Chapter 5 #2
“My daughter is slated to become our clan’s next Alpha,” Elka says, as though to entice Nordin. “It’s an honor she’d be bestowing upon you—”
“Rejected mates can turn feral.” His tone is clipped, not enticed. “With all due respect, Lady Krosson, you might call it an honor, but taking Havrik’s mate—”
“Nika’s not that disgusting male’s mate,” Elka snaps.
“It doesn’t change the fact that he’s unhinged enough to come after any man who so much as approaches your daughter.”
I wish Nordin would reject Nika, not out of fear of ending up with a sworn enemy, but because he doesn’t desire her.
“Varganson wouldn’t dare come after you,” Ulf promises. “Which is why Gothi Dorson suggested the match in the first place.”
The Gothi beams that Ulf has extolled his meddling skills. “The Ravine Jarl might be a brute, but he’s not a suicidal one, Nordin. He would never go after a fellow Alpha’s family.”
Not only do I not find this reassuring, but I also find it aberrant that Ulf, who’s already lost one son, would send his other away, especially to strengthen an already airtight alliance.
Then again, if his son marries a future Alpha, Ulf removes a contender to his throne, ensuring he can sit on it decades longer. Perhaps forever if Saga doesn’t request her turn.
“What if Fenrir blesses me with a true mate?” Nordin’s jaw is so clenched that his words are barely louder than the snap of the firepit.
“Then my daughter will step back,” Elka replies. “If you still wish her to do so, that is…”
The Fjord matriarch is clearly under the impression that Nordin will grow so fond of Nika that he will follow her example and reject his true mate.
“We appreciate your grace on this matter, Nika.” Ulf clasps Nordin’s shoulder, knuckles paling as though he were trying to crush his son into submission. “Don’t we?”
Nordin—to my relief—says nothing.
“Nordin…?” Sigrid calls out to him, as though to wake him from a daze. “I know you have many things on your mind lately, but don’t forget your manners.”
My wolf’s mouth thins before finally ejecting a toneless, “Forgive me. I will give your offer thought.”
Elka nods. “If it’s not too much to ask, Klovir would like an answer by Myrknótt Eve.”
I hope it won’t take Nordin eleven days to think about it. I hope it’s all thought out and his answer is “not interested.”
“Merry Júl, everyone,” Elka calls out as she sets off toward the door.
On their way out, Nika takes me in. After examining my gloves, which are in dire need of replacement, blackened as they are by my smithing, she perches her stare on my neck and the choker currently living up to its name.
Is she aware that I’m the author of the one she also wears?
Not many know that the Vale Alpha’s niece crafts jewelry in her spare time, though perhaps Elka told her? Could that be why Nika wore the necklace tonight—to curry favor with my kin by flaunting not just a Vale creation, but a Stormsson-made one?
Instead of feeling pride at seeing her harbor my work, nausea climbs into my throat. I find myself praying that she unclasps it the instant she gets home and never puts it on again.
Is it ridiculous? Absolutely. Can I help my jealousy? Not in the slightest.
The instant the furs settle behind the three foreigners, conversations spark around the longhouse like flames on kindling. But only one draws my focus: Nordin’s with his parents.
“This is our chance to scale to unimaginable heights, Son,” Ulf says.
“The union of two packs is always a blessing,” adds the meddlesome Gothi.
“Dorson’s so enthused that he should marry Nika,” I mutter into Saga’s ear.
My cousin snorts. “He’s the Gothi, Zas. Gothis don’t marry while they hold the post.”
As though he catches his name on our lips, he looks over at us—well, at me.
His lips pucker so tightly that it rucks not only the skin around them but also the bridge of his nose.
Even his forehead pleats, which distorts the five stripes that run from his nose to his hairline—the ones representing the five clans.
Purple for Vales, yellow for Fjords, red for Ravines, blue for Glaciers, and green for Firs.
“With all due respect, Far, the Vales are the strongest of the five packs,” Nordin reminds his father.
“Don’t be daft,” Sigrid replies, her voice as sharp as her features, none of which Nordin and Saga inherited, unlike Bjorn, who’d been her spitting image. “No one is ever strong enough.”
Nordin’s jaw tics, and then one of his lids spasms. He glances my way. Or at least, I think he does. I could be wrong and it’s the entrance of the longhouse that drew his attention.
Perhaps he’s bracing himself for Elka to return and demand that the Gothi ink Nika’s and Nordin’s ears this very night. Though shifter unions are considered more auspicious when they take place during full moons, the Fjord matriarch seemed in a hurry to marry off her daughter.
“Like I told Lady Krosson,” Nordin says, “I’ll think about it.”
And then he pounds past me and flings the fur curtain aside. A moment later, the door bangs shut behind him.
I long to go after him. I would have, had my mother not wound her arm around my waist. I think she holds me to keep me at her side, until I twist around and find my uncle scrutinizing me.
Something deeply unsettling glimmers in his expression.
Something that makes Mor guide me to another corner of the room, out of Ulf’s reach.