After dining on a hearty stew, we lay on the sofa, once again in front of the fireplace. Soothing instrumental music fills the room. Outside, rain pelts sideways against the big glass windows and wind squeals through the trees. An occasional bolt of thunder makes Cassie jump like a cat.
"Do you get storms like this frequently?" She snuggles further under a thick, knitted afghan I'd tucked around her.
"Often enough."
I am on edge, but trying not to show it. This storm is a warning. A message. It isn't the first time. Tonight, while Cassie sleeps, I will fine-tune the next step in the plan. The discussion before dinner was unsettling. I'd revealed too much about the consequences of failing. Never should I have said anything which could be construed as guilting Cassie into staying. Only my actions should convince her. Tonight the Gods are unhappy with me—rightly so. I would have to proceed more carefully. If I continued to anger the Gods, they will take her away. It will be my demise.
Tearing my gaze from the fire, I settle it back on the woman across from me. The day has taken a toll on her, physically and mentally. A few minutes ago, she caved and dozed off. Her silky dark hair rests against the throw pillow. Pink lips hold the slightest of smiles. Cassie has an innocent, natural beauty she's totally unaware of. Even if I hadn't been purposely steered in her direction, if I'd merely stumbled across her, meeting by chance like any ordinary man, I would have been instantly attracted. Sitting in the Vegas bar, watching her, my heart had thudded with emotion every time she neared.
It was unlike any experience I've ever had with a woman. The strength of these feelings don't scare me. Rather, they provide the motivation to see this through.
You will be mine, sweetness. This, I know deep in my heart. I tilt my head skyward. Thank you for this gift. I will cherish her forever. I won't let you down.
Cassie shifts on the narrow sofa. It is late. Standing, I scoop her into my arms, carrying her to the bedroom. After removing the hoodie and her socks, I cover her with the sheets and quilt. Despite my better judgment, I press a delicate kiss onto her temple, before shutting the door behind me.
****
Steam from the shower fills the large bathroom. I strip my clothes away and step under the flow of water spraying from two different shower heads. Water pours over me, the heat relaxing muscles I hadn't known were tense. Unfortunately, it doesn't ease the hardness of my cock. The damned thing has been like a rock all day. Normally, I'd provide my own relief in that department, but not tonight. Not this week. I do, however, allow myself a few swift strokes, hoping to ease this aching need. A bad idea. The action only makes me crave Cassie more.
The damned woman is a part of me, in my blood, in my soul, in my heart. Pappa had warned me it happened this way. Of course, I scoffed, unable to believe falling in love was this easy. Well, under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have happened. I've loved before—or so I thought. Never was it like a sledgehammer of awareness in my gut, my heart. Those times, it had grown. Slowly. Love morphed from like. I'd even sworn one of those loves were The One meant to be. But I'd been young and foolish. They weren't the love. Simply stronger versions of like. Every time one of those loves ended I was confused and surprised. Empty.
None of those experiences had ever been this intense.
Snapping out of my reverie, I finish showering and dry off with a fluffy towel. My turgid cock hasn't given up. Wiping the steam from the mirror, I study myself. I let my hair down for the shower. The wavy golden mass falls in wet clumps over my shoulders and midway down my back. The image of my tanned, muscular torso fills the glass and a hard, serious warrior stares back. The vision is at odds with what Cassie saw. That is what she must see for now. Gentleness, love, devotion. One day, she'll see this side. The Gunnar who fights and wins every battle, comes out on top of every task and situation I put myself in, no matter how dangerous. She won't expect that. It will be the toughest part of winning her heart and trust.
I select a pair of pants made from tanned, softened animal skin. The rest of my body remains bare. On top of an enormous birch dresser sits the box. Intricately carved out of highly polished alder, to the average person it appears to be a family heirloom. While that is true, there is more to its purpose. Lifting the lid, I extract a long, thin strip of dark leather. Dangling from the strap are seven small pieces of antler carved long ago, each piece no longer than two inches and no thicker than a woman's index finger. It's been a while since I've studied the etchings on them. Except for one, they depict an epic battle won by one of the forefathers long ago. Throughout childhood I had carefully carved the pieces, a reflection of my understanding of the lore, under Pappa's supervision. The one hanging in the middle is different.When I was at the end of my teen years, I carved this image of a woman from my dreams. My brothers, rest their souls, had done likewise.
My gut clenches at the memory and loss of Lars and Kristian. Gone too soon, they never had a chance to forge their own legacies.
I tie the leather necklace beneath partially dried hair, tugging it to be sure it hangs securely around my neck.
Surveying the room, my eyes rest in the far corner. There, the chair waits across the large space. Honed from antlers and logs, the frame of the chair is massive. Over-stuffed cushions make sitting in it bearable. Years ago, I built it with Pappa according to tradition. It is like no other chair.
With a deep breath, I cross the room with purposeful steps, stopping in front of the throne-like piece of furniture. I sit, setting my forearms on the polished armrest, and lean back until my head touches the frame behind me. Warmth emanates from the whole chair, as it always does. My lids flicker closed so I can concentrate, listen. It always starts as a low hum in the brain, picking up speed and depth, the message swirling through me until complete.
Then, silence.
Cassie's dream crackles in my subconscious, slipping forward where I can witness the grief that still torments her.
Cassie's feet are glued to the floor, wide eyes witnessing a scene she was never meant to see. Mario growls, his mouth between Regina's thick thighs as he works his own hand along his cock. Within a few seconds, he grunts as a stream of his cum shoots across the sheets below him.
"Fuck. That's hot, man. Love fucking your ass, Mario." Vin grips Mario's hips as he plows into his friend. "Gina. Girl, you gotta come now." She watches as Mario works his fingers deep into Regina. Her groans drop several octaves and her legs shake uncontrollably. A howl escapes Vin as he throws his head back and shudders. "I'm coming dammit, Mario. Feel it man."
Regina shouts in release, and the two men collapse on top of her in a trio of sweaty, heavily tattooed bodies.
As bile rolls up her throat again, Cassie slaps a hand over her mouth and backs away from the scene, knocking a picture from the wall with a clatter.
"What the..." Mario rolls off the rumpled bed.
Get out of here. Get out. Get out.
Stumbling noisily toward the sliding door, she almost escapes. But footsteps pound close behind her. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Mario's angry red face advances as he stomps toward her with an unsteady, drunken gait. A bottle of whiskey sails across the room, hitting her in the shoulder before shattering on the floor.
"You bitch. Get the hell outta here. You were spying on me. You bitch." The high, angry pitch of Mario's drugged and drunk voice frightens her so much she isn't sure her legs can carry her out of the apartment fast enough.
Finally outside, she runs around the building, stopping only to retch into a wilted, overgrown oleander. While Mario hasn't followed, she wants nothing more than to get far, far away. To hell with all her strewn clothes. Anything from that pile she would ever wear would be a reminder of what she'd seen.
Slamming the car door and revving its engine, she tears off down 154th Street.
Eyes snapping open, I suck in a harsh, deep breath, grip the end of the armrests, and heave my body out of the chair. This task is personal. But necessary. I will avenge Cassie. What I've seen goes further than her dream on the plane. It angers me. Her past must be cleared in order for her to move on and accept me, this life. To trust again.
This is the task the Gods have given me tonight.
Slipping past a dark animal skin hanging on the wall behind the bed, I emerge on the other side, into the searing heat of a Las Vegas summer day.
****
The Silver Star Hotel-Casino towers behind me, hundreds of glass windows reflecting the brilliant, scorching sun. While waiting, I roll the sleeves of the white dress shirt. Before I have too much time to consider my surroundings, the valet pulls up in a shiny black Mercedes-Benz convertible and hands over the keys. Once settled into the leather driver's seat, I rev the engine and slide a pair of reflective black-framed sunglasses into place, shift into first gear, and roar away.
There is no need for a map or directions. I know where I'm going. Though traffic on the Vegas Strip is congested as always, I soon turn off the main drag and wind my way into a tired little neighborhood several miles north of the glamorous casinos.
A one-story, ten-unit stucco apartment building which has seen better days comes into view. The tan paint is faded and patchy. Bushes around the building are overgrown and to say the yard has grass would be a stretch. It is more an untamed mixture of weeds, grass and rocks. A woman and her small child enter one of the units. After they disappear inside, I train my sight on the end unit.
Exiting the car, I adjust the collar and cuffs of my pristine shirt, and run a hand across the hair that is once again slicked back into a terse man-bun. Sure of my appearance, I knock on the door.
It takes a few moments, but eventually the door creaks open wide enough to see who answered, the darkened interior a murky, stale background.
It's no secret that I am tall, standing at a six-foot-eight height. Now I glare down into the doorway, assessing. Nearly a foot shorter, the man has wiry, pitch-black hair that is combed away from his face, too much of a goopy substance holding it in place. A tight-fitting tank top allows his light brown arms to display an array of tattoos. The man is in decent physical shape and probably works out frequently. But he would never be any kind of a match for me.
"What do you want? Do I know you?" The scratchy voice hints he's recently woken after what has likely been a rough night.
"No."
"Look, dude, what's this about? I don't have all day." He stares with shifting brown eyes, an undercurrent of suspicion and unease evident.
"You have as much time as it takes." My words are crisp and commanding, my expression schooled with a hint of danger.
"Who the hell are you?" When I don't answer, it's clear the situation further unnerves him. A line of sweat beads along his hairline. A few moments of awkward silence pass. Swallowing hard, he stands straighter, an attempt at taking control. "Okay, pal...get the hell off my doorstep or I'll call the cops." He starts to close the door, but I stick out one large arm, preventing him from doing so.
"Inside. We will be having a chat." This time, I don't wait for an answer or an invitation, pushing past the man into the dingy apartment. "We will be having a chat about Cassie. Close the door."
"Cassie? What about her? I haven't seen that bitch in a few years."
Anger seeps through my every pore. Patience. Calm.
"See, right there? That comment is why this conversation is necessary..." I crick my neck sideways to relieve some of the pressure building. "...Mario."