“She’s not his wife.” The eyes Grimm turned on Mac were not the eyes of a sane man. They were the eyes his villagers had seen before judiciously turning their backs on him so many years ago—the ice-blue eyes of a Viking Berserker who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

“Well, she sure as ’ell is his something.” Mac shrugged off the unmistakable warning in Grimm’s eyes with the aplomb of a man who’d survived too many tavern brawls to get overly concerned about one irritable patron. “And yer wishing she wasn’t, that’s fer sure.” Mac removed the empty bottle and picked up a full one that was on the counter. He looked at it curiously. “Now where did this come from?” he asked with a frown. “Och, me mind’s getting addled, I dinna even recall openin’ this one, though fer sure ye’ll be drinking it,” Mac said, pouring him a fresh mug. The loquacious barkeep ambled into the room behind the bar and returned a moment later with a heaped basket of brandy-basted chicken. “The way yer drinkin’, ye need to be eatin’, man,” he advised.

Grimm rolled his eyes. Unfortunately, all the whisky in Scotland couldn’t dull a Berserker’s senses. While Mac tended to a new arrival, Grimm dumped the fresh mug of whisky over the chicken in frustration. He had just decided to go for a long walk when Ramsay sat down next to him.

“Looks like Quinn’s making some headway,” Ramsay muttered darkly as he eyed the chicken. “Mmm, that looks juicy. Mind if I help myself?”

“Have at it,” Grimm said stiffly. “Here—have a drink too.” Grimm slid the bottle down the bar.

“No thanks, man. Got my own.” Ramsay raised his mug.

Husky, melodic laughter broke over them as Jillian and Quinn joined them at the bar. Despite his best efforts, Grimm’s eyes were dark and furious when he glanced at Quinn.

“What do we have here?” Quinn asked, helping himself to the basket of chicken.

“Excuse me,” Grimm muttered, pushing past them, ignoring Jillian completely.

Without a backward glance, he left the tavern and melted into the Durrkesh night.

It was nearly dawn when Grimm returned to the Black Boot. Climbing the stairs wearily, he topped the last step and froze as an unexpected sound reached his ears. He peered down the hallway, eyeing the doors one by one.

He heard the sound again—a whimper, followed by a deeper, husky groan.

Jillian? With Quinn?

He moved swiftly and silently down the corridor, pausing outside Quinn’s room. He listened intently and heard it a third time—a husky sigh and a gasp of indrawn air—and each sound ripped through his gut like a double-edged blade. Rage washed over him and everything black he’d ever tried to suppress quickened within. He felt himself slipping over treacherous terrain into the fury he’d first felt fifteen years ago, standing above Tuluth. Something more powerful than any single man could be had taken shape within his veins, endowing him with unspeakable strength and unthinkable capacity for bloodshed—an ancient Viking monster with cold eyes.

Grimm laid his forehead against the cool wood of Quinn’s door and breathed in carefully measured gasps as he struggled to subdue his violent reaction. His breathing regulated slowly—sounding nothing like the uncontrolled noises coming from the other side of the door. Christ—he’d encouraged her to marry Quinn, not to go to bed with him!

A feral growl escaped his lips.

Despite his best intentions, his hand found the knob and he turned it, only to meet the defiance of a lock. For a moment he was immobilized, stunned by the barrier. A barrier between him and Jillian—a lock that told him she had chosen. Maybe he had pushed her, but she might have taken a bit more time choosing! A year or two—perhaps the rest of her life.

Aye, she had clearly made her choice—so what right did he have to even consider shattering the door into tiny slivers of wood and selecting the deadliest shard to drive through his best friend’s heart? What right had he to do anything but turn away and make his path back down the dark corridor to his own personal hell where the devil surely awaited him with an entirely new boulder to wrestle to the top of the hill: the obdurate stone of regret.

The internal debate raged a tense moment, ending only when the beast within him reared its head, extended its claws, and shattered Quinn’s door.

Grimm’s breath rasped in labored pants. He crouched in the doorway and peered into the dimly lit room, wondering why no one had leapt, startled, from the bed.

“Grimm …” The word pierced the gloom weakly.

Bewildered, Grimm slipped into the room and moved quickly to the low bed. Quinn was tangled in sodden sheets, curled into a ball—alone. Vomit stained the scuffed planks of the floor. A water tin had been crushed and abandoned, a ceramic pitcher was broken beside it, and the window stood open to the chill night air.