Kristen Painter: All Fired Up

Eire, 876 AD

Blood spattered the fair cheeks and wheat-colored braids of Chieftain Alrik Gunn’s new bride, but Dagny remained the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

And the most deceitful.

If not for her clansmen restraining him, he would have slipped his hands around her pale throat and squeezed the last breath from her conniving, false-hearted body.

The acrid smoke billowing from the longhouses stung his eyes. His ears rang with the cries of his clansman as they fell to Dagny’s men. But it was the sight of his mother and little sister huddled under sword point near the lifeless bodies of his da and brother that shredded his soul. Chieftain or not, there was only so much a man could take.

“Do not do this, Dagny.” He addressed his bride with a steady voice, hiding his struggle to shut out the chaotic raid around him. He labored to hold the composure expected of a clan chieftain. She would not get the satisfaction of weakening him.

She trailed her icy fingers across his chest. “’Twas said the Gunn Chieftain was unbendable. Unbreakable. Unreachable.”

She grabbed the neck of his kirtle and tore it down the middle to expose his torso. Her fingers skimmed his belly and went lower. The samite-trimmed sleeve of her wedding gown bunched against his stomach as she slid her hand beneath his wool braes.

Staring into his eyes while her frigid fingers wrapped around him, she squeezed hard. He inhaled at the pain, but held his tongue, unwilling to give her the pleasure of his discomfort. The touch he once craved now sickened him.

She smiled with blatant, false sweetness. “Well, Alrik the Iron, I found you easy to reach.”

Her men laughed.

She fluttered her lashes. “Easy to bend to my desires.”

Then her voice went as cold as her grip on his manhood. “The warm promise of my bed and you were mine to command.”

The roof of one of the burning longhouses collapsed with a loud crash. The sound reverberated above the cries of his dying men.

She leaned closer. He turned his head away but not before catching a whiff of the garland in her hair. Her lips grazed his ear, her hot breath chafing his skin. “So easily led, like a lamb to the slaughter.”

He growled low in his throat and strained against the hands holding him. Dagny’s men tightened their grips. “Spare my mother and sister, I—” The words stuck in his throat. “I beg you.”

“The great Gunn Chieftain begs?” She laughed bitterly and withdrew her hand. “You waste your breath. Just as I am sure my father wasted his before your man slew him.”

Alrik scowled. “You know that to be an accident. My man meant to slay the stag, not your father. And one life for one life is law.” He glanced at the blood-soaked earth. “What you do is murder. I swear you will pay for this day, woman.”

She shook her head. Wisps of blonde hair fluttered around her unsmiling face. “You are the only one who has yet to pay, dear husband.”

He lunged forward again, but her men held fast, fingers digging into his skin. He spat at her feet. “Spawn of Loki.”

Her mouth tightened to a harsh line. “Pin him,” she commanded. “We shall see what it takes to break the unbreakable.”

Two of the men raised their spears. In one quick motion, they rammed the blades through his shoulders, nailing him to the wall of the longhouse.

The pain snapped Alrik’s head back and ground his teeth together. The sheer agony of being run through sucked the breath from his lungs, leaving him mercifully silent. Warm fluid trickled down his chest and back. The bitter smell of his own blood filled his nose.

She nodded to one of her men, and he handed her a broad ax carved with the runes of her father.

A chill harsher than the Nordic winter pierced Alrik’s belly. He summoned the breath to speak. “If it is the last thing I do, I will avenge these deaths.”

Dagny hefted the weapon to her shoulder. The blade, twice the breadth of a man’s palm, glinted dull and oily in the watery light of the clouded day.

“The last thing you will do is die.” Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip and raised the ax off her shoulder. “And dead men avenge nothing.

Calleigh McCarthy perused the wine bottles lining the shelves of the gourmet food store. With a soft sigh, she trailed her finger across the slick, curved surfaces. What kind of wine went best with a bonfire of your ex-fiancé’s possessions?

Slimy, cheating crapweasel.

The pretty labels weren’t much help. Red or white, red or white. What was that Billy Joel song? Whatever mood you’re in tonight?

She smiled at the stocky clerk behind the counter. “What goes good with barbeque?”

He pushed his wire-rims up. “What kind of meat?”

“Pig.” She paused. “And a little chicken.”

“I’d go with that chardonnay to your left there.”

“Thanks, white it is.” Fitting, since that was the one color she wouldn’t be wearing any time soon.

With a heavy whoosh, the drizzle outside turned into a downpour. She paid, stuck the bottle into her briefcase then fished out her compact umbrella. She popped it open and stepped out into the deluge.

A gust of wind flipped her umbrella inside out. Crap. She struggled to fix the tines while cold rain soaked her.

Umbrella righted, she pinched her briefcase beneath her arm and wiped water out of her eyes. What a day to test-drive her new suede boots. Stupid weatherman. Weren’t there any men who told the truth?

As she headed for the subway, a bus screeched by, throwing a wall of cold, dirty slush. She choked on a bitter mouthful of the grey water, gasping as the icy blast soaked through her wool suit and into the delicate fabric of her silk blouse. What a fittingly sucky end to a freakingly sucky week.

Several stops later and desperate for a hot bath, she trudged up the stairs to the leaded glass door of her converted brownstone. At least tomorrow was Saturday. Staying in bed all day jumped to number one on her to-do list.

A sodden, brown box sat on her welcome mat. Probably the small eagle sculpture she’d won on eBay for Brad.

Two-faced, big-boob-loving lowlife.

Just more fuel for the fire now. She shook her head and scooped up the package. Water squished out of the cardboard and rain had turned the sender’s address into an inky black splotch.

Tension drained from her shoulders as she went inside. A sigh of contentment slipped from her lips. It was good to be home. She wiped her feet on the mat before yanking off her ruined boots.

A fluffy ball of fur scampered toward her, tail big and bushy, whiskers twitching. Snickers dropped the rear end of a half-eaten rodent at her feet and sat, waiting to be praised.

“Eww! Snickers, that’s gross. What makes you think Mama wants your leftovers?” She exhaled. “Maybe it’s time to call the exterminator, huh? Of course that’s not going to be cheap. What a day to quit my job.”

Snickers leaned back, thrust his hind leg over his head with bizarre cat flexibility and licked the back of his knee.

“Your concern is greatly appreciated.” She tossed her briefcase onto the sofa, sending water droplets flying everywhere, then crouched to scratch the Maine Coon’s head. “I’m sure if you understood English, you’d care.” Snickers arched against her hand. “Thanks for de-mousing the house.”

She glanced down at the mouse butt on the mat. Gag. Pulling some damp tissues from her pocket, she pinched up the remains and tossed the rodent rump outside. Once in the kitchen, she plopped the soggy box on the counter and hit play on her answering machine.