Wildest Dreams (Fantasyland, #1)

by Kristen Ashley

“Sjofn is the Goddess of Love. And love,” her eyelids suddenly fluttered dreamily. “Love,” she breathed then she focused on me with a strange intensity that made me—even me—squirm a little. “Love is everything.” Okay, this bitch had style and class but she was whacked

I sucked in breath to say something to my dad, anything, and to get him to say something in return. It caught in my throat as a man moved to stand in front of and to the side of the man in white robes. That man looked down the aisle at me. My step faltered when I took in all that was him and there was a lot to take in. “Sjofn,” Dad growled, his hand over mine in the crook of his arm tensing. He felt my step falter and he thought I was going to bolt. With effort, I pulled my shit together and kept walking. But I was thinking, Oh no. And that would be a big, oh no, no, no, no. No. Was that . . . ? Was he . . . ? Oh shit. He was. He had to be. He was standing at the front of the church. It was The Dragon. It was my groom. And I got his name. I totally got it with the way he was glowering at me like he most assuredly did not like me. He also did not want to be there. And further, what he did want to be doing was slaughtering entire villages either with weapons or, perhaps, breathing fire at them and setting them alight.

I was wrong. He wasn’t scary. He was totally freaking hot

Shit, Dad had always told me never sit with your back to the door. And there I was, like Wild Bill Hickock before he bought it, sitting with my stupid back to the door. Slowly, I turned in my chair. Equally slowly, my eyes drifted up the so dark-brown it was nearly black clothing, taking in the knife belt (with knives), leather band across the wide chest, slanted cloak made of hides and angled sword at the back of my now heavily bearded husband.

I saw about seven men, all smaller than him (not by much) all dressed a lot like him, all sporting thick beards, all having hair (of a variety of colors) that needed a cut, all of them scary and all of their eyes were on me. This must be some of his Raider brethren. Ho boy. I pulled in a deep breath to fill my lungs. Then I smiled huge and called, “Hi honey! I see you’re home.”

“This is not the welcome home I’d like, wife, but it’ll do and you’ll sleep here, like this, until the morning. You don’t, I’ll take the welcome home from you I’d like and I won’t delay. Do you understand me?”

I curled deeper into the big, hard, stranger at my side. My arm snaking around him and holding tight. My thigh curving around his. My knee and calf falling between his legs. My hips cradled by the side of his. My cheek pillowed on his massive, hard chest. This was something I did normally in my sleep with covers and pillows. Something I did that night with something a lot warmer, a lot more comfortable and a lot more dangerous. And when I slept curled tight around my dark stranger husband, I slept deep.

Hmm. I pulled just an arm out of the covers to scratch Penelope behind the ears as I considered my dilemma. First, I was married and my husband was home. Second, I was not a lesbian like he thought I was. Third, my husband was a renowned Raider, known to be virile and “skilled in that area,” but also it was clear he was very virile unless you were blind, deaf and lost all your senses of perception. Fourth, I knew there was a strong possibility the rumors of his “skill” were true with the one kiss he’d given me, the light touch he’d woken me with last night and the gentle way he touched my jaw and neck. Fifth, he liked my hair. Sixth, he wanted to sleep with me cuddled to his side. Seventh, he left me covered and cocooned, stoking up the fire to keep me warm. Hmm.

On the other hand . . . First, he’d married me, hauled me across country for hours upon hours through the freezing cold night and left me in a dirty house all by myself for six weeks (well, the house wasn’t dirty for six weeks, but he sure as hell left me there alone that long). Second, when he first saw me again, he bossed me around right in front of everyone without even saying hello. Granted, he was with his buds, and maybe obviously virile, Viking-type Raiders behaved that way in front of their buds, but he could at least have said hello. Third, for reasons unknown he’d carried me out like a sack of flour, again, right in front of everyone. Fourth, he’d sent my horse galloping when I was not secure on her back. Fifth, he barely spoke to me, didn’t let me talk when he was speaking and most of the stuff he said when he was speaking, I didn’t like much. And last, he was huge, scared me most of the time and, um . . . he scared me most of the time (that was worth repeating).

He could make good coffee and he could build good fires meaning I didn’t have to do either. This meant his plus column was growing. So far there were only four things on it but yesterday there were none, so I had hope.

I looked at him and tried again. “Frey, I think we need to talk.” His brown-green eyes came to me, his eyebrows rose and he shoved a gigantic bite of pancake in his mouth. I took the eyebrow raise as a, “Yes, Seoafin? What would you like to discuss?”

“I can be a little . . . crazy when I have a bit too much to drink.” “Yes, the wench at the inn said you come in often, drink much ale and get quite loud,” he remarked, not looking happy about this but I was sure glad Lindy corroborated my story.

“And how many meals would we share, Sjofn?” Hmm. He was considering this. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “Fifteen?” I tried. “How about two?” he returned.

Apparently, Father got it regular.

“I don’t eat lamb,” I protested. “Of course, I forgot.” Frey looked at Father and informed him, “Finnie doesn’t eat baby animals. It’s a rule.”

Frey turned back to me. “I’ll be back to escort you to the Gales, wife,” he called. I pushed lethargically up on both forearms and called back, “Awesome, husband.” He shook his head and grinned before he disappeared. My girls rushed in with Bess closing the door. They all stopped four feet from the bed and stared at me. “Hey, ladies,” I greeted, totally not caring I was naked and in bed and had obviously been thoroughly and vigorously laid by my hot virile husband who seriously liked my present. They all kept staring at me. Finally, Jocelyn stated, “Balls to ten minutes.”

“I do not know, my wee Finnie, where I came from. But I’m beginning to know why I’m here.”

Drakkar turned his head to Franka. “And you?” She lifted a fluttering hand to her wide, garish expanse of cleavage. “Me?” she drawled. Drakkar turned his whole body to face his cousin. Facing her, he said softly, “I know you fancy yourself a cat who isn’t content unless she’s got herself a mouse to play with, but do not mistake me for a mouse, Franka. A mouse cannot yank a cat’s throat out with his fist.”