The Wrong Bride (Kings of Fury #1) Read Online Gena Showalter

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Funny, Paranormal Tags Authors: Series: Kings of Fury Series by Gena Showalter
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Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
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“Just so you know, I donna have a mistress,” he added, “and I willna’ seek another. It would dishonor our vows and make me into a liar and a cheater, traits I despise.”

The sudden seriousness of his tone and the openness of the statements caught me off guard.

Our vows, he’d said. The vows he’d made with a different woman. Groaning, I pulled the cover over my head. Thankfully, he said nothing more. Did nothing but let the minutes pass. Another surprise. He didn’t strike me as the type to give up easily. Unless he played the long game…

In the quiet, the trials of the day took their toll. My eyelids grew heavy, and sleep came, consuming every thought in its path.

A gloriously scented cocoon surrounded me. I snuggled deeper into my bed. Hmm. The mattress was harder than usual, yet also somehow softer. And warmer. Far better. Total relaxation overtook me, and I drifted into a new dream.

The most beautiful images dominated center stage. A small chapel with ornate stained-glass windows and fancy murals painted all over the walls. Colorful flowers hung in every direction. Petals littered the floor, creating a path between two rows of pews, filled by men in tuxes and kilts and women in formal gowns and hats.

How lovely. Except yikes. No one smiled. Frowns and scowls abounded, each directed at me. I stood atop a dais, decked out in Isobel’s wedding dress, Callen a tower of strength beside me. And still not wearing a kilt. Though I couldn’t complain about his current fashion choice. Wowzer.

He looked like how I imagined a berserker would’ve appeared hundreds of years ago. War paint streaked his freshly shaven face. Thick metal bands crisscrossed his bare chest. Metal cupped his shoulders, too, anchoring a fur wrap in place. Leather hugged those powerful thighs, and a loincloth made of interlocking metal plates hung over the pants, draping his groin. Weapons of every kind were strapped to his hulking body. Swords. Daggers. An ax and crossbow. Even a spear. The icing on top of his look? The cold stare making me desperate to melt him.

The man was a romance novel hero come to life.

As I studied him, I teetered on my stilettos and almost toppled. He caught me, and I giggled in his face. His coldness only intensified, becoming an arctic freeze. After he helped me straighten and steady, I decided it would be a good idea to poke his pec.

“Pretty muscles,” I slurred before full-on petting him. At least I wasn’t trying to walk through a mirror. “Do you strip out of a police costume too, or are you strictly a Norse-Scottish serial killer?”

The question sparked flickers of neon blue rings in his irises. The sight startled me, and I gasped, jolting upright. My hand flew to my throat, where my pulse raced. Okay, that hadn’t felt like a dream, but a memory. As if I had relived Isobel’s recollection of the event and inserted myself.

Had I?

Hey! I wasn’t near the hearth or on the floor. I lay on—oh, no, no, no. I lay on Callen. Like, on top of him. He stretched out beneath me. Only my T-shirt and pants separated us. I scrambled to the other side of the bed.

He slowly opened his eyes and gifted me with a smug smile. “Good mornin’, wife. Did you have a nice night?”

“Oh!” I said as his rumbly timbre washed over me. With a huff, I leaped from the mattress. “Go ahead, Chuckles. Laugh it up.” So badly I longed to blame him for my position. Accuse him of picking me up and carting me to the bed. But a hazy remembrance lurked in the back of my mind. Tossing and turning for far too long before deciding to sleep in a chair.

When the chair had proved even more uncomfortable than the floor, I’d inched my way onto the bed, certain I could maintain my distance from Callen.

“Just know.” I wagged an index finger at him, then shoved errant locks of hair from my eyes. “You may have won a minor battle, but you haven’t won the war.”

“Are you sure?” He sounded smugger, if that were possible. “You’re eating me up with your gaze again.”

Argh! What had brought about this comfortable, almost playful change in him? And what could I do to reverse it? Because dang. He was all kinds of charming, and I wasn’t a fan. Not in the slightest bit. Nope. Not even a little bit.

I anchored my hands on my hips. Time for desperate measures. “Remember how much you hate me? With good reason! I’m a terrible person. The worst!”

“You are, aye,” he agreed. “But I think I like you, anyway.”

What! How dare he agree with me and offer a compliment in the same breath?

And he wasn’t even done. “In your description, you forgot to mention the most important fact.” A sense of possession radiated from him. “You are mine.”


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