Broods Of Fenrir - By Coral Moore Page 0,64

thighs. He bounced to his feet once more. “I challenge him as the King of the Broods of Fenrir.” Dagny stared. Brand wasn"t the king. Could he really be challenged as if he were? Brand watched his brother with an unwavering gaze and a wry twist to his mouth.

Ingrid didn"t look at all surprised by the development and turned to Björn. “You have a complaint yet to be considered. Do you wish it to take precedence?” Björn looked between Brand and Ansvarr several times, and then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “My matter will wait until the challenge is answered. Could be that afterward it will be moot.”

Brand spoke before Ingrid had returned her attention to him. “On the condition that my mate is not a spoil in this challenge.”

Ingrid considered the request briefly. “Done.” Ansvarr looked as though he might protest, but Brand prevented it with his reply.

“Accepted,” he snarled, glaring at Ansvarr. He stalked back to Dagny, slid the cloak from his shoulders, and handed it to her. She clutched the cloak to her chest and stared at up at him, fear welling up inside her.

A smile brushed the corner of his mouth. “You don"t really think he can beat me, do you?” Remembering that he could feel her worry, she 177

swallowed past the panic that had worked into her throat. After she made sure no one was near enough to overhear, she whispered, “You"re exhausted. He"s supposed to be one of the best fighters alive.”

“Only because he"s never fought anyone like me.” His grin grew rakish in the dying light. “Fear not, bunny.” When she drew an indignant breath, she realized he had provoked her intentionally. She hoped her glare was more ferocious than it felt. “Ass.”

“Glad to be of service.” He stepped closer to her and pressed a kiss against her forehead while slipping his arms around her waist. “I feel the touch of your mother"s hand in this challenge.”

“You aren"t alone.” She spotted her mother walking toward them, two sheathed short swords in her arms. “Speak of the troll, and she arrives.”

With a snort, Ingrid said, “I"ve always thought myself more of a giantess than a troll.”

Brand turned to regard Ingrid, but kept his arms around Dagny. “Your duplicity would melt Loki"s icy heart.” Anger gave his voice a rough edge. “You could whelp a brood of your own and manipulate them.” He eyed the blades she held with interest, though.

“Your grandsire"s blades.” She held them tighter against her chest. “Perhaps I should offer them to your brother instead. He might be more appreciative.” Brand looked at the blades and frowned. He reached for one leather-covered grip, pulled the sword partway from the scabbard, and examined the sharpened edges. Pushing the sword home, he glared at Ingrid. “Why do you have these?”

“That is not your concern.” She made to hand the swords to him, but he didn"t move to take them.

Instead, he swiveled his gaze to Dagny. He waited with a neutral expression. She had no idea what he wanted from her as his blue eyes swept slowly over her face.

When the delay had lengthened to an uncomfortable 178

duration, Ingrid cleared her throat. “Take your lord"s weapons.

He"ll accept them from no hands but yours.” Dagny reached for the bundle, but paused when she noticed her mother"s irritated posture. More was going on than she understood. She took the swords without speaking, their heavy bulk weighing down her arms.

Ingrid turned a glare on Brand, who ignored her utterly.

“You have twenty minutes to prepare,” she said, before she stormed away.

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Chapter 19

Dagny looked down at the pair of short swords in her arms and then up at her mother"s swiftly retreating back. “What just happened?”

“Your mother attempted to take an honor that"s yours.

You don"t know the traditions, and she tried to take advantage.”

She met his eyes. Something about his remote expression chilled her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I"ve never drawn these blades. They need to be prepared.” He maintained the calm expression. “There"s a stream a hundred paces behind you. The old blood must be washed away with running water.”

She"d seen the blade he had bared. There was no blood; the cleansing was symbolic. She turned to comply, but he stopped her.

His fingers stroked the inside of her forearm. He bent to deliver a lingering kiss. “Hurry, love,” he whispered against her mouth.

She ran in the direction he"d indicated, hearing the burbling sound before the water came into view. Unsheathing 181

one blade, she dunked it