Chapter 45 #2
I spin around and almost cry like the still unsettled newborn when I spot my mother stalking inside. I vacate the chair, then ask what she needs help with.
For the first time, I pay attention to everything—from her tools to the way she handles them. I watch her inspect the placenta under the light to ensure it’s whole before beginning to stitch Thyra up.
My friend is so entranced by the bundle in her arms that she doesn’t flinch as the needle sails in and out of her flesh.
“Do you need more willow bark?” I ask her.
“Hmm. What?” She glances away from the tiny white creature curled up on her breast, smiles at me, then goes back to gazing at him without replying.
I take it she mustn’t be in pain.
“I’m so proud of you, darling,” Mor murmurs once the twine has been wrapped and the cord cut and the placenta tucked away in the small pit outside Thyra and Rainn’s home that their neighbors excavated right after Rainn raced outside to howl his son’s birth into the pack link.
From where I stand, I see them tossing the dirt over the temporary organ, burying it to root the newborn’s life to the land, as is customary.
“Thyra did all the work,” I say, drying my clean hands on a fresh towel.
Thyra interrupts her cooing to chirp, “Nonsense. I couldn’t have done it without you, Zaskja.”
My throat tightens, then stays tight at the sight of her inspecting her son’s fingers. Perfect little fingers.
A wave of sudden sorrow dashes against me—not because my fingers are so much less than perfect, but because I’m not Nordin’s true mate, which means I’ll never be able to have a babe of my own.
I knead the skin over my sore heart. “Do you have a name for him?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too thick.
“We originally considered naming him Nordin in honor of our new Alpha.” Thyra looks toward her mate, who’s recounting the story of his son’s birth to his friends. “But we’ve decided to call him Zaskjir in honor of the woman who brought him into this world.”
My lashes beat double time, evicting the budding heat. I wipe at them.
“I know it doesn’t usually exist in masculine form, but it sounds pretty, doesn’t it? Zaskjir.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mor says as she rinses her tools, which she’ll boil when we get home.
I’m so touched that I struggle to squeeze out a reply.
A knock comes, pulling our attention from the suckling infant.
Nordin stands there, eyes raking over the lot of us. “May I come in and meet my newest wolf?”
“Why, of course!” Thyra’s voice is so loud it startles the infant, whose mouth pops off his food source and widens around a very annoyed cry.
One that makes Mor chuckle.
Rainn enters behind his Alpha.
As Nordin circles me, his body brushes mine, tilling my skin with goose bumps.
His heat lingers even after he’s stridden deeper into the home.
When he reaches the table upon which Thyra still lies, he leans over, presses three fingers to her newborn’s smooth brow, then carries them up to his lips before touching them to the beam carved with Fenrir’s face.
After sending up his silent thanks, he splits the pad of his index finger on a claw. “Welcome to my pack, little Zaskjir.” He sketches a line of blood along the infant’s spine in anticipation of the stripe that will appear at puberty. “By fang and vow, may I be worthy of your trust and respect.”
Thyra beams, her smile so wide it props up her sweat-glossed cheeks. Her mate’s lips are soft, and his stare burnished with pride and happiness.
Their son blinks many times at Nordin, his tiny mouth round with awe—or fear; it’s hard to tell. His delicate nostrils flutter. He must catch a whiff of his mother’s milk because he snaps his face away from Nordin and latches back on, which makes Thyra titter.
“I’m no match for a growling belly,” Nordin says with a long-suffering sigh, which earns him some more chortling from both new parents.
As he makes his way back to me, he says, “Jewels, weapons, childbirth… What can’t you do, Miss Stormsson?”
I roll my eyes and smile as he slips behind me. When his arms come around my waist, and his chin perches on the top of my head, my smile wobbles before vanishing. Just like Thyra’s, Rainn’s, and Brynid’s.
I can read the question scrolling through my friend’s rounded gaze. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Nordin and I aren’t blood cousins.”
Mor looks up, studies the possessive knot of her nephew’s arms, then my expression. She must read my distress because she sighs. “About time you two went public. I’ve been fielding questions about your eligibility nonstop, Zaskjalill.”
My head rears back at that. “Mine?”
“Who the bloody Hel asked if Zas was single?” Nordin’s arms have tightened, and his pulse has picked up such speed it tickles my vertebrae.
An amused smile tips my mother’s lips. “Like I would tell you and endanger the lives of sweet boys…”
Nordin harrumphs.
“Well, at least that explains your lack of enthusiasm at matchmaking him the other night,” Thyra muses, leisurely running her fingers through Zaskjir’s white tuft. Will she rename him now?
I hunt her face for the emotion that contorted many back home but find only generous acceptance.
The roar in my ears calms, but only truly quiets that night when the rest of the pack learns of my relationship to Nordin during the feast organized in honor of Zaskjir’s birth.
I’m stunned speechless by the amount of kind words and happiness heaped over us.
Sure, not everyone congratulates us or looks enchanted, but enough do to steady my insecurities.
“Reassured, my darling?” Mor asks as supper winds down.
I rest my cheek on her shoulder. “You can’t imagine how nervous I’ve been for the last two days.”
She kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to talk about it, and that I didn’t arrive in time for Thyra. I still can’t believe you helped a child come into the world. I’m so proud of you.”
I swallow the knot of emotion in my throat. “It was surprisingly…fun. Not that it’s my calling, but I’m glad you taught me so much. How was the birth back home?”
“More complicated than expected because the baby was breech, and the umbilical cord wrapped around her throat. But mother and daughter are doing just fine now.”
“It’s crazy that even though most pups are born with full heads of hair, they risk dying until their true hair pierces through.”
Mor swallows.
I pull back and scrunch my nose, realizing I must’ve reminded her of the two pups she claims to have failed—the ones said to be too special to Fenrir to be left in Midgard. Or so Ulf had decreed. Saga never bought it, but I did. Still do. Mainly because it helps me make sense of the nonsensical.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to darken the moment.”
She sighs. “You didn’t. You merely reminded us all how precious life is.”
She gives my temple another peck, then reaches for the mead and sloshes so much into her cup that I cock an eyebrow.
“I need it.” I tilt my head and am about to ask if it’s because she saw her brother and had words with him, when she says, “Let’s talk about sex, shall we?”
“Um.” I flush so brightly that I now match the color of my burgundy dress. “Um, do we have to?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because there are things you should know.”
I study the chunks of fat I sliced off the roast and heaped on a corner of my plate. “I know lots, thanks to Saga.”
And even more since two nights ago. I leave that last bit out.
Mor takes a deep swallow of her fermented beverage, then sets her cup down. “I’m sure Nordin’s sister was very thorough in your sexual education, but there are still some things we need to discuss.”
I frown now. “Like consent?”
“That’s always important, but I’m not worried about this since I know my nephew well, and I know he’ll never treat you with anything but the utmost respect.
” She takes a deep breath as though whatever she’s about to say requires as much oxygen as alcohol.
“You’ll need to take a tonic at the end of all your cycles if you want to keep your womb empty. ”
The slant of my eyebrows deepens. “I’m not his true mate, Mor.”
She nods. “I’m aware, but you’re also not”—she lowers her already quiet voice—“like anyone else, so we don’t know for certain what could happen.”
I blink at her, then blink at Nordin, who’s chatting with Vanoo, Rainn, and two other males. How incredible would it be if I could give my wolf children someday? Would they be shifters, valkyries…mixed?
Nordin must sense my stare, for he turns his head and hitches up a curious brow. The last strands of my anxiousness tear, and my heart lifts, becoming as light as a dust mote.
May Mor be onto something. May magic reign in my womb like it still reigns in my blood. Which it must, considering Taeric remains—
“Taeric Skarnir is dead!” screeches a voice I know as well as my own.
I whirl in my seat to find Saga standing in the double-wide doorway of the longhouse, cheeks glowing like the dragon-fire torches licking up the wooden pillars.
The instant her glimmering stare locks on me, she releases a sigh that trembles through the stillness like a sob.
Although she repeats that the Vampyr King is dead, what I hear is not only “You’re free,” but also “You’re magicless.”