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He should take her while he could, then.
He imagined himself walking to her, then without saying a word, pushing her back on that bench she was sitting on and mounting her.
He hadn’t done anything close to that even when he’d been a barbarian and behavior like that was the norm.
He wanted to do it to her now.
Now that was desire. Although of something south of the heart.
And it was reciprocated. She wanted him to ravish her.
She was coming to him, the demand for his possession, his pleasures, rising in urgency with her every step closer.
How he would answer it.
Kara neared the man, only the crush of sweating bodies slowing her advance. The emptiness between her thighs throbbed harder with every step.
But along with arousal, anxiety intensified, too.
It would serve her right if he did something obscene when she reached him. Her off-the-charts, out-of-character behavior in walking up to a man who looked like a…a marauder, with drool no doubt trailing behind her, deserved at least a breast grope.
What would she do if he did that, or worse? Slap him? Run away? Rub herself against his rock-solid gorgeousness and beg for more? For everything?
That was it. She’d lost whatever had been left of her mind.
Don’t do this. Turn around, walk away.
If she didn’t, she’d blow away whatever normalcy remained in her life. After her “family’s” recent revelations, she barely had any left. This was just the guy to end “normal” once and for all.
But she could be imagining things. He might be just another mediocre guy, and she’d soon get this will-siphoning lust out of her system with some quickie that didn’t involve actual sex or the removal of either of their clothes.
Yeah, sure. Like she’d been imagining things when she’d thought there was something seriously wrong with her. Her “foster family” had set her straight on that.
Next to what they’d revealed, walking up to the most incredible and lethal-looking man she’d ever seen with the intention of asking him to fuck her brains out seemed tame.
To make things worse, he hadn’t moved an inch to meet her halfway, just kept staring at her. If you could call that denuding/dissecting/devouring gaze a stare. And if she trusted her senses at all now, she would swear he was getting…bigger.
She was only a dozen feet from him when he suddenly looked away.
Mortification scalded her.
He gazed with even more intensity at whatever had caught his attention. So he looked at everything that way. It hadn’t been for her. He might even be here with someone. He…
He had men converging on him. Lumbering, black-leather-clad men whose heads were shaved in patterns that looked like gothic runes.
And from their body language, they didn’t want to buy him another drink.
Vidar wanted to kick himself.
He’d been so lost in the mortal’s eyes, in his fantasies of how many ways, how long and hard, he’d fuck her, he hadn’t noticed the minions of Odin closing in on him. Not until they were a dozen feet away. He usually felt them from at least a mile.
He transferred his gaze to them, cursed them most for forcing him to relinquish savoring his mortal vision’s approach.
Odinians, like most religious cultists, were sociopaths desperate to belong to something bigger than they were, to draw importance and power from the affiliation. Even if it killed them. But preferably if it killed others.
He wondered how they’d realized what he was. Before arriving at the club, he’d shifted to only three-quarters of his real size.
Maybe the hair? He hadn’t shifted that.
Daven always advised him to cut his “goldilocks,” shave his beard, ditch the marauding Viking look. As if shaving his own head hadn’t made Daven look even more intimidating and conspicuous.
But of course, that wasn’t the explanation. These weren’t the garden-variety, fanatical mortal fare. They were Endowed. With echoes of the Odinforce. Wonder what they’d paid in return for it.
Someone with Asgard-based Endowment would sense another on the juice. And those with any trace of Odinforce were attracted to Lokians like a negative to a positive charge. They all had this ridiculous belief that they could tap a Lokian’s Endowment.
Well, no point hiding in a six-foot body now. Might as well slip into something more comfortable.
He stood, caught the satisfying blip of terror in the men’s eyes as he shifted to his full size. But he couldn’t engage them here. Especially with the mortal woman in range.
He used their hesitation to cast her a warning look.
Kara froze as the man’s gaze slammed back into her.
Before her heart could recover, it stumbled over a new shock.
Either he had gotten bigger, or she’d severely underestimated his size. He stood well over seven feet tall.
And as stupid as it was in the circumstances, her eyes darted downward, investigating what mattered to the body that was functioning on auto-nympho mode right now.
Her gaze lingered there for only a moment. But it was enough. Much, much more than enough. If what she’d seen was to be believed.
The moment her gaze moved back to his face, to the scene, air emptied from her lungs yet again. The aggression emanating from the men, the danger rising from him, hit her like a gut punch.
No one else seemed to sense the disturbance, kept gyrating and slithering over one another in oblivious abandon. Maybe she was the one whose senses were scrambled beyond repair?
No. She wasn’t imagining it. This would turn ugly. For him. And for who knew how many others in the packed place.
And like she made lightning decisions in the E.R., she made one now. She’d give aborting this a shot. She’d pretend she was with him, and that many others were joining them in moments. Maybe that would make those goons walk away.
Vidar’s heart shook off its slow steadiness once more, thudded.
She was moving toward him again. And after he’d given her a look that had given Loki’s child, Jörmungandr the world serpent itself, pause.
She must have misread it, must be oblivious to the danger.
And the advantage he’d gained by revealing his true stature was fading. The thugs were psyching themselves up that numbers would trump size and power. He had about a minute to take this away from her. From the rest of the mortals.
He moved before the Odinians could throng around him, force him to engage them here.
He strode toward her. That made her stop, the heat and greed in her eyes replaced with alarm. So she was aware of the danger. Then why had she kept approaching?
No time to contemplate this. And he expected her to step aside when he neared her. She didn’t. The brush-by he’d intended ended up being a bump and grind against her hot, pliant flesh.
For a split second, he almost forgot the thugs on his tail. He almost crushed that intoxicatingly scented body to him and took those lips that trembled apart on a hungry sound.
He shoved down the urge, resigned he wouldn’t fulfill it. Now or ever. He’d never see her again.
He’d tell her something, though.
The only thing he’d ever tell her.
He bumped into her. Kara would have fallen if she hadn’t had bodies at her back. She felt as if she’d run into a wall of hot steel. And what she smelled of him during that momentary contact was mouthwatering. Then he was bypassing her.
Before she could swallow the letdown, cry out something, ask if he needed help, he looked over his shoulder and his lips moved.
She shouldn’t have heard him over the cacophony. But she did. His hiss seemed to negate every other sound.
“Leave.”
She blinked as he receded toward the back exit of the nightclub with the grim tranquility of someone heading to a gunfight. And he’d told her to get while the getting was good.
The men were following him. Ten of them. The rabid gleam in their eyes was explicit with their intentions. They were going to tear him apart the moment they got him alone.
Her gaze shot around. Some dancers had noticed the ominous procession and were nudging one another and commenting. No one was bothering to investigate or intervene.
There might be nothing worth investigating. They might just rough him up a bit over a debt or something.
But even if that was true, ten to one? She wouldn’t leave anyone to face those odds alone. Hell, back in junior high, she hadn’t even left a tormenting bitch of a classmate alone with the schoolyard bully.
But someone who’d not only jump-started her dormant hormones, but paid her the kindness of worrying about her safety?
The last time someone had done that, they’d ended up dead.
Leave, huh? Good advice. She should take it.
And she would. If she were someone else.
She pushed her way through the crowd in her mystery man’s wake.
Chapter Two
Vidar walked out into the bitter cold of Chicago’s winter a few steps ahead of his would-be executioners.
That label wasn’t much of a stretch. With the collective Odinforce imbuing them, if he let them, they could kill him.
That was, if Loki saw fit to let the injuries they’d cause overcome his regenerative powers.
While he didn’t particularly relish the idea of having these bozos be the ones to end his life, death was death. No such thing as a worthy one. They were as good a way to go as any.
The question now was whether Loki would consider this qualified as his “heart’s desire.”
Knowing the slippery son of a bitch, no. He’d spent millennia in the god’s service, but not out of some idealized belief that his lord could do no wrong. Loki did plenty of wrong. So did he, for that matter. But all in all, from the proof of eons, Loki stood for better things, did more good, than any of the other gods. It was why Vidar mostly admired him. But he sure resented the hell out of him at times. Loki always pointed out that his exasperation stemmed from the same reason he’d been chosen among the first Originals. He’d been Loki’s mortal reflection. Different, nonconforming and rubbing it in the noses of those who disapproved. And reviled and demonized as Loki had always been for it, too, of course.
But he could try. He’d never accumulated injuries that were beyond his regenerative abilities. Maybe if he did this time, Loki would finally let him go.
Time to find out.
He let the first blow land square on his left cheekbone. He heard the crunch of bones, his and his attacker’s, as pain exploded behind his eye sockets.
That was a good punch. Odinforce-boosted strength was something. His bone, harder than steel, had cracked.
He felt another blow coming a full two seconds before his next attacker connected. He had enough time to rip the man’s heart out and cram it down his throat. But he didn’t even try to block it. Something metal and unyielding crashed against his side. He felt ribs shatter and tear through his muscles and skin. He gritted his teeth on the shredding pain.
“Ooh, he’s glaring at us. We supposed to get scared?”
“Is that all you got, you fuck?”
“And we thought a Lokian deserved ten of us, thought shifting was a big deal. All he did was expand. Like a hot-air balloon.”
“Is that how your dick expands, too?”
“Seems Lokian is code for Pussy.”
At his silence, they attacked again. After more direct hits, the thugs got confident, swarmed around him. He had dozens of openings to rip throats and sever limbs and heads. He took none.
He had to give it to them. They were quick and creative. They pulverized body parts overlooked by most. His feet and hands were favorite targets. They wanted to cripple him before they killed him. He let them do whatever their twisted appetites for inflicting damage could belch up.
In seconds he was bathed in blood, his left arm all but hacked off, his chest and abdomen punctured in vital areas, his skull fractured. His consciousness was wavering from the pain. He didn’t feel the healing kicking in.
Had Loki heeded his request? Would he finally die?
He fell to his knees. He didn’t want to get up.
He was ready.
A booted foot kicked his head with enough force to almost take it off his shoulders. Snickers phased in and out of his awareness.
“Is it me or is he enjoying this? You one of those wimps that get off on being abused?”
“But we ain’t gonna abuse you, pussyboy. We gonna kill ya, and drink your Endowment.”
“What Endowment?”
Rowdy laughter burst out.
They weren’t just vicious, they were assholes. One thing an Asgard-Endowed didn’t do, mortal or immortal, was humiliate a fallen enemy. Odin should be ashamed of granting such scumbags even the power he wiped off his ass.
He could smell what they’d paid for the Odinforce. Their very lives. They were rotting. Not in flesh yet, but their souls had long putrefied. To them, his Endowment must have smelled like raw meat to a pack of starving hyenas. They thought they could gorge on it and revive themselves. A misconception that held no matter how many millennia passed without one successful incident of anyone absorbing a Lokian’s, let alone an Original’s, Endowment. Yet power-addicts kept telling themselves they’d succeed where others had failed.
