My Viking Son’s Two Fathers

Chapter 2

The world has come undone.

My mind fractures between terror and strange, dreamlike wonder—part of me screaming to wake, to escape, to find solid ground beneath this sea of impossibility, while another part surrenders to the beauty of it all.

The poisonous mushrooms.

Some distant, rational part of my mind understands what has happened. Astrid's pie, her cruel laughter, the earth-and-rot taste beneath the sweetness.

She fed me madness, and now madness consumes me whole. The threads between what is real and what is fever-dream have unraveled completely, and I cannot find my way back to the world I knew.

Then I see them.

Two figures emerge from the firelight like beings carved from legend itself, and the chaos around me seems to still in their presence.

The first is massive, towering over me like a mountain given flesh. His hair falls black as a moonless night, his eyes pale as glacier ice, and he is wrapped in black fur that seems woven from the darkness between stars.

Thor, my fevered mind whispers with absolute certainty.

God of thunder, of strength, of storms that shake the world.

The second burns beside him like a torch against the night. Copper and gold blaze in his wild mane of hair, in the stubble that covers his jaw, in the arm-rings that catch firelight and throw it back tenfold.

He grins with a mouth full of mischief and danger, teeth white and sharp, eyes green as summer flame.

Loki. Trickster. Chaos-bringer. Flame given flesh.

"Please," I whisper, and the word falls from my lips like a prayer offered at an altar. "I have never been wanted. I have never been chosen. But I am choosing now."

The dark god's eyes flare with something ancient and hungry. "You offer yourself to us, mortal girl? Freely? Knowing what we are?"

"Freely," I breathe, my hands finding the hard planes of his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle beneath fur and shadow. "Willingly. I want to know what it feels like to matter. Even if only for one night."

The flame-haired one appears at my back, his heat seeping through the thin fabric of my shift, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"Then you shall have us both, little mortal. Every inch of us. And you will remember this night until the stars themselves burn out."

"Yes," I gasp, arching into their combined warmth. "Yes. Take me. Claim me. Make me yours."

His hands, massive, calloused, and radiating a cold that sends shivers up my spine. Curl around my waist, pulling me into him until I feel the hard ridges of his abdomen pressing against my soft curves.

His lips crash onto mine, a collision of ice and iron, and I taste the winter storms he carries in his veins. His tongue is relentless, parting my lips with a possessive urgency that leaves me gasping for air.

“Mine,” he growls against my mouth, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my core.

Then there’s the flame-haired one, a wildfire incarnate, his hair a cascade of molten copper that frames a face carved by sin itself.

His grin is a blade, sharp and dangerous, and his eyes burn with a heat that threatens to scorch me alive. He doesn’t kiss me—he consumes me.

His mouth is a furnace, his tongue a branding iron that sears me from the inside out. He tastes like mead and smoldering embers, and when he pulls back, his eyes gleam with a promise that should terrify me.

“And mine,” he purrs, his voice dripping with honeyed venom.

I’m caught between them, my body a trembling mess, my mind hazy with desire and whatever toxin they’ve slipped into my veins.

Their hands roam my body, mapping every inch of me with a precision that makes me feel like a pagan offering laid bare on an altar.

The dark one’s fingers slide beneath the thin fabric of my tunic, teasing the swell of my breasts, his icy touch contrasting with the heat pooling between my thighs.

His thumb brushes over a nipple, coaxing it into a hardened peak, and I whimper, arching into his touch.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, his breath cool against my neck. “Every inch of you belongs to us now.”

The flame-haired one kneels before me, his hands sliding up the inside of my thighs, pushing my legs apart with a deliberate slowness that makes me squirm.

His mouth finds the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, nipping and sucking until I’m panting, my hips jerking involuntarily.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he smirks, his fingers brushing against the soaked fabric of my undergarments. “Already dripping for us, aren’t you?”

I nod, too far gone to feel shame, and he chuckles. A low, dark sound that sends a fresh wave of heat spiraling through me. With a single tug, he tears the fabric away, exposing my slick, aching core to the cool night air.

His tongue flicks against my flesh, and I cry out, my fingers tangling in his fiery locks as he devours me like a man starved.

The dark one moves behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his erection pressing against the curve of my ass. He leans down, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear.

“Spread your legs wider,” he commands, his voice a dark caress.

I obey without hesitation, and he slides a finger into me, curling it just enough to make my knees buckle.

“So tight,” he rasps, adding a second finger, stretching me with a careful precision that borders on torture. “You’ll take us both tonight, little one. Every inch of you belongs to us.”

The flame-haired one rises, his lips glistening with my arousal, and claims my mouth in a kiss that leaves me breathless.

His hands grip my ass, lifting me effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he positions himself at my entrance.

“Hold onto me,” he growls, and I cling to him as he thrusts into me, filling me with a single, relentless stroke.

The night stretches on, endless and sacred.

They take me again beneath the wheeling stars—slower this time, softer, as though savoring a feast they wish never to end.

And then again as the moon reaches its peak, with a ferocity that leaves me sobbing their names into the frozen air.

I lose count of how many times I shatter between them, how many times they put me back together only to break me apart once more.

When exhaustion finally claims me, I drift into darkness cradled between fire and ice, their arms wrapped around me like I am something precious, something worth holding.

The snow beneath us should be cold, but I feel only warmth—the warmth of being wanted, of being seen, of being enough.

For one perfect, impossible night, I am not a bastard. Not a burden. Not a disappointment.

I am theirs, and they are mine.

And nothing else matters.