THE STONEHEART BRIDE

  KATI WILDE

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  THE STONEHEART BRIDE

  Copyright © 2022 Kati Wilde

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Kati Wilde using stock photos licensed by Adobe Stock.

  First Digital Edition, November 2022

  katiwilde.com

  CONTENTS

  The Stoneheart Bride

  A Tale of the Dead Lands

  Author’s Note

  The Dead Lands by Kati Wilde

  Also by Kati Wilde

  Newsletter

  THE STONEHEART BRIDE

  A TALE OF THE DEAD LANDS

  Rescued by the warrior who’d broken her heart…

  Flora doesn’t know which is worse: being abducted by ogres who intend to eat her, or being saved by the barbarian warrior who’d coldly rejected her hand in marriage. Brom the Stonehearted had destroyed Flora’s every hope of a future where she was valued for herself, and crushed her dreams of a life where she was more than her uncle’s political pawn.

  But as they ride toward home, Flora discovers that a warrior raised in the barren wilds of the Dead Lands recognizes value far beyond power and gold—and that Brom’s particular kind of courtship could never be cold…

  This short romance is part of the Dead Lands series but completely stands alone.

  CONTENT WARNINGS

  This fantasy romance includes descriptions of barbarian violence (using swords and axes), threats of cannibalism, explicit love scenes, and vulgar language.

  OTHER NOTES

  Please note that this is a short romance, written to meet a specific word count to be featured on a podcast. It’s a full and complete story, but be aware that the length falls within that ambiguous area that includes a “short story,” “novelette,” and “novella” (depending on whom you ask.)

  1

  Five days ago, when Brom the Stonehearted had rejected Flora’s hand in marriage, the agony that had ripped through her chest made her wonder if a broken heart was truly shredded from within. But five days ago, Flora hadn’t guessed that she would soon know the answer.

  Well, she wouldn’t know it, because she would be dead. But the two ogres who’d abducted Flora would see whether her heart was literally a broken mess when they tore her body apart and devoured her flesh.

  Which would likely happen as soon as they finished arguing over who got the juiciest bits.

  “I claim her plump haunch,” one of the hideous giants declared, while smacking his slimy lips and tossing an armload of fallen boughs onto their fire.

  The other scoffed as he used his monstrous stone axe to hack at the tree limb that would become Flora’s roasting spit. “What of it? She has two haunches. I’ll take the second.”

  “Have you forgotten our purpose, fool?” the first ogre spat through jagged teeth. “Upon the left haunch is the birthmark that will prove who she was to those who find the remains.”

  “Then leave her head and the ring with the royal crest. They will know the jewel and her face.”

  “Our orders are to also leave the marked haunch.”

  “We might say that we did leave it, but that an animal of the forest must have carried it off,” said the second ogre with a sly, wet grin.

  Lying on her side at the edge of the small clearing, Flora tried not to listen. Truly she did. She was already terrified, and further panic wouldn’t help her escape during the short time that the ogres were preoccupied with building the fire. The horror of the day had already taken its toll—first when the guards in her hunting party had been slaughtered, then when she’d been bound, gagged, and tossed over the back of her horse, followed by endless hours of travel to the border of her uncle’s kingdom. If she gave into fear now, she’d never free herself from the ropes binding her hands and feet.

  Yet until Flora heard the ogres speaking, she’d thought they’d only taken her along as a snack. She hadn’t realized they had a more heinous purpose.

  They meant to start a war. And their actions today would start it. When Flora’s uncle discovered her remains, and with the full support of the kingdom, he’d march his army into the mountainous territory held by the ogre overlord…where her uncle might eventually be victorious, but not before thousands of his soldiers were killed in those battles.

  Flora could not let her life be the cause of so much death.

  Steely resolve steadied her trembling fingers, and Flora blindly searched the ground behind her bound hands for a sharp stone or a pointed stick—anything that she might use to free herself.

  Nothing but dirt and leaves.

  Panic began to take hold again when the ogres finished their preparations at the roasting fire. Flora’s heart stuttered as they turned in her direction. Their greedy eyes roamed hungrily over her nude form, and terror wormed through her muscles like a parasite, leeching her strength—but not her resolve. Frantically she squirmed backward through the dirt, not giving up even as the brutes laughed at her futile attempts to get away.

  “Even if your feet were free, human, you could never outrun us.” The first ogre started toward her, unsheathing the blade that, earlier in the day, had butchered Flora’s guards. “But fear will season your meat, so a chase would make our feast all the more deli—”

  Abruptly he stopped—mid-word, mid-step, mid-thunk—though Flora in her desperation to escape hardly knew whence that heavy, fleshy thunk had come.

  That is, until the ogre collapsed onto the ground with an axe protruding from the back of his skull.

  Shock held her immobile for the briefest moment. Had the second ogre betrayed the first, so that he could gorge on her meat without sharing even a haunch? But when her eyes darted to him, the ogre still standing did not look to Flora at all. Instead he held his giant axe at ready as his foul gaze searched the utter dark of the nighttime forest.

  All seemed quiet, but for the crackling of the flames and the thundering of her heart.

  Until the ogre shouted, “Face me! So I might pick her flesh from my teeth with your splintered bones!”

  On the far side of the clearing, a solid shadow emerged from the trees. The bulk of the ogre’s body and the glare of the fire blocked Flora’s view, and she had only the impression of hardened muscle and a gleaming broadsword before the ogre charged. The strike of stone against steel rang a fast and furious peal, underscored by deep grunts and the ogre’s furious roar. For an instant, Flora watched the battle with her heart lifting and lifting, buoyed by the hope that her rescue had come—then her heart lodged sickeningly in her throat as she realized that whatever had slaughtered the first ogre might be worse than they were.

  Wildly she fought against her bindings, but her struggles only managed to dislodge the cord wound around her head. She spit the gag from her dry mouth. Her heaving breaths came harsh and loud, her world narrowing to the bite of rope into her skin, the slickness at her wrists that must be blood but she didn’t stop fighting, praying the blood would lubricate her bindings enough to wrest her hands free.

  Then awareness seeped in that all was quiet again.

  The ogre was dead. A small whimper escaped her throat when she spotted the giant’s bloodied body—and then his head, the severed neck dripping gore, as it was tossed aside with a flick of the other combatant’s wrist. A human, Flora saw and gave a sudden sob of relief.

  But her relief only lasted until the warrior turned toward her, and the fire cast its orange light over his face. A face she knew too well.

  Brom the Stonehearted.

  Fresh agony split open her heart, a pain made all the worse because of the joy that came with it—the joy that Flora couldn’t help but feel every time she saw him, the joy that had accompanied her nearly every moment that she’d spent with Brom over the past two months. Flora’s uncle had wanted to form an alliance with the barbarians that had settled in the wilderness east of the Kingdom of Innis, and so her cousin, Prince Vash, had made the initial foray into that territory. Once there, Vash had befriended the leader of the Stoneheart Clan, then persuaded Brom and a dozen of his warriors to travel to Innis and begin negotiations with the king—and the day of Brom’s arrival marked the day that Flora made the most devastating mistake of her life.

  She’d begun to hope.

  It had been by King Martas’s order that Flora had served as Brom’s guide and companion whenever Prince Vash was unavailable, a command that had initially terrified her. She’d long known that her uncle intended to one day marry her off to cement a political alliance, and that he wouldn’t care what sort of man her husband would be. Wouldn’t care if he was cruel or cold, faithless or weak. As long as Flora’s marriage strengthened his own position, King Martas would force her to wed. So it was with dread that she’d met the barbarian warrior her cousin brought home.

  Yet instead of cruel or weak, Brom proved honorable and strong. And—complete and utter fool th
at she was—Flora had begun to dream of a future where she might be wanted and valued by her husband. Maybe even cherished by him.

  Never before had she dared dream of such happiness. Yet each hour she’d spent with Brom had given her courage. Each time he’d sought her company on her daily hunts. Each time he’d chosen the seat next to her at the king’s table. Each time she’d made him grin, or when she’d teased out his deep and rumbling laugh. Each time his dark gaze had settled on her lips, and his big body seemed filled with the same hot tension that kept Flora’s senses in a constant, burning grip. And in the recent weeks, as their conversations had deepened and she’d revealed more of her private thoughts and feelings to him, the looks he’d given had appeared almost…tender. As if he might have begun to care for her. As if he might have even begun to cherish her. At least a little.

  So five days ago, when her uncle had informed Flora that he intended to offer her hand to Brom and negotiate her bride price, pure joy had engulfed her heart. With giddy anticipation, she’d waited outside the chamber where King Martas and his councilors sat with Brom and his warriors, hammering out the details of an alliance. She’d trembled with happiness as her uncle proposed a marriage between Brom and Flora in order to solidify the new ties between their people.

  And in a voice colder than any she’d heard from him before, Brom had refused.

  But she hadn’t lost hope then. Flora knew how such negotiations worked. Brom must want something more from her uncle…and her uncle, who was convinced that an alliance with Stoneheart’s warriors was the kingdom’s only chance of defending against a rumored attack by the ogres from the north, was willing to give more. Yet gold, horses, and steel were all refused, and each rejection shredded a little of Flora’s hope.

  Then her uncle had cried out in frustration, “What can I give that you would take my niece to wed?”

  Each word of Brom’s reply had been ruthless and sharp, like blades piercing her chest. “Never could you make an offer for her hand that I would accept.”

  Heart utterly destroyed, Flora had fled.

  Only sheer willpower had gotten her through the following days. Willpower, along with a determined effort to avoid him. It had taken all of Flora’s strength to keep from bursting into tears whenever she was near him. So she’d stayed away when she could—and when she could not, she’d survived by clinging to the tattered remnants of her pride. No more did she reveal any of herself in conversations; instead she spoke as little as possible before escaping his presence…and never did she glance at him. Not when she might see the same look in his eyes that she’d mistaken so badly before, that had made Flora believe he wanted her and cherished her.

  Such a fool she’d been.

  Yet now, now—Brom was here. And he’d broken her heart…but then he’d saved her. With hot tears clogging her throat, Flora watched as he stepped over the ogre’s body and strode across the clearing, his broad chest glistening with sweat and blood—every inch a barbarian warrior, fierce and strong and utterly magnificent.

  While she lay tied and naked and helpless, with the remains of her pride scattered in the dirt.

  Humiliation and relief collided violently within her chest, ripping free a harsh sob. Brom’s stride faltered, then he crouched at her side. His massive fists clenched, knuckles whitening under smears of blood, and even without looking up Flora knew that he was cataloguing each bruise on her flesh, each scrape of her skin. Each injury must make him furious, because even though he didn’t want to marry her, even though he didn’t care for her as she’d dreamed, Brom the Stonehearted was still a good man—and rage was a good man’s response to seeing anyone treated as she’d been.

  But at least she couldn’t mistake anger for a softer emotion and fool herself again. Shaking, Flora lifted her gaze to his face. The fury she expected to see burned in the shadows of his eyes and the taut line of his mouth—yet as his gaze touched hers, as his big hand opened as if to cradle her cheek, she saw the same tenderness that she’d been so wrong about before.

  Renewed misery ravaged her heart. “Don’t touch me!” she cried out, cringing away from his reach.

  Brom froze. And it must have been only a trick of the flickering flames and the blur of her tears that made her imagine the anguish that swept across his expression, because a blink later, his face seemed carved from stone.

  His throat worked before he said, “Are you badly hurt?”

  His voice had a thick and ragged edge that she’d never heard before, yet she couldn’t pause to consider the meaning of it when the question itself tore from her a sound that was not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Was she badly hurt? No, not truly. Her body was merely bruised, so what did it matter that her heart was broken and her pride was shattered and her guards were—

  Flora sucked in a pained breath as the grief that she’d forced herself to suppress swept over her again. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of the slaughter that morning, afraid that if she gave in to the horror of the memory, it would overwhelm her.

  “My guards?” she whispered. “Did any live?”

  She had no true hope. Not after what she’d seen done to them. Still, the shake of Brom’s head laid even false hope to rest and knotted her throat with tears again. “Were any other people killed? By other ogres—or along the way?”

  “They only came for you.”

  That was a relief…for now. “They intend to start a war.”

  Grimly he nodded, as if the news held no surprise. Yet he said nothing more of it. A man of few words, Brom preferred to speak through his actions…which was just one of many aspects of his character that Flora had always admired. Apparently even while heartbroken, she admired it. He looked to her bindings and showed her his blade—silently seeking permission to cut the ropes. This time she didn’t cringe away. Instead she savored the gentleness of his fingers at her ankles, and the breath that hissed between his teeth when he saw her raw and bleeding wrists. It was foolish of her to cherish such moments, but Flora simply could not bear any more pain this night—and the gods knew, she would likely never know his touch again.

  Though she was mistaken in that, too. When she attempted to stand, her newly-unbound legs refused to cooperate. Brom caught her before she stumbled into an ungainly heap, sweeping her up into his arms.

  And he was so warm. The summer night had only just begun to release the daytime heat, yet as he carried Flora away from the roaring fire and into the shadows between the trees, the events of the past hours seemed to settle coldly into her flesh. She began to shiver, her teeth chattering. With a soft curse, Brom gathered her even tighter to his chest, his bare skin like a furnace against hers. Instinctively she burrowed in closer, arms wrapped around his neck, her face buried against the side his throat and her heart painfully swollen.

  She’d sometimes fantasized that he might hold her thus. Though not in circumstances like this. A dream come true, in the midst of a nightmare…and all while she was awake.

  A few hundred paces into a forest, a quiet nicker greeted them. Flora lifted her head. Brom’s big sorrel stallion waited, his tall and heavy outline barely discernible in the dark. Her lighter gray gelding stood nearby, and relief ballooned through her chest. When the ogres had finally stopped at the clearing and dragged her from his back, the terrified gelding had broken loose and fled into the night—likely heading toward home, so Brom must have come across her horse going the other direction.

  Brom paused beside his stallion. His voice was but a rough murmur against her hair. “Can you stand?”

  She did not wish to. Flora never wanted to leave his arms. Yet they could not stay here, not so near to the border between her uncle’s kingdom and the ogres’ lands. Brom had killed two of the giants quite handily, but he might not fare so well against a clan.

  Reluctantly she nodded, hoping rather than knowing that her legs would support her. Brom slowly lowered her feet to the forest floor. His large hands remained at her waist while she tested the steadiness of her stance—and if Flora hadn’t had evidence of his rejection, she might have believed that he lingered so long for the pleasure of touching her and not merely to make certain she wouldn’t fall again.