And fuck, does he look the part.
He stalks into the ring like he was carved from rune-stone and baptized in the blood of a fallen god. Bare from the waist up, his massive frame is streaked in dried blood and ancient Norse ink—spirals and bindrunes, ravens and war prayers scrawled across his chest, his arms, even the sides of his damn face. His long dark hair is braided down his back, the sides of his head shaved clean like he’s ready for war.
Which, spoiler alert—he always is.
He’s six-foot-fuck-me, carved out of violence and dipped in religion. A berserker with a battle axe and bedroom eyes.
And that’s all before he even opens his mouth.
The tent holds its breath when he speaks. Even the flames lean in to listen.
“Tonight,” he growls, voice low, mean and soaked in steel, “we offer flesh for favor. Bone for blessing. Blood for balance.”
Mmm.My thighs squeeze just hearing it.
“This is Disting,” he continues, stalking slowly across the altar like he’s sizing them all up. “A festival of survival. Of sacrifice. Of seafaring and slaughter. And for those of you under these torches—this is your final crossing.”
Someone in the front row lets out a moan. Another one sinks to their knees.
“The gods are watching,” Bjorn finishes, eyes flashing like lightning behind a storm. “But so are we.”
He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t need to. His voice slides through the tent like a hot blade through flesh—slow, searing, and dangerous.
I spin lazily in the silks, arcing my back just enough to put on a show. Below me, I spot him.
A man.
Tall. Cocky. Decked out in an expensive coat, high-polished boots, and an ego big enough to trip over. His hair’s slicked back like a discount villain from a daytime drama, and in his hand? A carved drinking horn—traditional, ceremonial, and completely wasted on him.
He’s sipping frothy beer like it’s champagne, pinky lifted, as if the gods give a shit about manners in a tent built from bones and blood.
He looks at me like he’s already decided how I taste.
Cute.
He thinks this is theatre.
Thinks his money means something out here in the dark heart of Haliburton, where the trees stretch tall and ancient, and no one screams loud enough to wake the neighbors.
Thinks I’m gonna slide down and land in his lap like a good little prize.
Wrong, Romeo.
I purr under my breath, letting my fingers trace up my waist and across my ribs. My hips sway. My head tips just enough to let my hair spill down in a golden curtain. I lick my lips real slow, just to make sure he knows I see him.
He grins—sleazy and smug—like he thinks he’s won something. His hand rises, inching up like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Poor thing. He doesn’t realize he’s already dead. And then—he touches me.
Fingertips grazing my thigh, sliding up over my hip, bold as sin and just as stupid. His knuckles brush the leather strap at my waist, and he moans under his breath like he just touched God. Or maybe the devil.
I don’t pull away.
I lean into it, because I live for the game—and this one? This one’s my favorite.
Let him cup the curve of my ass and press his palm against my skin. Let him believe he’s got a shot.
“Mmm,” I murmur, looking down at him with a lazy smirk. “That what you wanted, big boy?”
He nods, mouth slack, pupils blown wide behind his mask.
