Riders of Tyr 3: Fight On

Lysa

“You okay?” Daniel asks for the millionth time since yesterday.

He seems constantly worried that I will walk up and leave. Considering that’s what I’m contemplating half the time, his concern is justified. Why he’s so invested in me staying is beyond me, though.

It could be mild curiosity. “I’m good,” I answer, taking a bite of my burger. He’s taken me downtown and promises me a trip to San Francisco tomorrow.

He’s even casually mentioned that I can buy “stuff.” I’m not a little girl in need of a doll, but he seems so excited that I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t need anything.

“Has any of the brothers given you shit?” Daniel demands.

I almost choke. The moment he says that, my mind goes straight to Vik. Vik bare-chested at the gym.

Vik straddling that beauty of a bike. Vik standing way too close. Vik smelling fucking amazing.

Define shit. “No. Everyone is cool,” I say, trying to change the subject.

“Rage is…weird.”

“That’s an understatement,” Daniel chuckles audibly. “Rage is a psycho.

“Or at least used to be. We call him the Hellhound, set him loose on our enemies. Things got better since Iris got in his life. She’s a good Valkyrie.”

“Valkyrie?”

“Girlfriend or wife. Woman claimed by a Rider. Once a woman is claimed, she is off limits.”

Fucking men and their staking things. The names, the tattoos. It’s as if women are like their damn cattle and they brand us ’cause we are too stupid not to stray too far from the farm.

I say nothing and just finish up my burger. I look around and see everyone looking at Daniel’s cut and walking away. If I have to guess, the Riders own the town big-time, and I don’t think I want to know by what means.

I’m sure it’s not their unfailing presence at Sunday mass.

“No need to worry about a thing, girl.”

“I am not,” I respond in a dry tone.

“I am serious, girl. No one will dare touch you in this town. And as for my brothers… No one is crazy enough to lay a finger on you.”

Not even Vik? I bite down on my jaw along with that unwanted thought. It simply comes on its own without going through the proper filters of logic.

Okay, if I meet Vik somewhere out there, I will gladly fuck him senseless and walk away. But since I am not in the habit of seeing a man I fucked ever again, that is out of the question. Way, way out.

End of discussion. I will chalk up the fact that I wake up early to have a shower and comb my hair before going to the gym to morning gruffness and nothing more. It has nothing to do with meeting Vik.

If he is coming, that is. I spend the day with Daniel and then we are invited to Ava’s for dinner. It is late when we get back and I don’t see Vik.

If I have to guess, he is screwing some rotter – Daniel explained all about the club whores – behind the closed door to his room.

“Thought you wouldn’t show up,” Vik greets me the minute I step in the gym. He is in dark shorts and nothing else.

Sweet Mary and Joseph, it’s never too late to turn religious. Would it hurt the man to wear something that covers that breathtaking body of his? A burqa for instance?

As he moves, every single defined muscle moves with him. From his shoulders to his barrel chest and down those washboard abs, he is a minefield of a sexy man. He is not nearly as big and brawny as Bjorn or Ironhand but he is so freaking perfect, I am surprised I am not crying just by looking at him.

“Lys?” He smirks.

Great! Now he has caught me ogling him and his arrogance needs no other breakfast. And speaking of breakfasts, it’s about time I hide the fact that I find the idea of jumping his bones the perfect one.

I regain my cool and walk up to him as he covers his knuckles with black wraps, his eyes still trained on mine. I say nothing, just drop my bag on the floor and start to get ready as well.

“Good morning to you, too, Lys.” He smiles widely.

He doesn’t have to take a swing at me. I am certain that if he keeps smiling like that, I will drop down dead eventually.

“Morning.”

“God, do you charge by the word, babe?” he pulls closer. “Lys, babe.” That guy is trying to provoke a reaction out of me.

I take out my rope and start hopping to warm up, trying to ignore the half-naked, jaw-dropping, stunning man in my radius. I look at my reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror but I steal glances at him every now and then. He is stretching his muscles and then drops on the floor to do push-ups.

I bite my inner cheek to stop any reaction elicited by a gorgeous man showing off how perfectly he can move. I struggle to move past the fact that push-ups moved from the list named “Torturing Exercise” to “Hottest Sights in Existence” and concentrate on getting prepared.

“Ready?” he asks when we are done, pointing at the ring.

“What’s your style?” I bounce on my feet.

“BJJ mostly.” He lifts his chin. “You?”

“Muay Thai.” He nods in approval and looks at me up and down. God, it’s as if his look is tangible, as if he is touching me.

This is not a simple weighing-out-the-enemy look. This is more. He wants more.

And I want to give more. I want it so much, it’s scary.

“This is a bad idea.” I take one step back.

“Scared, little princess?” he dares me. My jaw twitches and I warm my shoulders.

I am scared shitless but not for the reason he is thinking. If that smug bastard wants to have his ass handed to him, I have no problem with that. I have dealt with some BJJ along the way and I am sure he will be bleeding and giving up in no time.

And after this, his precious little male vanity will be wounded, he will be done looking at me like that. I ignore the sting of disappointment that momentarily takes over, shifting into my fighting position. Vik widens his smile and mirrors my stance.

Now, it’s my turn to assess him as an opponent. Vik is not Rage. That tattooed fucker seems lethal, heavy, but the twinkle in his eye tells me that no matter how hard I hit him, he’ll just laugh it off.

Vik is also not as heavy as Ironhand, who seems slower than a replay until he gets you in those massive arms that seem capable of easily crushing a spine.

But Vik is built and agile. He’s quick, and quick is bad when someone is practicing Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. I have to be swift to avoid being caught.

I can’t allow that. And I’m not planning to.

“Still talking about sparring, right?”

“Right.”