To Tempt a Viking. Michelle Willingham

weak and soft, boy.

      He tasted blood in his mouth when his enemy’s fist ploughed into his jaw, but he willed himself to feel nothing, just as he’d endured years of his father’s beatings.

      Pain was a part of him. He knew how to isolate himself from feeling anything at all, letting the hollowness claim his spirit.

      You’re worthless.

      Every blow, every bruise brought out a ruthless side to him where there were no emotions to make him human again. He became predatory, slashing hard with his sword. He was blinded in this moment of battle, fully immersed in the kill. Anyone who dared to come near would suffer the consequences.

      Metal bit through flesh and he was rewarded with his enemy’s gasp.

      They stood back, circling each other. Ragnar tasted blood and sweat, and he saw the moment of uncertainty in the Norseman’s expression.

      He gritted his teeth, feigning weakness. Waiting for the moment when his enemy would strike hard. Abruptly, the man shoved his shield against Ragnar’s wound, lifting his axe high for a killing blow.

      Ragnar threw himself to the ground, lifting up his sword at the last second. With all his strength, he forced the blade upwards, impaling his enemy.

      Blood spilled from the man’s lips as Ragnar’s blade remained in his gut. It was not a clean death and he forced the man over, rising to his feet before he struck hard and ended the fight.

      He kept his sword in hand, anticipating a second attack. The haze of fighting was still upon him, like a veil of red. Dimly, he grew aware that no one was going to approach him now.

      ‘Take your men and go,’ Ragnar ordered, his gaze fixed upon the leader.

      ‘I never agreed to leave,’ Alfarr countered. ‘And now the rest of my men will fight. You cannot kill all of us—’