Free The Temperate Warrior by Renee Vincent

her clothing. She seemed to favor his advances, allowing him the privilege of cupping her breasts. He recalled the dark thatch of red hair below her navel, the uncontrollable urge he had to cup her sex and sink his fingers deep inside. The feel of her naked body trembling beneath his exploratory touch made him grow rock hard.
    “Be not like your father, Ásmundr. He is a vile man and you are no different should you force me to endure this. Please, this is not what I want.”
    To this day, her last words had cut him so deep that he could still feel the jagged edge of that knife plunging into his back. All the meticulous plans he’d made, the sacrifices he was about to make on her behalf, shattered like glass. He should have known better though than to think a whore possessed even a shred of propensity for care and kindness. She was naught but a temptress whose legs opened wide for anyone who wished to split them, and for much less.
    So, why wouldn’t she spread them for him?
    It finally occurred to him that she perhaps favored his father over him. That she preferred to be defiled than loved.
    What he’d done next, wasn’t his fault. She’d pushed him too far.
    “You want vile?” he remembered uttering through clenched teeth. “I shall give you vile, you wretched whore!” He’d bent her over the boxbed and raped her, showing her as little mercy as his despicable father had so many times before. Oh, she’d fought him, with all her might she fought to be taken against her will, squirming and writhing as he drove into her heated flesh.
    Deep down, he knew she enjoyed it—almost as much as he enjoyed his father bursting into the room and witnessing it. The sheer terror on Æsa’s face was worth all the gold in the world.
    It came as no surprise when his father had banished him from Iceland that night. But what he hadn’t expected was finding his father had spared the servant girl’s life and sent another to end his. Lucky for Ásmundr, everyone had a price. It took only a handful of coins to pay the mercenary off and send him back to his father with news that he’d succeeded.
    Ásmundr hoped word of his demise had spread to Æsa’s ears, just so he could have the pleasure of watching her reaction when she saw him again. He wanted the opportunity to do the same to his father, but someone had already beaten him to it. Hung from the rafter of his longhouse by his intestines, it looked as though his father’s dark past had caught up with him and no amount of silver was enough to save him.
    As he crouched in the dark, assessing the eight warriors who guarded one worthless thrall like she were the princess of Norway, Ásmundr was convinced of two things; these were the men who killed his father and the redhead was the manipulative cunt who knew where his father’s silver was buried.
    Ásmundr’s thoughts turned heinous as he envisioned his sweet revenge upon the slave girl. “‘Tis Æsa, all right. I would know that wicked wench anywhere.”
    “How will you get to her now, m’lord?”
    “All in good time, Grimr,” he stated coolly.
    “Do you think she is after your buried silver?”
    Ásmundr controlled his laughter, mindful of the two scouts within earshot. “My guess is she is biding her time with these imbeciles and wooing the big one long enough to get him to do whatever she desires. If ‘tis my silver she seeks, we shall be one step ahead of her.”
    ****
    The sharp screech of a falcon’s protest and its flapping wings brought Æsa to a waking jolt. She sat up amid the cover of hides, the narrow boxbed empty beside her. The men, who once lay strewn about the floor, carried chests and sacks in a single-file out the door. What little Gustaf owned had been packed up, save for the bedding tangled around her body.
    “Did you sleep well, m’lady?” Øyven asked as he doused the fire in the hearth.
    The smile on his face claimed he already assumed to know the answer. She turned her eyes away and pulled the