Chapter 4
Iglance down at my dress, suddenly worried that Saga cut too much fabric. When I look back up, Nordin is gone.
I search the thicket of brawny shifters for his imposing frame and bright hair but find him nowhere.
As Saga and Mor discuss the triplets, I palm my satchel, insecurity beating back my earlier resolution to reveal all. What if he doesn’t want me to love him in that way? What if my attention and affection, which go beyond the bond of family and pack, revolt him?
“Merry Júl, Syster.” My uncle’s booming timbre redirects my attention.
Ulf, a giant like his son and most males in our pack, joins us near the entrance of the cavernous timbered dwelling.
“I hear our pack gained three new members tonight,” he says, winding an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and pressing her into his side.
Though Saga is tall, taller than me by a full head, she barely clears the top of her father’s pecs.
“They’re so precious, Ulf,” Mor coos. “I can’t wait for you to meet them.”
Ulf scours his sister’s face. Like me, he’s wary about Mor’s emotions.
He once confided that he wished his sister had picked another task in the pack than midwifery. Particularly after she turned fifty and her chances of finding a true mate—the only male whose seed could take in her womb—began to wane.
Although quasi-immortal, most wolves met their true mates within the first five decades of their lives. Ulf had. He’d bonded with Aunt Sigrid from Clan Fir in his late twenties during a long-ago Myrknótt—or White Hunt, as we refer to the first day of the new year.
When I was younger, I asked Mor why it was called “White.” Given that Myrknótt fell on the one day a year the sun refused to climb over the horizon, shouldn’t it have been nicknamed the “Black Hunt” instead?
With a grin, Mor had hoisted me onto her hip and carried me out onto the frozen fields beyond our woodland village. And then she’d pointed at the rotund moon and asked me what color it painted the world.
As for the hunting part… It was only many years later that I understood that many attended, not only to fill their stomachs but also to fill their cot.
In twelve days, it would be Myrknótt.
In twelve days, I would remain in the valley with the humans, since only shape-shifters were allowed out into the Wilds.
In twelve days, I would feel—once again—like an outcast.
“Your mother wants to see you, Saga,” my uncle says. “Something about the garland not sitting right on the tree?”
Was I so lost in thought that I failed to hear my aunt beckoning to Saga, or did Sigrid use the bond she shares with her mate to request her daughter’s presence?
Saga draws in a sigh. “Without exaggeration, I’ve readjusted that freaking garland a hundred times.”
My uncle and mother exchange a smile, both keenly aware of Aunt Sigrid’s hawkish attention to detail.
Right before traipsing toward the immense fir twinkling with painted glass ornaments and the infamous garland, Saga nods toward one of the two food and drinks spreads. “Zas, grab us steins of glogg and meet me by the tree. Better yet, grab a whole pitcher.”
“One drink,” Mor says, eyes narrowed on me. “And not a pitcher-sized one.”
Ulf grins and shakes his head. “It’s Júl, Eira.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that my daughter is nineteen.”
“I seem to recall a certain someone taking a liking to glogg at nineteen.”
“Ulf…” My mother speaks her only sibling’s name with a heavy dose of exasperation.
Ulf winks at me, then mouths, “Have fun,” while Mor mutters, “Not too much.”
After hooking my cloak to one of the pegs protruding from the wall, I sling my satchel across my chest and make my way to the refreshments table—the most popular hangout spot tonight. I’m so slight that I manage to squeeze between most bodies without needing to shove.
When I finally reach the table, my full name is droned: “Zaskja Stormsson.”
I sigh as I grab the pitcher of glogg and fill two metal steins. “Yes, Tyron Gustafson?”
I don’t dislike the male, but he’s far from my favorite person, perhaps because he has a difficult time taking a hint.
“Has Fenrir visited you yet?” Tyron’s green eyes, a far darker shade than mine, angle toward my breasts.
I suddenly regret asking Saga to crop the neckline. “Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know when he does,” I deadpan. Like I would ever discuss my cycle with Tyron.
“You know what I heard?” he asks, as I sit the pitcher down, seize my two steins, and begin threading myself back through the knot of bystanders.
I don’t ask him, knowing full well he’s about to tell me. I’ve never met a male as incapable of filtering his thoughts.
“I heard that sometimes Fenrir needs a little nudge.”
I frown up at him, confused.
He leans over. “He needs someone else to make a female bleed to remember that she’s of age.”
I’m so shocked that I stop in my tracks to gape up at him.
“I’d be glad to be of service if—”
I’m about to snap a firm “no” when someone growls, “Beat it, Gustafson.”
Tyron tenses, as most do when Nordin growls at them. Saga’s brother might not be able to modulate his pitch like his father to make wolves cower; nevertheless, when he speaks, people stand to attention.
“Not only is your theory absolute dragonshit, but Zaskja’s nineteen.” Nordin’s reminder of my age knots my throat.
“What if I’m not?” I ask, once Tyron has backed off, with his palms raised.
“What if you’re not what?” Nordin’s gaze flicks from the retreating wolf to my forehead. I assume he keeps his stare elevated to avoid the temptation of peering any lower.
“What if I’m not nineteen? What if I’m older? What if I’m twenty-one?” When his dark eyebrows slant, I add, “Perhaps I was seven when you found me.”
“You weren’t seven.”
“Maybe valkyrie ears are smaller in childhood than shifter ears,” I say, since that is what they used to measure my age.
“They’re not.”
“How can you be so sure when you’ve never met a Ljosam?ri?”
“Because my sister was seven at the time. You were not. You were five. Or younger. Perhaps you were three. The whole of you was tiny. Still is.”
I bristle, because if I were three, then that would make me…
“I’m not seventeen,” I blurt out, horrified by the mere possibility.
Nordin chuckles. “Relax, Zaskjalill. The Council confirmed you were well into your fifth year when I carried you back.”
His nickname nulls the relief that should flood me at the news that I’m only two years away from the legal age to mate.
“How much longer will I have to pretend not to have hit puberty?” I’ve asked Mor, but her answer is always the same: It’s no one’s business.
The crooked curve of Nordin’s mouth flattens, and then his gaze flicks toward where his father is warming the gold claws of his partially shifted paw over the dragon-fire.
Once they glow sanguine, he reaches up and swipes them over one of the six beams of life that encircle the forever-blazing pit, recording the births of the new wolves.
“For as long as possible,” he finally says.
“I’m part of the pack, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t see why—”
“Because it’s safer,” he murmurs.
“Safer for whom? Your father and the Council, who knowingly allowed me into their pack without putting it to a vote?”
“No, Zaskja. For you.” His voice patters so softly that I almost miss his answer. “For Eira, since she’s the reason you stayed. And for me, since I’m the one who found you.”
I roll my lips.
“There’s peace between Isam?r and Ljosam?r, but peace doesn’t equate to love.” His chin dips as he rummages through my stare for obedience. “Please just wait until the Council comes to a decision.”
“Fine, but I hate having to shut myself away every month.”
Nordin’s mouth softens once more. “How about I come keep you company during your next cycle? We can play Rafbo.”
My heart nearly wings out of my chest, because the board game can last hours. Nevertheless, I school my features into an expression of boredom. “Fine.”
My cooperation carries a brighter smile to his mouth, one that rushes over him like a spring melt, thawing the tightness from his expression.
With a shake of his head, he asks, “What did I get myself into?”
My heart, I think. You got yourself into my heart.
“I asked for a pitcher, Zas.” Saga wrests one of the cups from my gloved hands. She downs a huge gulp, staring between her brother and me. “What did I miss?”
“Your brother challenged me to a game of Rafbo,” I tell her, carrying my stein to my lips.
She rolls her eyes. “You really know how to show women a good time…”
She says this without innuendo, of course. Saga might be my best friend, but she’s oblivious to my devastating crush on her brother. In her mind, I’m their true cousin; therefore, amorous feelings cannot exist.
“Probably the reason Fenrir hasn’t mated you yet.” Saga takes another deep swallow of her brew. “He’s still trying to find you a female who won’t die of boredom.”
Nordin cocks one of his eyebrows. “You’re just full of cheer tonight, aren’t you?”
“It’s the garland. Garlands bring out the worst in me,” she mutters, right as her mother hollers her name. “I hear Mor calling for you, Nord. Yep. Definitely calling your name.”
Her brother shoots her a droll look as she loops her arm through mine and steers me away.
“I need more glogg,” she says as I slip my thumb between my satchel strap and my collarbone that thunders with heartbeats.
On our way back to the makeshift bar, I chance a glance over my shoulder. When I lock eyes with Nordin, who’s watching us—watching me—hope seeds itself behind my ribs.
Could it be that Fenrir hasn’t mated Ulf’s son to another because he’s meant for me?