Her Viking Wolves: 50 Loving States, Michigan

By Theodora Taylor

Ask not for whom thy wolves come, Varra. KNOW…We come for you.
These two shifters are hardcore. They’re super-intense. They both want me, and they are absolutely not taking no for an answer. 
Listen, I'm a huge nerd, so I have no idea what to do when not one, but two crazy-hot, time-traveling Viking shifters show up to claim me as their fated mate.
What they want from me is dirty, and completely wrong. So wrong. Like wronger than wrong.
So then why am I having such a hard time resisting them? 
I have no idea how this story will end, but one thing’s for sure: It’s going to be epic.

READER WARNING, this novel is smoking hot to the touch. If two Viking brothers claiming one innocent nerd HARD isn’t your cup of wolf, DO NOT one-click this extremely sexy MFM romance, which proves that what Vikings want, Vikings get. All. Night. Long. 

***Check out all of the books in the Alpha Kings series***

Her Viking Wolf
Wolf and Punishment
Wolf and Prejudice
Wolf and Soul
Her Viking Wolves

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theodra Taylor
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942167044

Book preview

Part One

So that happened.

Chapter One

TIARA

N o! No! I didn’t do nothing! NOOOOO!!!!

Two days before Christmas, I watch Yancey, my dad’s Beta/Sargent of Arms/Future Danny Trejo Impersonator If He’s Ever Hard Up For Money, haul a prospect up on stage. Normally this would be an honor for a young wolf. Patches would be bestowed or a brand pushed into the prospect’s naked back. Painful, yes, but well worth it in any young wolf’s mind since after getting burned, he’d be an official member of the Dark Wolf MC, the outlaw motorcycle club at the heart of our Detroit state pack.

But in this case, the pack’s hooting and hollering is a call for blood. And my father is waiting for the young wolf prospect with a sawed-off shotgun, not a patch. And instead of pulling out a brand, Yancey pulls a pair of silver handcuffs from his leather jacket, which he uses to bind the prospect to a hitching post. The hitching post, like the stage, is all black and all metal. The stage is a permanent structure in our kingdom house’s huge open ballroom, a monstrosity of metal scaffolding adorned with decorative steel spikes (courtesy of the Detroit pack’s steel factory). And it looks completely out of place in our 19th-century French Chateau-style mansion—like maybe it got lost on its way to a heavy metal concert—but hey, it does the job.

Whether they’re on the ballroom floor, on one of the two sweeping staircases leading to the upper floors or, like me, standing on the third-floor landing outside my suite of rooms, every wolf in the place has a good view of the prospect losing his shit. He’s screaming in pain, since both his wrists are bound in silver. And he’s making it worse, because he keeps tugging at his silver cuffs, trying to escape.

Watching the scene below, I feel sorry for the prospect who, only a few minutes ago, was just another guy on a crowded ballroom floor. Having a good time, drinking beer with his fellow Dark Wolf prospects, while looking hard as gangsta nails in our pack’s standard uniform of leather motorcycle pants and a jacket with the giant, blood-red wolf head logo on the back.

But now he’s shackled to the hitching post, the flesh on his wrists sizzling thanks to the toxic silver, as the crowd chants, Party Favor! Party Favor! Party Favor! His screaming and their chanting is so loud, if it weren’t for my sensitive wolf ears, I wouldn’t be able to make out exactly what the prospect is shouting. The gist of it is it wasn’t him who’d been skimming guns to sell on the side for profit. It wasn’t him who’d put all that cash in unmarked trash bags in the basement of his mama’s house. It was a set up. It was all a set up!

It wasn’t me! he screams again at the crowd, before bursting into messy tears. It wasn’t me!

Unfortunately, it was.

See, I would never go so far as to call my father an honorable wolf. But he’s second in the current line of bad-as-fuck Detroit Alpha Kings, and he takes a certain pride in that. He never, ever performs a Party Favor ritual unless he’s absolutely certain the guilty party is, in fact, guilty. And I know he would have had Yancey check and recheck the evidence against the now sniveling prospect before announcing his crime publically.

So…uh…you guys do this sort of thing at every party? my handsome prince asks beside me.

I glance over at Kyle, the insanely hot Alpha Prince of North Dakota. He’s also my fiancé—though he’s probably reconsidering his proposal as we watch my state pack chant for the blood of a sobbing male shifter.

Yeah, I’m afraid so, responds my twin brother, Clyde, who’s standing on Kyle’s other side.

And I quickly glance away after only a few beats of eye contact.

Despite our status as a newly engaged couple, I continue to feel really awkward around him. Maybe because I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he asked me to marry him a few weeks ago. Or maybe because I feel awkward around pretty much everyone except Clyde and Iggle, the lead developer at my video game company, She-Wolf Industries.

But Kyle isn’t a work colleague and he’s not related to me by blood. And for whatever reason, I’m still having trouble believing my brother’s best friend from college took a sudden interest in me after he visited Clyde last New Year’s Eve.

Maybe you’re wondering why the Princess of Detroit can’t believe a storybook handsome Alpha prince is interested in her…

Well, for starters, I wouldn’t exactly call myself a traditional princess. I’m too dark-skinned, for one thing, and several sizes too large to be considered anybody’s idea of a Disney Princess stand in. Also, just a few days before I met Kyle, I shaved one side of my head and started wearing my hair in waist length white yarn locs for a strange mix of reasons that can only be described as Storm Is the Shit, Why Not, Too Many YouTube Tutorials, and Happy New Year! Added to that, as of September, I’m officially over thirty—seriously past my sell date as far as werewolf princesses go. Oh, and when I’m not doing my Detroit Princess thing, I spend the vast majority of my time in my rooms creating games and worlds for others, like me, who prefer the company of digital people to real ones. So all that alone time has made me what the nice wolves in our pack call a little awkward, and what the not-so-nice wolves call crazy-ass weird.

In other words, I’m not exactly love at first sight material. Hell, I don’t even think I’m love after months of getting to know me material. But they say love works in mysterious ways. So here we are, I guess…

I slide another glance over to Kyle. He looks queasy. Almost green, like he’s going to ralph all over the blood-thirsty party goers below, any second now. I wonder if I should try to overcome my considerable self-consciousness in order to give him one really awkward pat on the back.

Luckily, my brother steps in.

Don’t worry about it, man, we got you covered. This is just for the engagement party. Clyde reassures my fiancé with a strong shoulder squeeze. Tee and me already talked to Dad about this. There won’t be any Detroit pack rituals going down at your wedding in North Dakota. Which is why I told Dad if he wanted to do any of this shit, he’d better get it out of his system now. Tee wants a traditional North Dakota wedding. However you do it, that’s how she wants it to go down. Ain’t that right, Tee?

Actually, my wedding plans aren’t even that specific. I don’t care how we get married. As long as I don’t have to get his wolf mark burned into my back and can make it through the entire ceremony without anyone’s blood getting spilled on my dress, I’m good. Seriously, that’s how low my wedding standards are at this point.

But I nod enthusiastically, throwing my brother a grateful smile. He’s so much better at this stuff than me. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we have the same parents, much less shared a womb.

Okay, that’s good to hear, Kyle says, giving both of us a shaky smile.

Down below, Yancey forces the sobbing prospect to his knees while Dad pumps his sawed-off Mossberg 500 twelve-gauge shotgun.

And Kyle visibly gulps. Do we really have to watch this?

Fraid so, man, Clyde says, giving his friend another shoulder squeeze, like he’s trying to transfer some of his self-possession on to his less bad-ass buddy. You ain’t going to get any respect from the pack if you can’t even make it through a Party Favor.

That’s for damn sure, I silently agree. Though I do respect Kyle for still being moved by the scene below. I’d grown numb to such things by—actually I can’t even remember a time before my first Party Favor. Only the Alpha King had changed. My dad holding the Mossberg 500, instead of my grandfather. And by this time next year, it would be my brother deciding who lived or died so that the Dark Wolves could start this party off right.

Kyle takes a deep breath. Okay.

He turns to me and tries to look deep into my eyes, instantly failing because sustaining eye contact is just not on my extremely short list of real life social skills.

But my handsome prince isn’t daunted and he tells the side of my face, I’ll do it for you, honey. If this is what I have to do for us to—

The sound of my father’s twelve-gauge explodes across Kyle’s solemn vow. Then comes a loud cheer as the prospect falls forward, the top half of his head now in bits and pieces on the stage’s black metal floor.

Just smile and wave, my brother says in a resigned tone. Smile and wave.

Which is what we do, smiling and waving to the crowd below like macabre pageant queens as they cheer the prospect’s death.

---

ARE YOU STILL AT THAT STUPID PARTY?

My watch lights up with a message from Iggle, the she-wolf I consider my closest friend, even though she‘s only twenty…and refused to come anywhere near this party.

Nah, girl, that’s too much Detroit for me, she’d said, when I asked if she was coming.

Despite our age difference, she’s like me, a Detroit wolf, who has always felt like she was born into the wrong pack. Like me, Iggle would rather code a gun for an awesome videogame than shoot one. And like me, she spends the majority of her time in her room doing just that.

But unlike me, she’s not the princess of our state pack. And also unlike me, she’s not three hours into an engagement party, but is instead working on the concept package for the Korean firm we hired to help us with the back-end for our next game, Ninja Shifters.

Lucky bitch, I think as I pull my phone out of the bodice of the ridiculous black leather gown Evelyn made me wear and type: Sorry. Yeah. Saw you downloaded the new material and will stay up late to get you my notes. Anything else getting in your way?

Other than you being at that party?

Yes, other than that, Iggle, I type back with a roll of my eyes. The problem with her having been gainfully employed by my company since the age of thirteen is she really has no concept of adult life problems, like having to accept invitations to parties you don’t want to go to. I’ll be back in my rooms as soon as it’s over.

Thank the Lord for the law that prohibits male wolves from sleeping with she-wolves who haven’t gone into heat yet, or else Kyle might expect to get some on top of me having to make it through this horrible-ass party.

Wait, I think. Should I be feeling relieved that I can’t sleep with my husband-to-be? Ugh! I’m not sure. Real life normal is so hard.

I assure Iggle. Hour more, tops.

Iggle responds promptly. K. Text me when you do. I’m going to 420 with the crescent until you’re done with your Alpha Princess cosplay.

That was Iggle. If she wasn’t coding, she was smoking. Which is why I’m in charge of implementing all the boring agile management stuff, leaving her free to live out every would-be video game designer’s dream of smoking, eating, and coding to her heart’s content.

Still, I feel bad. Like I’m letting her down by focusing too much on my upcoming wedding, and not enough on She-Wolf, which was founded by a recluse who figured she’d never get married. Yet here I am…

I’m not saying I don’t appreciate what I’ve got: the four-figure leather Valentino dress I’m wearing, the diamond boulder on my finger, and, you know, the seriously handsome prince who gave it to me. It’s all great, especially Kyle, who I’m lucky to have. I know that. Really, I do…

…but I can feel the inner sanctum of my room calling to me like a siren. Plus, I spend the majority of my time—I mean, like, eighty percent on a good day, one hundred percent on a bad day—with computers. So the huge ballroom of wolves expecting me to wave and say, Hey, what’s up! to them while pretending I wouldn’t rather be in my room doing the thousand things that need to get done before the Ninja Shifters concept presentation? I’m just saying that’s tough.

I’ll try to get out of here as soon as I can.

Tiara! Tell me you are not texting in a corner at your own engagement party!

That’s exactly what I’m doing so I quickly paste on my best contrite look.

Sorry, Aunt Evelyn.

All of this is for you! my aunt says, her tone beyond exasperated.

I know, I mumble, casting my eyes down and to the side.

Evelyn glares at me. Then act like it!

I look away and barely manage to contain a heavy sigh. The issue with my aunt isn’t just that she’s considered it her job to mother me and Clyde since our real mother died in childbirth—even though she married my dad as soon as she was legally allowed to after Mom’s death. But also that she’s my aunt. And not like my play aunt, but my aunt-aunt. As in she and my mother were the only daughters of the Silent Wolf president, the Silent Wolf gang being the most powerful black shifter MC in the nation. However, my mom was a huge nerd, like me, who happened to be really fertile. And my aunt was a smoking hot bombshell who wasn’t.

I don’t want to say my parents’ marriage wasn’t the romance of the ages. But, well, it totally wasn’t. Both my grandfathers wanted a Dark Wolf/Silent Wolf alliance, and neither of them gave a damn how they got it.

My dad and Evelyn were clearly better suited, but she’d been infertile since coming down with a hybrid strain of parvo. Unlike a lot of wolves who caught the virus, Aunt Evelyn was lucky enough to live past childhood, but by the time she was old enough for her first heat, it was pretty clear, based on mounting evidence from other parvo survivors, she was sterile. In other words: no heat, no babies.

So my parents married out of duty. Then less than a year after putting my mom in the ground, my father married the sister he’d wanted in the first place. And he only waited that long because it’s against Lupine Council law to mate an unheated she-wolf. So he had to wait for a special medical dispensation to marry my hot-ass aunt.

So pretty much since birth, I’ve had to put up with my step-aunt Evelyn trying to recode me into the daughter she’d never be able to have. Aunt Evelyn puts a ton more effort into presenting herself in ways males of our species appreciate than my mother ever did. She’s also very social and flows seamlessly between conversations with biker wives and the comparatively refined regular Michigan she-wolves, like Iggle’s mom.

And for all my life she’s treated me like some kind of less-than reflection of her. Like if she pokes and prods hard enough, she’ll crack the protective coating of my jeans and sweatshirts to reveal the sexy and socially adept Tee lurking just below the surface. Otherwise, she’d have to finally accept I’m nothing more than the yarn-locked nerd she shoved into a leather evening gown for this party in order to pretend I’m worthy of someone as handsome and respectable as the Dakota prince.

Speaking of which…

Why are you yelling at me? I ask, staring at my feet. It’s not like Kyle is doing a much better job. I don’t even see him here.

Evelyn looks around with a frown. "He’s probably in your brother’s rooms playing that damn Viking Shifters game of yours."

I perk up. Really? You think so?

My aunt’s eyes slit so hard, it seems like it should be accompanied by an angry sound effect. It’s not anything to be proud of, Tiara.

Another thing I don’t love about my aunt. She insists on calling me by my full, super-ridiculous name as opposed to Tee like everybody else.

I’ll go find them, I offer, hoping to mollify her…and make my escape. Playing She-Wolf’s bestselling game to date with my twin and my fiancé seems like just the thing to save an otherwise useless night.

You do that, she says. But come right back afterwards, and bring that damn brother of yours, too. All this money we paid for this party and we got the Prince of Detroit missing in action.

I leave her grumbling, and make my way up the stairs to my brother’s wing of the house on the second floor. It seems unfair that she’s mad at Clyde, even though he’s done almost every single thing our dad has ever asked of him, including setting his nerdy sister up with one of his best friends from college.

And as for Kyle, the truth is he barely knows me. I remember our ten months of dating as mostly IM conversations with the occasional date thrown in. With me mumbling my way through answers to his questions, and him responding with what I can only guess is some kind of special North Dakota brand of relentless cheer. The truth is, I don’t blame him for preferring to spend time playing my video game with my cool-as-hell brother instead of hanging out with me at our engagement party. I know that’s what I’d rather be doing right now.

I can hear the game blasting as I approach Clyde’s door, along with the groaning of fallen shifters. One round, I decide. One round of Viking Shifters and then I’ll go back down to the party and try like hell to pretend I’m a shifter princess and not a super-awkward videogame developer in disguise.

Throwing the door open, I call out Okay, I’m playing the…

Only to stop dead in my tracks, the word winner falling pitifully from my mouth.

Because yes, the video game is on. But the groans aren’t coming from the game.

They’re coming from Kyle, the Prince of Dakota, who my brother, the Prince of Detroit, currently has bent over one of his gaming chairs. And he’s doing something to him that would definitely get us banned on several console platforms if we ever dared feature it in any of our shifter games.

Clyde’s eyes go wide and he abruptly stops his enthusiastic pumps into my fiancé’s backside when he sees me standing wide-eyed in the doorway.

But Kyle’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t notice me, or maybe he’s just too far gone to care.

Oh fuck! Oh God, don’t stop, baby! Don’t stop!

Kyle, my brother says.

You fuck this ass so good. Oh baby, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you. How much I’ve missed this!

"Kyle," my brother says again, his voice a shade louder.

What? Why did you… my fiancé whines as he finally opens his eyes…and registers my presence in the doorway.

Now it’s his turn to trail off.

…stop?

Chapter Two

FJ

Viking Age Norway, Many Centuries Ago

"F J …"

The gray eyes of Fenrisson, Ever the Man, come open in an instant, the woman’s whispered voice still ringing in his ears. She does not call him by either of his true names, however, neither Fenrisson nor Fenris Next. Instead she uses his barn nafn—his child name—the one he is called by none but his mother, siblings, and Aunt Alisha, a woman who left their land along with her three young and her fated mate nearly twenty winters ago—the last time Freya’s lights could be seen in their land.

Yet it is this name he has woken to ever since the coming of Freya’s mating lights. The lights his Aunt Bera, the pack’s wise woman, predicted so many winters ago. The lights she said would usher in an enemy unlike any they had ever known.

Come they will under Freya’s purple lights in the five-and-thirty winter of our Fenris not yet. An enemy who will kill many of our wolves and give final harm to Olafr’s human. And will they the future of our Fenris and his queen take.

He understands little more of this prophecy now than he did when his aunt first spake it to he and his brother. They had been mere boys of eight and five winters the night she called them over to speak with her by the dim longhouse fire.

However, he is five-and-thirty winters now. And just as his aunt foretold, the lights have come for the first time in many winters. And does Freya’s blessing—purple this time—light the sky above.

Not that any of their village wolves were much enjoying the lights this year. Not only because their father had finally given in to his mother and bade his wolves to worship the Christian God as opposed to the fertility goddess who sent her sky lights to remind them to mate and be merry. But also because Fenrisson, Ever the Man, had sent every woman and child to the safety of the mountains as soon as the lights appeared.

Of course the remaining males, many of whom chose still to celebrate the lights with rutting, gave great complaint. But Fenrisson, Ever the Man, chose to ignore their many lamentations. So determined was he to keep the prophecy from unfolding.

Besides his brother, Olafr, Ever the Wolf, had given up both his boy and his man to keep the prophecy at bay. The very least their warrior males could do was forgo their copulating for a fortnight.

Yet it would seem that despite his noble spirit, Fenrisson is not immune to the affects of Freya’s lights. Every morn since their coming has he woken with the strange female’s voice in his ear, and a dagger painfully throbbing between his legs.

He wonders if the mysterious voice and his morning cockstand are a punishment from the Norns, the three sisters of Fate. They do not look kindly upon mortals who attempt to thwart destiny, and have been known to wreak havoc on those unlucky enough to get caught.

Fenrisson rubs a weary hand over his eyes, and finds himself for the first time hoping his parents, who he had sent away on a false mission to find him a bride, do in fact return with a mate. Fenrisson has never wanted for a wife, but he would be most pleased to lie now with a willing female, human or she-wolf. Anything to rid his mind and body of that cursed voice.

We have a problem.

Another voice—this one inside his head—calls his attention away from the female who invaded his dreams. Fenrisson peers further into the darkness and makes out the shape of Olafr’s great red wolf standing quietly before him. His gray eyes glowing in the gloom, as if he has only been waiting for his older brother to wake.

Fenrisson rises from his sleeping bench beside the hearth of his pack’s longhouse. The building, usually full with family, is almost empty save for a handful of young male cousins, warriors who will serve them well in the coming fight.

Are you well Olafr, or do you too suffer dreams of Fates unknown?

Their Brother Bond has always been strong, but as of late did it seem especially powerful, like an unseen twining that bound them even more fast. It would not surprise Fenrisson if he and his brother had also begun sharing dreams.

But Olafr’s answer soon comes inside his head: Nay, wolves dream of naught but rabbits.

What brings you to my bedside so early in morn, then? Fenrisson asks, the thought of their coming enemy humbling his cock as sure as cold water.

Olafr turns his great head to the sleeping benches on the women’s side of the longhouse. All should be empty now since he gave the order for the village women to remove themselves and the children to safety on the nearby mountain.

Yet Fenrisson can clearly see the outline of a small female sleeping upon one bench, her tightly coiled red hair bursting from beneath a pile of sheepskins like wild flame.

Myrna!

Let me explain, FJ!

There is naught to explain, he answers his sister, voice grim as the dirty snow beneath their feet.

They stand outside the longhouse, upwind from the toilet pit, with Olafr standing between them like a fur-covered diplomat attempting to keep the peace.

Why are you no longer on the mountain with the other she-wolves and children? Why did you disobey me?

Because I understand not why you have asked me to go with the others! she answers, her dark brown eyes—an exact match of their mother’s—shining with indignation.

Myrna, my word is law, he answers, hardly believing he must explain this to his sister who knows he will be her fenrir when their father steps down.

However, his sister, who has truly earned the nickname, Myrna, Ever the Maid, for her stubborn refusal to marry any wolf their father would bring before them, merely makes the disgusted spitting sound she learned from their mother. Only because our father is not here is your word law!

That matters not now. Our father is away and our enemy could come at any time. He points again to the mountain looming high behind their small village. "You will obey me and return to the mountain with the other women and children. Now."

The mention of a coming enemy gives his sister pause. But only briefly.

Our father has taught me to fight well, she insists. "If he were here, he would let me face whatever enemy you claim is coming."

Now Fenrisson’s eyes narrow. This enemy is not imaginary, Sister. And Father taught you to fight, yes, but only so you might defend yourself in the absence of your male folk. If you return to the mountain now, there will be no need of such defense.

Myrna juts her small chin into the air, her light brown face ablaze with defiance. Despite her small height, in that moment, with her fierce eyes and her wild red curls blowing in the wind, she looks to him like a Valkyrie from the old tales.

But why did you send all the women and children away? she demands in their mother’s tongue. Why are you making ready for battle in Mother and Father’s absence? Father did not give word about any of this before he left.

No, he did not, Fenrisson answers, also in their mother’s bold and tenacious language. Because he did not know we would need to defend ourselves.

Which is partially his fault. Over the years, he had thought much over how to convince his father of what must be done to prepare for this day, but there were too many unknown outcomes to risk him knowing.

If his father believed him, he would insist on leading his soldiers into the fight and would have his future taken away, as their great-aunt predicted. If his father did not believe him, Fenrisson might never have been able to convince him and his mother to embark on a long land journey to find him a mate. In the end, Fenrisson decided he must send his parents away to ensure their great-aunt’s prophecy did not come true.

It was the only way to make sure he and mother survive, he says to Myrna now.

Survive what? Myrna asks, looking very like their mother as she shakes her head. What do you think we need to defend ourselves from?

"We need to defend ourselves, he says, pointing to his chest and then to Olafr. You need to hide."

"Why does he get to stay? Myrna demands, jerking her head towards their brother, her arms crossed tightly in front of her wool tunic. He is ever the wolf and cannot so much as raise a sword!"

Fenrisson exchanges a much-aggrieved look with his brother.

Cease doing that! Myrna very nearly screeches. You have oft behaved as if you share a secret. Tell me, what is going on? And why do you permit Olafr to fight and not me?!

Myrna, I will not argue these petty points with you—

They are not petty—!

I must prepare the village to fight—

"Fight who? Who could possibly pass through the inlet or come over the mountains without us knowing? Who would dare? You know what? You don’t even have to answer that, as our mother would say. In truth, if you are certain there is an enemy coming, I believe you. But I insist on fighting, too!"

Now it is Fenrisson’s turn to shake his head in the way of their mother. I cannot. I would not lose you—

"You will not lose me," Myrna insists, her wide eyes beseeching him to believe her.

He hesitates and looks to Olafr. Olafr puts his nose to the ground, as if he also searches for the best path forward. It is true Myrna has no part in their aunt’s vision, but it is also true neither of them wishes to place her in harm’s way—

Three short horn blasts shatter the gray morning. And argument forgotten, the siblings look toward the mountain watchtower and then back to one another.

One short blast means travelers approach the village by sea via the inlet.

One long blast and two short ones means a new wolf has come via the time gates atop the mountain.

But three short blasts is something they have only heard tale of until now. This signal has not been given since the time of their father’s father, when he defeated the last north wolf tribe who did not wish to call him fenrir, by mating with their only princess. Yet despite the signal’s long disuse, they know without a doubt what it means.

Enemies approach.

But from where? Fenrisson looks to the left and right but sees nothing. The inlet is frozen over. And if attackers marched on them via the mountains, he would certainly have had earlier warning, as it takes days to reach the village by land through the single pass connecting them to the mainlands of the North.

From all around, male wolves spill from their huts and longhouses with swords, clubs, and axes in hand.

Shouts of confusion go up because it is still dark and even with their wolf vision, they can see no ships in the frozen sea, nor any armies marching through the mountain pass.

Come they will under Freya’s purple lights in the five-and-thirty winter of our fenrir not yet. An enemy who will kill so many of our wolves and fell Olafr’s human. And will they the future of our fenrir and his queen take.

Aunt Bera’s words once again float through his mind, and he notices Olafr sniffing the air toward the east. Olafr, so long a wolf, has a nose keener than any other in their village.

But now he himself also smells it. A foreign scent, sharp and acrid like fire and brimstone, and it comes from the forest that lines the east side of the village. The forest that stands between his village and a range of mountains so large and onerous, no one should have been able to climb them. Especially in mid-winter.

But then there comes a terrible flapping sound. Like the wing beats of a flock of birds. But deeper. And slower. And much, much louder.

Suddenly the dark purple morning is cast completely in black. As if a god has cupped a hand over their village, blocking out the light. But no, it be not a god…

With his heart inside his throat, Fenrisson, Ever the Man, looks up.

And in the sky he spies a strange and terrifying sight. Winged serpents! At least twenty of them, each longer from head to tail than two of himself, the tallest Viking in the village.

Oh…my…God! Myrna cries beside him in their mother’s language, her defiance giving away to true horror.

And inside his head, does his brother say, The enemy in no longer coming. For they are already here.

Chapter Three

TIARA

So that happened. I jerk my controller to the left and right, watching my humongous, red-headed Viking avatar fight a dragon horde on the full wall LED screen in the main room of my suite. This is the game’s Boss Level. The level before the level that gets you all the prizes. The somewhat hidden truth is Iggle programmed in at least two different ways to blast through this level without swinging your sword even once. But today I have my Viking slashing and stabbing anything scaly with a sword.

I’m in that kind of mood, and I take all sorts of pleasure in watching a shitload of dragons fall beneath my virtual sword as I violently thumb the controls.

Tiara, what the hell you doing in here?

My Dad and Evelyn are at my door. I can see them standing there out the corner of my eye. But I ignore them, taking out two more dragons in lieu of answering.

I might—might—have been able to get away with this if it were just Evelyn at the door. But I soon hear the sound of Dad’s motorcycle boots stomping across my cork floor—its muting effect is no match for the huge biker alpha.

He comes to a stop, looming over where I’m sitting on the floor, my back resting against my bed as I play my game. Like I’m still a teenager and don’t have nearly $100,000 worth of state-of-the-art game chairs waiting just a few feet way. Or a fiancé who, as it turns out, is way more into my twin brother than me.

I don’t even believe you’re in here playing when you should be downstairs at your engagement party, Dad growls above me.

Engagement’s off, I answer without taking my eyes from the grisly wall-to-wall dragon carnage going down on the LED screen.

What?!?! I hear Evelyn screech from the doorway.

But Dad just says, Give me a minute with her, Ev.

"But she’s trying to call off the engagement! And she’s sitting on the floor in Valentino!!"

She’s right about the inappropriateness of me sitting on the floor. When I rushed in here, I’d snatched up the controller and dropped to a seated position. Going immediately into the game like a kid on a mission instead of the founding CEO of a game company. But at this moment, I wish I was still a kid. Playing my video games and dreaming of the day I’d become a successful grown-up video game designer.

Technically, that dream came true. I’m very successful now with my own company and the game I’m currently playing has broken all sorts of sales records. But the grown-up part…

The image of my brother Clyde pounding my fiancé’s ass flashes into my mind.

…yeah, the grown-up stuff isn’t going so well.

I said give me a minute with her, Dad repeats to