Johen respectfully listened as he wolfed down his mother's impeccable cooking.
"You are a noble, son. The status of our entire line depends upon a marriage that bears fruit." Eemil Stefsson looked at his son pointedly. "'Twould be a shame for the glory of the Stefsson name to die out with you."
"Really, Eemil," his mother, Amani, said with exasperation. "Can we not discuss this after Johen finishes eating?"
His sire frowned, but grumbled agreement. Johen winked at his mother.
Gods, but he'd missed his mother's cooking. Leastways, 'twas decent fare to be had all over Lokitown, but none of it measured up to his mother's Viking-Arabian style of cuisine.
His sire resumed needling him about marriage the very moment Johen's platter was empty. His mother smiled, knowing her husband very well. There would be no help forthcoming from her camp, he mused.
"'Tis a matter of honor," his sire barked. "Not to mention pride. The Stefsson name cannot carry on without a bride to give you heirs. And furthermore..."
Johen listened with a patience he did not feel as his sire droned on. He sat back in his chair, resigned to the tongue thrashing no man save Eemil Stefsson would dare give him.
Leastways, his mother's cooking had been worth it.
Johen gathered up his warriors and soldiers, motioning for them to follow him toward the bride auction. If the gossip his men had overhead was to be believed, crowd control might very well be an issue this eve.
'Twas apparent that the men of Hannu were not the only ones upset about the bride-hunters' inept work as of late; the Vikings from mainland New Sweden were growing increasingly furious as well. The bride auction could very well turn ugly.
He didn't like traveling to Lokitown. He had come here once today already to speak to the wretched king. Twice was taxing to the nerves. Johen didn't think Toki would be so daft as to attempt his assassination, but 'twas best to always proceed with caution. Killing Johen would result in Hannu throwing its allegiance toward New Daneland, but the jarl of New Sweden was known for his idiocy.
Johen's gray eyes narrowed as he walked. "Do not wield blunt force unless absolutely necessary," he instructed his men.
Making their way to the coliseum, Johen reflected on the nooning meal he'd shared a few hours ago with his parents. As much as he hated admitting it, his sire did have a valid point.
Johen was possessed of three married sisters. Unless he took a bride, their line would die out--a fate worse than death to proud Vikings.
He supposed it wouldn't kill him to assess the wenches up for bid this eve as potential brides for himself. Ten of the fifteen to be auctioned off were natives of New Sweden, accustomed to the ways of the Underground Viking world. They wouldn't spend days, months or mayhap even years, grieving for life above the ground.
Unfortunately, Outsider wenches had always held an allure to Johen. Even as a boy barely in the throes of puberty, he'd sneak into bride auctions, hide in the shadows and lust after them. Their exotic beauty and unfamiliar backgrounds were too much an enticement to pass up.
Johen's tastes hadn't changed over the years. Outsider wenches continued to fascinate him. Mayhap he could at least consider the possibility of...
He frowned. Nay, 'twas impractical. At least in this phase of his life.
Helping Niko depose of Toki was not only his mission, but his duty. He needed to be at the ready when the rebels were ready to strike. A troublesome wife at such a crucial juncture was a recipe for disaster.
And all Outsider brides were difficult until they settled into the Viking way of things. No matter how intriguing any of the Outsider brides up for auction might be, he would only consider native wenches as potential wives. 'Twould appease his parents while permitting him to concentrate on his duties to Hannu.
"We are here," Johen told his men. "Keep your swords at the ready."
His course firmly decided, Johen entered the arena, his fighters close on his heels. Should he purchase a bride this eve, 'twould be a native wench and no other.
Chapter Five
A re you sure?" she gasped. "M-maybe it's a mistake? Maybe Sam wasn't on that chopper?"
"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am. But there is no way your brother survived that helicopter crash. None of the four victims could have."
She closed her eyes, indescribable grief ripping through her gut. Sofia had tried so hard to talk Sam out of joining the army, but he couldn't be swayed. Naive and patriotic, her brother had wanted to make a difference for his country. He hadn't gotten that chance.
And wasn't the military supposed to deliver news like this in person? Sofia thought, angry at everyone and everything. That's the way it always happened in the movies.
"Ma'am?" Jacobs's voice gentled. "I know this is difficult for you, but as Specialist Rowley's only living family member, we really need you to come to Alaska and attempt to identify your brother's remains."
"Attempt?" she breathed out. An ice-cold chill worked up and down her spine. "Can't you tell from his dog tags?"
Every person in the military wore those small pieces of metal dangling from their necks. They were used for identification purposes, namely for awful situations like this.
Jacobs stilled on the other end of the telephone connection. "We didn't find his head," he said softly, "so there wasn't a dog tag to retrieve."
Sofia's eyes widened. She slapped a palm over her mouth, and screamed behind it.
Her eyes flew open. Breathing heavily, Sofia jolted upright on the bed. Sam...
Her heart sank as she realized anew that her brother was dead. It had been this way every night since she'd received that horrible telephone call. Despite her current predicament, the nightmares still came.
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as her gaze darted around and another reality slowly took hold--she was still being held captive.
Sofia had been a prisoner in the bizarre Underground world for five very long days and nights. She hadn't seen much of the civilization, but the trip from the log cabin to this undiscovered enclave in the earth's belly was enough to send icy fear lancing through her.
Each day in captivity felt as long as a year. The first day was still a numb blur, as she'd been too shell-shocked to comprehend what was going on.
The numbness waned on the second day and was replaced with a mixture of anger and terror. She physically and verbally attacked anyone who dared to enter the tiny room she'd been sequestered in, not caring whether they were male or female, young or old.
They claimed to be Vikings. These people were insane, and she wanted no part of their lunacy.
An old healer named Myria had mixed a brew to calm Sofia's raging nerves, and explained where she was and why she was here as Sofia sipped from it. The woman had told her that the people of the Underground had dwelled below the earth's surface for centuries as a result of ancient prophecies. They believed that one day the women who lived above the ground would become all but extinct.
Sofia could have cared less about how their people chose to exist. She cared mightily, however, that they meant to envelop her into their peculiar world.
"You are to become the bride of whatever Viking bids the most coins on you," Myria told her.
"You can't be serious," Sofia retorted. She managed to keep her voice from shaking, but it took a lot of effort. "I'm going to be sold off...like a slave?"
"Nay, like a wife." The old healer frowned, her wrinkles all but enveloping her lips. "'Tis an honor."
Sofia didn't think it was an honor. She had spent days three and four plotting methods of escape. Determined to be back in sunny Florida before she was auctioned off to some throwback barbarian on night five, she had attempted to break out and run away at least a dozen times.
She had failed every time. Deep down inside, she had known she would. After all, these people continued to exist and thrive because nobody knew about them--it was as simple and ugly as that. Sofia wasn't naive enough to believe that these Undergroun
d dwellers hadn't thought and rethought out every possible escape...and made them foolproof.
Still, she owed it to herself to try, so try she did. She didn't give up the ship until this morning, when a group of female groomers entered the room she was confined in and made her strip off her clothes. Then they bathed her, shaved her mons of all hair and worked rich oils into her skin that smelled of vanilla and honey.
They were preparing her for the marriage auction block. That knowledge was as sobering as it was frightening.
Later, toward evening, the group of females returned for a final inspection of Sophia. She asked them for clothes; they told her all brides went to the block naked. Sophia paled, praying for death.
Physically exhausted and mentally resigned, Sofia didn't know what to do as she examined her reflection in the jagged, cracked mirror on the wall.
She closed her eyes and sighed. She wished her prayer for death had been answered. Even going back to the surreal, numb phase would have been welcomed. It would be easier to get through this auction if she wasn't so painfully aware of everything transpiring around her.
"'Twill be all right," an old voice crooned.
Sofia's eyes flew open. She hadn't heard Myria come in. "I doubt that, but thanks for trying to make me feel better." Her turquoise gaze rounded. "I've never been this scared."
She wasn't the type to admit to fear, but confiding in the old woman was easy. She had been with Sofia so much over the past five days that her presence almost felt normal.
"I vow that no harm will come to you." The healer shut the door behind her and waddled into the room. She was the only female Sofia'd seen around here that wasn't dressed in skimpy attire. She always wore a black-hooded cowl that covered everything, its solemn color a stark contrast against the white crinkles of her skin. "Viking husbands are patient and kind. Leastways, they try to be."
Sofia snorted at that. "How encouraging," she muttered, running both hands through her unruly mane of blond curls.
"Drink this," Myria instructed, handing her a mug of something she could tell was alcoholic. Apparently Sofia wasn't good at hiding her emotions under moments of extreme distress. "Drink," Myria again prodded. "'Twill calm your nerves considerably."
Sofia had no problem following that dictate. She was grateful that the old woman had intervened with her impending fate in whatever small way she could. And, she thought as she swallowed down the contents of the tankard, the healer was right. It was calming her nerves. A few minutes later Sofia realized it was doing something else too, though. She frowned quizzically.
"What's in this?" Sofia asked before downing the remainder of the sweet, potent liquid.
"Mead laced with honey," Myria informed her. "And a few herbs from my private garden. I must take my leave. Good luck, girl. May the gods smile upon you and deliver you unto a fair, kind master."
Master--an interchangeable word for husband in this queer world. Sofia didn't know what to say beyond "Thank you."
A weird sensation hit her belly, and she squeezed her thighs together. "Uh, Myria...what kind of herbs from your garden are in this?"
The old healer cackled as she opened the door, then winked. "I like you and I want you to thrive in Lokitown. I gave you a little aid to see you through the wedding night. Your future husband will expect to bed you this eve."
Sofia stilled. Her eyes narrowed. "What. Kind. Of. Aid?"
Myria shrugged as she prepared to exit the room. "'Tis known to Vikings as erotisk." Her shaggy gray eyebrows shot up. "Our ancestors said 'twas like something called Spanish Fly--"
Sofia gasped. And stifled a moan.
"--yet far more powerful a sexual aphrodisiac."
Sophia believed her. Her hands balled at her sides, jaw clenching, as she determinedly attempted to thwart the increasing arousal.
All ten of the natives had been auctioned off and Lord Stefsson found himself intrigued by a grand total of zero. They were all quite striking in their beauty, but they lacked a certain feistiness that he found attractive in wenches.
Johen stilled as the Outsiders were led up onto the stage. All five were exotically striking. All five were feisty. But only one of them snagged his attention from the moment he saw her.
He frowned grimly. He would not bid on her. No matter how bedeviling her beauty and proud her stance, no matter how defiantly stiff his cock became in his braes from just looking at her...
"Cease this," he muttered to himself. He had made a vow and he meant to keep it. Johen's jaw tightened as he willed himself to look away, but 'twas useless.
She wasn't a classic beauty, but that didn't make her allure any less potent. Possessed of bewitching blue-green eyes the color of which he'd never before seen, her gaze was heavy-lidded like a sexual wanton's. 'Twas an irresistible combination.
Her hair was long and blond with springy, wild curls--further bringing to mind an untamable, exotic beauty made for his hard, lusty lovemaking. Her skin was a gorgeous honey-gold that glistened of the rich oils the groomers had no doubt slicked her down with. Her lips were full and naturally red. Johen blew out a breath as he glanced down and took in the rest of her.
Her breasts were firm for their large size, two luscious globes that he wanted to spend hours kneading, kissing and sucking. Her nipples were pink and very stiff, so swollen that just looking at them made his cock throb.
The naked, blond captive was voluptuously built, her body like that of a fabled beauty from Viking folklore. Big breasts, flat belly, curvy hips...
And a gorgeous, bald pussy.
He unapologetically stared at her glistening, oiled-down cunt. He needed to fuck her so badly he ached with it.
The auctioneer instructed the wenches to turn around, and Johen got a painfully arousing view of her plump, perfectly rounded arse. Once they were bade to face front again, the bride auction for the captives began.
She was the first Outsider to go up for bid. The wench stood there proud, her back straight and chin held high, despite the frenzied shouts, cheers and whistles erupting from within the arena.
His narrowed, silver gaze clashed with the captive's. Her eyes widened and she quickly looked away.
"This gorgeous wench is named Sofia!" the auctioneer cried out in their people's tongue. "With big tits and a plump arse, she's worth your last coins, men!"
Laughter echoed throughout the arena. The auctioneer winked. "Milords, as always, you have first inspection and bidding rights. You may now approach the marriage chattel!"
Lord Stefsson's nostrils flared when he saw every bedamned noble in the coliseum approach Sofia. This captive wench would not be bid on by those of the lower classes--the auction would never make it that far. The rouge-lipped blonde with the rounded turquoise eyes would become the wife of a noble this very eve.
You are a noble. You can bid on her, too....
Johen's muscles tensed, fighting the way his cock throbbed from just gazing at her.
Chapter Six
S ofia didn't know whether to scream or masturbate. She wanted to wring Myria's neck for putting that damn erotisk in her drink.
Every moment worked her higher into frenzied sexual arousal. Surely the herb would wear off soon--it just had to! Even the bald, obese men in the crowd gawking up at her were starting to look like acceptable lovers.
Oh, God, this was just awful! Anger fought arousal inside Sofia, but it looked to be losing.
There was one man in particular that Sofia found her gaze inadvertently straying to. If she had thought the men that stole her were giants, well, that was before she saw him.
Dressed in a sleeveless, silver, chain-mail tunic with two dragon-crested bangles clasped unforgivingly around his bulging biceps, he had to stand seven feet tall. His black leather pants and boots covered the lower portion of his body, but didn't hide the honed, powerful musculature beneath them.
His hair was a sleek dark brown and fell to mid-back, with a braid at either temple. And those eyes...
Merciless gr
ay slits devoid of all emotion.
Their gazes clashed and Sofia felt decidedly nervous. He was assessing her and she didn't like it. Her sex-hungry libido recognized that he was undeniably handsome, but the part of her brain not glutted with the herb realized how powerfully built he was.
If one of the fat, bald men bid on her, at least she could still carry the hope of escaping this madhouse one day. If that giant bid on her, she'd never see Florida again. He didn't look like the type that gave up easily, if at all.
She quickly glanced away and blew out an edgy breath. Arousal knotted fiercely in her belly, forcing her to squeeze her thighs together again.
The auctioneer called out something in their Viking tongue, and the spectators cheered and whistled. Sofia swallowed roughly as men began to ascend the stage, their attentions trained directly on her. Clearly, she was the first of the unwilling brides to go up for bid.
I can't believe this is happening. I lost my brother and my freedom in two day's time....
And now, five days later, she was being sold at an auction like a common animal.
So much grieving and soul-searching had occurred after Sam's death. So many "what ifs" and "if onlys." She'd realized that she needed to get a new life--but if this was her new life, she'd take the old one back in a heartbeat.
The proud, beautiful Outsider wench was starting to get frightened. Her eyes were round, her breasts heaving up and down in time with her labored breathing. Johen had seen that look of apprehension on the faces of countless other females before they were sold to their masters, so he couldn't say why this woman in particular struck a chord of sympathy with him. And yet she did.
Johen sighed. He would not bid on her.
Lord Mikael Aleksson approached the platform. A longtime friend, he would take excellent care of any bride he purchased. But why was he here? Mikael had always been too much of a ladies' man to settle down with one female.