Read Her Viking Wolves: 50 Loving States, Michigan for Free Online Page B

Royals.
    The truth is, neither am I. Uncle Ford is right. This ain’t over. Not even close.
    My father was raised by Leroy Greenwolf, one of the most brutal alphas Detroit—no forget that—the world has ever seen. So cold-blooded, there was still a rumor going around that my grandfather gave his eighteen-year-old daughter something to trigger her heat when the King of Alaska came through to consider my Uncle Ford for his beta. And believe me, it’s a rumor anybody who’s ever met my grandfather would have no problem believing.
    He and his oldest son were born ruthless, unwilling to stop at anything to get what they want. And I already know I, the nerdy recluse, am no match for the Alpha King of Detroit…
    Yet I’m unable to give in and tell Uncle Ford to just go on ahead and schedule the three plane rides it will take to get me back to Detroit.
    There’s no way to win this Boss Level. I know that. But on the coldest New Year’s Eve I’ve ever experienced, I’m still holding out for the gold token that gets me to a game ending I can live with.
    Fuck , I think as I return to the now very temporary sanctuary of the kingdom house guest room. What am I going to do?

6
    D eath surrounds Fenrisson , Ever the Man. The bodies of his best warriors—his kin—lie across the meadow between the village and the lake. Many of the slain are wolves he trained with under his father. All dead. Their human bodies—burnt husks, now—strewn across the field.
    Pride demands he avenge the fallen. However, good sense tells him what he must do instead. He’s already called back his remaining warriors, bid them run to the mountains and leave their village to the serpent beasts.
    Still, guilt shadows his every step as he silently skirts the forest line, managing to avoid detection. There are only two serpent warriors left now. After four did fall, many of them shifted into their human forms and took up arrows, which they must have planted before beginning the battle. Now with their numbers thinned, they have left only two of their rank in serpent-form to do all the fighting while the remainder shoots silver tipped arrows into the furred bodies of Fenrisson’s kith and kin.
    These are clever beasts indeed. Fenrisson curses them silently as his eyes frantically search the meadow-turned-battlefield for his sister’s wolf—or even worse—her body.
    Please not her body . He sends a prayer up to the old gods and the new one his mother convinced his father to worship, praying Myrna is still among the living.
    The Gotar King’s sword in his hand feels heavier than it ever has before as he scans the meadow. Aside from a handful of his wolves, he sees no sign of his sister.
    The sound of running footsteps startles him and he raises his sword expecting another attack. However his eyes narrow when he spies not a warrior garbed in a leather jerkin and pants, but a naked man—one of the serpent warriors— sprinting towards him from across the field with nothing but a large quiver of arrows across his back. It is one of the archers, he soon realizes, likely responsible for helping in the slaughter of his wolves.
    Fenrisson once again raises his sword, but then he sees the soldier is not headed for him at all, but toward the forest behind him. In fact, the man’s face is filled with panic as he flees…
    Fenrisson’s eyes widen when he spots a smaller red wolf at the soldier’s heels, but he cannot help but smile. It is Myrna! Instead of continuing to fight once the arrows started flying, she chose to look for the source. And apparently, she found it.
    Myrna leaps at the naked archer’s back and takes him down before he can find hidden refuge among the trees. And though he and Myrna share no special bond as he and Olafr do, Fenrisson does still feel her triumphant satisfaction as if it is his own when the serpent-turned-man falls. He watches with his own teeth bared as Myrna ends the archer’s life in a fierce cacophony of furious growling and