Three blizzards, two near-death experiences, and one very persuasive raiding party later, I wake up in gold chains that match my new owner's dental work. Progress?
Okay, listen. I'm not saying being a barbarian's bed-thrall is all bad. There's a lot to be said for fur blankets, muscle worship, and getting fed spit-roasted antelope instead of mystery gruel. The tent's enormous. Bed's soft. Chains are literal gold—I checked, bit them even. Little tooth mark is still there.
But.
He sleeps with his sword.
Not, like, near his sword. Not propped politely by the bed. No. This lunatic spoons it. One arm around me, one around his stupid massive blade like it's his steel mistress. Full cuddle sandwich. Me, meat in the murdery manwich.
And let me tell you, waking up with a cold, sharp edge poking your thigh while someone's morning wood is poking the other side? Mood killer. Big time. I tried telling him that. He said, and I quote: "A man must never part with his steel."
I said: "Then why don't you fuck it instead?"
He didn't laugh. Barbarians have no sense of humor. Or maybe he was thinking about it. Who knows what these muscle-brained warlords fantasize about when they grunt themselves to sleep.
Honestly, I could get used to being draped in sable and pearls and getting licked clean after dinner, but not if I have to risk an impromptu hysterectomy every time he rolls over in the night.
Tonight, I'm hiding that sword. Let him wake up and cuddle me for once.
And if he whines, I'll just say the truth.
"The blade and I had a falling out."
Literally. Out of the tent. Down the hill. Into the goat pen.
Oops.
Morning again.
Gods, my back.
I shift under the furs, trying not to slice open a nipple. It's like sleeping between a furnace and a guillotine. Kholf the Barbarian, destroyer of armies, snorer of legends, snoozes behind me, warm, hairy, and absurdly heavy. And in front of me, his other true love: Blooddrinker. A sword the size of my leg, honed to such razor precision it could probably shave a beetle.
I wiggle, which is a risk. One wrong bounce and I'm bisected.
"Ugh. Kholf, babe," I whisper, trying not to wake the blade. "Honey. Darling. Sex-beast of the steppes. Can we please ditch the blade?"
He grunts. Eyes still closed. Thick arm tightens around my waist.
"Blade stay," he mutters. "Is wife."
I blink. "I am your wife."
He thinks. Brow furrows.
"You concubine."
Rude.
"I have a golden collar and everything!"
"You also steal goat."
"That was one time and the goat propositioned me."
He rolls over, dragging me and Blooddrinker with him. Now I'm face-first in fur, ass in the air, and the damn sword pressing into my spine like it wants to duel my vertebrae.
"Can't we trade her for a nice morning cuddle?" I croon. "I'm warm. I'm soft. I moan when you touch me. The sword doesn't even have a clitoris."
"She have edge," he says, very solemn.
I twist back to glare at him. "So do I."
He considers. Big brain ticking behind those battle-scarred brows. Then he kisses my shoulder.
"Both stay."
Of course.
Kholf snores again. I groan.
One day, I swear, I'll smelt that sword into a bathtub.
Then we'll see who gets cuddled.