Page 118 of Sin Bin

Logan took a gulp of his drink, trying to wash away the sudden knot tightening his throat. What the hell was happening to him? Like, seriously?

“Don’t look so depressed, Brassard,” Reid teased. “Viggo and I were gonna hit up our favorite sports bar and catch a game or something.”

“If you’re nice to us,” Viggo added with a smirk, “maybe we’ll grab a pool table and let you kick our asses.”

Logan brightened. “That could work.”

Laughter swept over the group.

“You guys are nauseating,” Dubinski said, his voice slurring even more. He’d had three beers on the golf course and was chugging his way through his third scotch. It was starting to catch up to him.

“You’re more than welcome to join us, Dubs.” There was the slightest hint of steel in Reid’s voice. “In fact, given that you’re dating my fiancée’s good friend, I strongly encourage you to forget about the damn club and—”

“Save your breath. I’m still going.” Dubinski knocked back the rest of his drink and slammed the empty glass down on the table. “See, contrary to what you guys might think, I’m not a dumb blond. I have eyes. I know how beautiful Jess is, and I know she’s probably out of my league. I mean, she can have any guy she wants…well, almost any guy,” he amended wryly. “If Sandström had given her the time of day, she’d be the one getting married at a castle instead of Scarlett, and I’m sure she still thinks about that sometimes.” Dubinski frowned and hunched over his empty glass. “I think she’s pretty fucking awesome. We have lots of fun together, and I’m sure she appreciates my fat bank account. But I know I wasn’t her first choice. So…until I know for sure that she wants me for more than my money, I’m playing it cool and keeping my options open.”

At the end of his monologue, no one said a word.

Dubinski looked around the table, taking in everyone’s stunned expressions. “Shit,” he mumbled. “Did I just say that crap out loud?”

“You did,” Hunter drawled with wry humor. “As the saying goes, ‘A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”

Dubinski grunted and stared broodingly into his empty glass.

Reid gave him a sympathetic grin. “Don’t fight it, Dubs.”

“Seriously, bro,” Viggo added. “Resistance is futile.”

Dubinski lifted his head to smirk at them. “Stop trying to recruit me into your pussy-whipped brigade.”

As the others chuckled and guffawed, Viggo smiled narrowly at Dubinski. “You know that Viking wedding ritual I mentioned?”

Dubinski blinked and nodded.

“The one I was talking about is the blood eagle ritual. Ever heard of it?”

Dubinski shook his head.

“Allow me to explain it to you,” Viggo drawled, leaning forward on the table. “You see, to consecrate our marriage and ensure a fruitful union, Scarlett and I have to make a sacrifice to the gods of fertility. My Viking ancestors would traditionally sacrifice a goat, a boar or a horse. But Scarlett is strictly against animal cruelty…so we’re going to make a human sacrifice instead.”

Dubinski stared at him. “A human sacrifice?”

“Ja,” Viggo confirmed with dark pleasure. “Which brings me to the blood eagle ritual. To start things off, the victim—ah, sacrifice—is held facedown as the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings is slowly carved into his back. After that, his ribs are hacked from his spine, one by one, with a very sharp ax. The skin and bones on both sides of his back are then pulled outward to create the appearance of eagle’s wings.”

Viggo paused, watching as Dubinski paled under his tan and the others unconsciously leaned forward, waiting for him to continue.

“Ideally, the sacrifice would still be alive at this point to experience the excruciating agony of having salt literally rubbed into his gaping wound.” Viggo’s Swedish accent thickened as he talked, and his gray eyes took on a maniacal gleam as if he were channeling the spirit of some sadistic ancestor. “After the salt treatment, the sacrifice’s exposed lungs are pulled out of his body and spread over his ‘wings,’ giving spectators the final image of fluttering wings as the sacrifice draws his last breath.”

“Holy shit,” Dubinski whispered. He looked like he was going to be sick—and not from too much alcohol.

Everyone else was staring at Viggo, riveted by the gruesome details he’d shared. Even Hunter looked intrigued, though he’d probably already heard about the ritual. Sandström could weave a tale like no other, and his Viking ancestry made his stories even more fascinating when he chose to share them.

Dubinski was just drunk enough to be easy prey. “Why the hell would you want to torture and murder someone at your wedding?” he asked in a quavery voice. “That’s a crime. And wouldn’t your guests be totally traumatized?”

Viggo gave him a twisted smile. “That’s the chance you take when you attend a Viking wedding. Still want that invite?”

Dubinski swallowed nervously and lifted his glass to his lips, frowning when he saw that it was empty. He glanced around the table before looking back at Viggo. “Let’s say you’re really doing this crazy blood eagle ritual—”

“We are. I promised my grandfather.” Viggo had one of the best poker faces Logan had ever seen. It was almost as good as his, and he’d been playing poker since he was four.

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