Page 22 of The Gathering Storm

Not that she was personally interested in this one, but still. He’d captured her attention and was an attractive man. In a few years, once the People’s current troubles were over, he would’ve made a good father.

The lager slid down her throat, cool and heady, and she savored its yeasty bite as she sorted through each aspect of the situation. The match would cement her longstanding friendship with Anya Bloodletter, something neither had achieved in the many centuries since they’d first met, but such a match could only be made if Anya agreed to Sigrid’s suit. With another Daughter in the picture, one Will apparently admired and possibly held feelings for, Sigrid’s own claim might be subsumed by the interests of his heart.

As if love were the most important factor in a match involving a beloved Son.

Sigrid took another sip and cupped the mug between her palms. It wasn’t disappointment unfurling within her. It was the loss of a strategic connection within the People, nothing more.

Will reappeared at the edge of the dance floor, leading a familiar Daughter into the crowded space. Sigrid searched her memory and immediately landed on the woman he’d been flirting with just a few nights past, when Moira had issued her warning.

But that Daughter was new to Tellowee. Could she and Will have been engaging in a long distance relationship while the Daughter handled business elsewhere?

The question spooled out in Sigrid’s mind, occupying a large chunk of her attention during the song playing over the speakers. She watched Will and the woman dance, watched him bend his head toward her and whisper humor into her ear, watched the woman flirt and charm as her hands subtly explored Will’s chest and arms.

Sigrid’s stomach curled into a knot, surprising her. Maybe the lager had aggravated whatever bug she’d picked up. She set it aside and resumed her observations, and when the song ended and Will led the other Daughter off the dance floor, she found herself at its edge, directly in their path.

Will stopped abruptly some three feet in front of Sigrid. “Yes?”

“I wish a dance.” The words came out softer than she’d meant, less determined and more questioning. She cleared her throat, straightened her spine, and stared down her nose at him. “Now.”

The Daughter skirted Will and stopped at his side, her hand held within his larger one. She was a pretty woman, willowy compared to Sigrid’s solid Nordic build, and delicately clad in a hand embroidered silk jacket over more practical wear.

Sigrid swallowed down the automatic dislike and nodded. “Sigrid Deathknell, daughter of Glyvyn the Ice Warrior, of the line of Bagda.”

The woman nodded in return, her dark gaze expressionless. “Chana Wolfbane, daughter of Pari Bakhshesh, of the line of Eleni.”

“Well met, kaetyrm.”

“And you.” Chana’s hand tightened on Will’s and she peeked at him out of the corners of her luminous eyes. “Thank you, Will. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Will smiled down at her, his expression open and kind. “Of course. Be safe.”

Chana bowed to Sigrid, then eased into the crowd, leaving them alone, if anyone could be alone in a room filled with people.

Sigrid deliberately reached out to Will and clasped the hand Chana had not held. “Shall we?”

Will gazed at her for a long moment, his green eyes shuttered above the hard set of his sensuous mouth. A strange sensation fluttered in Sigrid’s stomach. He was going to refuse. She’d waited too long, and now his woman was here, come to love him. Why had she listened to Moira? Why had she hesitated to press her claim?

At last, Will twined his fingers with hers and tugged, pulling her into his arms as he stepped onto the dance floor. He held her close, closer than he’d held Chana, and brushed his cheek against hers.

She relaxed against him, allowing the music to sweep over her, and swayed to its beat against Will’s warmth.

His hands slid from her waist around her back, holding her firmly. “I missed you.”

“Hmm.” She sighed into his throat, inhaled, and caught a hint of cologne mingling with the faint hint of sharply scented soap. “I missed this.”

“Dancing?” He huffed out a laugh, ruffling her hair, and rubbed one hand across the low of her back. “Where were you?”

“Busy.”

“So busy you had to break your word to me?”

She stiffened, tried to draw back, and was held exactly where she was, tightly pressed against him. “I never break my word.”

“You were supposed to be here days ago.”

“I was busy,” she said, enunciating each word.

“And you’re not going to tell me what you were doing?”

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