This woman was Ragnarok? The apocalypse herself? This short, teary, pleading woman was prophecised to kill Odin?
Bjorn eyed her sceptically, concerned that the Allfather had made a mistake. But Odin didn’t make mistakes. And if this woman, Helle Aven, was truly the Fenrir, that made her Loki’s son. Which made Odin as good as her grandfather. And yet she was still fated to slay him.
“Helle?” Magnus swept past Bjorn, his voice too breathy with awe to go unnoticed. Bjorn gave him a look, echoed by Valr as he pushed off the wall to stalk closer, but when Bjorn glanced back to Helle, her icy eyes met his, and it felt like Thor’s hammer slammed into him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. He tensed his whole body, fighting the automatic urge to stumble back in shock as an inner thread wound around his bottom rib and tugged sharply.
It felt like … but it couldn’t be … she was the Fenrir, a prophesied killer, the end of the world in vargr form. Fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to bind Bjorn to a woman with that destiny.
His nostrils flared as Helle’s gaze jumped from him, to fair-haired Magnus, to dark and brooding Valr. “What is that?” she breathed, her bound hands shaking in front of her.
The male guard looked between them in confusion, but didn’t comment on it; Bjorn outranked him. A lot.
“A mating bond,” Magnus breathed, his blue-violet eyes glowing with wonder. “There’s a bond between us.” He cast a glance at Bjorn and Valr, and added, “All of us.”
Valr
The woman was shaking. Helle, Valr knew, but didn’t care enough to use her name. He didn’t care to be here at all; he was only in this court house because it brought him one step closer to finding Erik. As for the supposed mate bond, Valr couldn’t feel anything. No soul bridge, no tug on his inner being, no warmth surrounding him. Magnus was deluding himself—he might have been twenty-six, but he still acted like a romantic teenager and a sentimental fool, and the sparkle in his violet eyes was testament to that. Not to mention his soft, breathy voice.
Valr didn’t have time for romance or pretty women; he’d rather be back home, training with the other warriors and hunting with the other vargar. Instead he’d formed a pack with two men he barely knew, and he’d come here, to pick up an oblivious, helpless woman who just might turn out to be the end of the world.
Valr sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling as she swung her gaze to him, shrinking back at whatever she saw in his eyes. Uncompromising death, most likely. He was born for it, honed in the icy tundras where vargar were trained to fight as both wolves and men.
He was glad when her eyes darted back to Bjorn, their leader and alpha, though she didn’t look any less scared of him, and no wonder. The man was huge, his arms as wide as tundran tree trunks, every inch covered in ink from his ankles to his chin, and his black hair was a mix of loose strands and tight braids that somehow made him look even more masculine, more savage. At least twenty years older than her, and giving off a vibe that he was not to be fucked with. Helle inhaled a quick breath, her throat bobbing.
Valr’s sensitive vargr nose picked out the scent of her fear in the air and his mouth quirked up. They weren’t going to hurt her—the opposite, in fact. Especially Magnus, who was already panting and desperate to worship her. Guarding Little Miss Ragnarok, their Odin-given task, made them her protectors. As much as they could protect her in a maximum security prison built to contain children of gods and myth, anyway.
Bjorn signed a leaf of papers that handed custody of Helle Aven to them, and as the woman tried to back up a step, deciding the prison guard who’d escorted her in was safer than the three vargar, Bjorn took hold of her cuffed hands and gave her a smile as he tugged her closer. It wasn’t a comforting smile, more an exposing of teeth—in the time Valr had known the alpha, he’d never seen him give an easy, charming grin—and Helle shrank back. Refusing to budge from her spot near the door, however tightly it was sealed, however unlikely her escape from them was.
Valr smirked as she dug her heels in, satisfaction and amusement curling through him as she gave a last, panicked attempt at resistance. But she’d been sentenced to eternity in Asgard Penitentiary. Eternity, or until they deemed her safe for release. Valr’s smile deepened. She’d look even more scared of them when she found out that little tidbit.
“Stop fighting,” Bjorn commanded, his voice so full of ringing dominance that Valr winced, gritting his teeth as he fought to urge to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. Magnus wasn’t as strong; he ended up on the cold concrete floor, swearing at the thud of his knees on stone.
Helle … Helle didn’t drop to her knees at all. No, she blurted, “Make me,” and blushed like crazy. But she didn’t avert her eyes; she raised an eyebrow and cocked her chin defiantly at Bjorn.
Valr grinned widely, wishing he had snacks to watch the show with. Either Bjorn had met his match, or Little Miss Ragnarok was about to get her ass handed to her.
Bjorn’s face darkened. “I give orders; you follow them,” he bit out, his voice low and threaded with command. “You’ve been sentenced to eternity in Asgard Pentitentiary for murder and treason—”
“There wasn’t even a body!” she protested, albeit at a whisper, seeming to finally sense the power of the alpha. Or at least succumbing to his intimidation. “And treason? Where do you think we are, Henry VIII’s court?”
Bjorn’s mouth flattened into
