Free Edge of Control: (Viking Dystopian Romance) by Megan Crane Page B

teeth. There had been no trace of idleness in his voice or on his face then. He’d been openly angry and he’d let her see it—and that should have terrified her more than all the rest of it. It did.
You either serve me or you don’t. There is no middle ground.
    Eiryn had felt as if he’d knocked her down after all. She’d felt winded all the way through.
I’m your sister.
    Which is the only reason I’ve allowed you to have an extended temper tantrum with a sharp blade to my back.
Wulf had eyed her, too much ferocious temper in his gaze and all over his face.
But that ends tonight. There are names for assholes who abandon their king and their clan in the middle of a fight. Don’t make me use them.
    And she had wisely shut her mouth before she’d provoked him into labeling her a traitor right there and then. Or worse, to her way of thinking, a coward. Or any other blood insult that would require she defend her honor with her blade. She’d have to fight another brother—Tyr perhaps, maybe Gunnar, maybe even Riordan—because she doubted Wulf would condescend to raise his own blade to teach a traitor or a coward a lesson. Especially if it was his sister.
    And then what would she do? Win or lose, the stain of the insult, delivered from her king’s mouth, would remain. It was instant dishonor. She would lose her place in the brotherhood. In the clan.
    In the world.
    And that was a dislocating notion. It made her feel dizzy. Eiryn was so angry—so bone-deep and surpassingly furious, and had been for at least a month now—it took her breath away again and again. Every time she looked at either one of her blood brothers, in fact, but especially when she looked at Wulf. And she was a woman of action, not of discretion and quiet, graceful contemplation. She wanted to use the weapons she had to fight the things that battered at her. Her voice, her blade, her fists—whatever worked.
    But the clan was all she had. All she’d ever wanted.
    It was one thing to imagine walking away from everything she knew in the confusion after an explosion like the one tonight, letting them all think she was dead. It was something else entirely to do something so heinous and unforgivable that she could never, ever come back.
    There had been nothing to do but keep her mouth shut and follow Wulf back to camp. But when she’d seen an opportunity to sidestep all this crap, no matter how completely insane it was to imagine herself compliant or in a winter marriage of any sort or off in the mainland somewhere with only Riordan, of all people—she’d jumped on it.
    Feet before head. Her preferred method of travel.
    “If what’s required is a compliant couple, I can’t think of anyone else who’s qualified,” she said now, working hard to make sure she sounded almost cold. Rational. Certainly in no way overly invested in the outcome or Wulf’s decision. “Hedy or Emmalyn could play the part, but they’re both off on raiding parties further down the coast. And I think we can all agree that sending two warriors into an extended, undercover battle is better than one.”
    Wulf looked at her for what seemed like a very long time. She gazed back at him, refusing to blink or fidget or give him—or anyone watching—the slightest hint that she wanted this more than she could possibly admit. Desperately, in fact. That she’d thrown herself into the conversation heedlessly and recklessly, seizing on this insane idea as the one thing that could create the middle ground that Wulf claimed didn’t exist.
    This way, she could serve the clan—and him—without having to fight the urge to slam her blade into the back of his skull every minute of the day. This way, she could postpone the inevitable conversation about her loyalty awhile.
    Because it wasn’t that she doubted her loyalty to the clan. Of course she didn’t. She was a loyal brother to her core and always would be.
    But she was sick to death of her blood family.
    “It will be a long