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“Come now,” Ragnar said, still scoffing, but with a note of pleading, now. “I know Erik prefers the lads, but that big man – the one your mother’s…” Leif took a slow breath and he thought better of whatever he’d been going to say. “Bjorn, yeah? Now there’s a man who likes a good fuck. I know he took you to the brothels in the city. You’re no blushing maid.”
Bjornhadtaken him, the moment he deemed him old enough. It had been…pleasant enough. Pleasurable enough. But that wasn’t the problem.
He nodded, reluctantly, and faced the building again. Lantern light glowed unsteadily in the windows; a silhouette passed in front of one of the second story ones, a feminine shape draped in light clothes; his cock stirred with interest just at that simple sight.
The truth was, those treks to the brothel with the lads had never done much for him. He was as healthy and hot-blooded as any other young man, but going into a close, overwarm room with a girl whose time he’d paid for had always felt uncomfortably transactional. He wasn’t clumsy by nature, but he’d fumbled a bit, unsure of where he should or shouldn’t touch, what he was allowed to want. He hadn’t been able to run on instinct, the way he could while sparring, or hunting, or truly fighting. A guessing game, one in which he’d received no help from the slumbrous, disengaged gazes of the girls whose job it was to pretend they loved sitting on his cock. Oh, it had felt good – supple skin, and body heat, and the warm, wet, tight grip around him like a fist…but more often than not, he preferred his own fist. He woke up mornings hard, rolled over, took himself in hand, and got it over with. Just another bodily function, a part of his morning ablutions. He hadn’t been salivating and heaving for it, the way some of the men always seemed to be. He hadn’t had sex with anyone since before Oliver and Tessa arrived, he realized now with a jolt of surprise.
He'd even wondered, at times, if his tastes swung the other way, as Erik’s did; like uncle like nephew. But he’d never found himself swaying toward a pretty kitchen lad; never felt a tug toward one of the lordlings at Yule festivals. Surely, if he favored men, he’d have felt something the night a drunk Náli slid into his lap and tried to wriggle him into taking action.
Maybe sex just wasn’t important to him, and never would be. When it was his duty, he’d marry a nice girl, produce some nice heirs, and he could live in bland, unexciting happiness that way. It was the reason he’d agreed when Erik said he should wed Tessa. Tessa was beautiful, and sweet; the perfect blushing maid. It had only made sense.
But a part of him had felt relieved when he realized that Tessa was mad for Rune. He’d felt as if he’d been spared; dodged a thrown spear. And he hadn’t been able to make sense of that.
Now, though, the pounding, insistent urge to mount someone and fuck their brains out was so strong it left his knees weak. He was half-hard already, from the touch of the wind, and the glimpse of a shadow. When Ragnar squeezed his arm again, violent lust ripped through him, and it was an effort to take shallow sips of air through his mouth.
Is that how all his wolves felt? Was want this ugly violence trying to shred through their skin?
If so, how could any of them be trusted with a group of unsuspecting, wholly human women?
He knew one who couldn’t be.
He swallowed – his mouth had filled with saliva – and said, “Go and tell the others to come along, if they want. You come straight back to me. Understood?”
Ragnar frowned, brows knitting.
“If you think I’m leaving you alone with anyone, you’re madder than I thought.”
Ragnar groaned. “Gods, Leif…”
Leif growled.
“Yes, alpha.”
~*~
The madam’s eyes went big as the gold marks that Leif poured into her cupped hands, and she didn’t hesitate to toss out the rest of the customers scattered across the tap room. When one of them – an ale-bellied lout already deep in his cups, red-faced and belligerent – lumbered forward to protest, Leif growled at him until he went staggering and stumbling out the door, trousers clutched up with one hand, the pack laughing at him. The girls, of which there were plenty, were glad to accept the trade: the wolves were all big and broad-shouldered, scarred and braided with bones, teeth trophies around their necks and arms bare to the cold. They were built like warriors, the scent of wildness rolling off of them, and far more appealing than the usual fat gropers.
They disappeared, pulled up the stairs in ones and twos, girls giggling and murmuring and squeezing at their muscles. Doors slammed overhead. And then it was a muted symphony of intimate sounds, too loud to Leif, as he kicked out a chair in the tap room and plopped himself down.
The madam thumped a tankard down at his elbow for which he murmured thanks. “Are you sure you won’t have some company, my lord?” she asked, drawing a second cup for Ragnar. “Either of you? Brigitte has the night off, but she’d gladly make an exception for the two of you.” Her gaze moved boldly and appreciatively over both of them as she placed Ragnar’s ale before him.
“I’m sure,” Leif said tightly. “Thank you.”
She shrugged and ambled off to wipe the bar. “If you change your mind, give us a holler.”
He didn’t respond; he wasn’t going to change his mind. He sipped at his ale and made a face; he’d grown spoiled off palace brews, and this was like horse piss by contrast.
Beside him, Ragnar laid his head down dramatically on the table, arms outstretched, and groaned. “You’re serious about this. About sitting here, drinking terrible ale while everyone else is–”
A moan from upstairs, feminine and breathy.
Ragnar fidgeted; Leif could smell the lust on him. “Couldn’t I–”
“No.”
“But you let the others–”
“The others aren’t traitors who’d kill their own kin as soon as look at them. I’m not letting you out of my sight in here.”
