon, ma’am.” She takes the wooden spoon in her hand and brings it to my mouth.

  But even opening my mouth is a chore.

  “Come on, Your Highness… open up!” Her old voice waivers, but her hands are steady. She pushes the spoon against my lips, forcing them apart, and tips the broth down my throat.

  Aala has been like a mother to me my entire life. She has taken care of me, helped me understand what my monthly was when it arrived when I was twelve, and held me while I cried more times than I can count. She is a good woman, and with her age, I know the world shall take her from us soon. The only thing that still looks young about her are her eyes. They are still a vivid golden brown, full of experience and life.

  Her hair is long and silver, and the laugh lines around her mouth tells me she has had many smiles over her eighty-so years. But the lines under her eyes lets me know she has had her fair share of tears as well.

  “No more,” I groan, placing my hand against my head when dizziness strikes, and I sway. I perch against the wall, keeping myself steady so I don’t fall over.

  Aala purses her lips and dives the spoon back into the bowl, only to bring it to my mouth again. I turn my head to miss the eager spoon when a cold cloth settles on my forehead. My mouth falls open, and I moan from how good it feels. Aala takes her chance and shoves the spoon in my mouth again, and I narrow my eyes at her with disdain.

  “Oh, don’t you give me that, Lady Sassa. I spanked that bottom when you were growing up; I’ll spank it again!” She waves the wooden spoon at me, spraying a small amount of leftover broth onto my face.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I comply, not having the energy to spew off something smart for the first time in my life.

  “Come on, dear. Let’s get you back to bed so you can sleep,” Aala croons, setting her bony hands on my arms to try to guide me to the bed. But I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay by the window, where it is cool. I don’t have the strength to fight her, though. Everything around me blurs, and before I know it, I’m lying in bed, and my father is placing a fresh cold rag on my head.

  I sigh from relief. I can smell the bit of lavender blossoms he put in the water. It is his trick and has been since I was little. It relaxes me, and he never misses a chance to use it when I am unwell. “You used lavender,” I say to him. I sound like there’s a rock caught in my throat.

  He gives me a genuine smile, one that I haven’t seen in years. “As if I would forget how it makes my favorite daughter feel.”

  I let out a snort. “I’m your only daughter.”

  “Still my favorite,” he teases, dabbing the cloth over my face. He dunks it in the basin again and rings it out, folds it, and lifts my head to place it on the back of my neck. “Get some sleep, my love. If you’re better tomorrow, we shall go for a ride.”

  My heart leaps at the idea of riding with my father. We haven’t done that in months. Not since the last invaders tried to attack us. My father is protective, so until he knows the threat is eliminated, I don’t get to leave the grounds. Since he says we are going riding, I know that he has taken care of the enemy, like he always does.

  My father is the most powerful King in Scandinavia. Only fools try to go to war with him.

  “I’ll come back and check on you. I love you, little lavender,” he whispers as he places one more kiss on my head before leaving the room. The nickname takes me back to childhood, a time where everything wasn’t as serious, and
my only responsibility was to have fun.

  I miss those days.

  “I love you, too,” I say to him. The door clicks shut, leaving me in the silence of my room, and I start to fall into a blissful sleep.

  The dream of a brave warrior, a real man, invades my dreams. He does not have a face yet, but whoever he is, he is out there, waiting to love me. Just as I am ready to love him.

  Chapter Four

  Grim

  “You dare try to spy on me and my people?” I ask the intruder on his hands and knees in front of me. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my second kill you.” The words seep out through my clenched teeth, spraying spit and anger at the man. I have never seen him before in my life. He is but a boy trying to be a man. He has no hair on his face, and his skin shows no scars from war. Just who the hell does he think he is?

  His entire body quakes with fear as he looks into my eyes. I know what he sees. He sees the promise of death. “Please, my lord.” The young brown-headed man begs, his innocent dark eyes welling with tears as he meets my eyes. He may be a fool, but to look me in the eye… Well, that doesn’t make him a coward.

  I take a step closer and put my sword under his chin. “I am not your lord. Let me make that perfectly clear.”

  “Come on, Grimkael. Let’s get rid of him. We still have people to settle in the village.”

  Ignoring the words of my second, I press my sword against the young man’s chin again, making him look up at me with wet lashes. “One more chance.”

  “I used to be a Jackal. I swear it, I mean no harm. I was traveling alone. I was hoping to speak to you. I want a home.”

  I snort, not believing a word of it. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” He lowers the collar of his shirt and reveals the brand of the Jackal. It’s old, but the skin is still puckered, forever burned from the hot iron metal searing a ‘J’ into his skin.