Chapter 4
Four
Njáll
Sprays of saltwater hit his face as the oars slapped against the water’s surface, pushing them away from the shore. Moonlight spilled across the sea, casting a silver glow over the water’s surface.
Supple wood flexed beneath his fingers. Njáll ran a hand through his hair, scraping his nails against his scalp and grunting. The warmth of her skin lingered on his, her wildflower and honey scent torturing him.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he willed the visions of her to flee. But they were as stubborn as her—latched on to his soul in a way he’d never be rid of.
He hadn’t intended to leave her alone so quickly. A twisted part of him enjoyed her ire and wanted to watch her spit fire like a drakeling.
However, when those jade eyes twinkled like polished river stones darkened with desire, he fled, refusing to give in to his hardening cock.
Laughter radiated over the mist, his warriors deep into the ale. Normally, he’d find himself with them, celebrating their victories and toasting their spoils in homage to Odin.
Tonight, he couldn’t, lost in beautiful misery.
When they targeted the village, they intended to claim the southern passes and nothing more.
At least that was what his men believed. In truth, they were there to find the one their Volva spoke of to the Konungr. The priestess foretold of a wellspring of power hidden within a quiet English village.
The signs of mounting tension beyond the gods did not go unnoticed. Winters dragged on. Less game wandered their lands. Grime infested their water supplies.
It pointed to the beginnings of Ragnarok, to Hel and Loki testing their armies on the mortals who had forsaken them in favor of Odin and Freyja.
Their Konungr saw the signs, confiding in Njáll, sharing with him their Volva’s vision. One of a young Seiekona with seven blessings from Freyja. One who knew not who she was or what she was capable of. One who would seal the veil from Hel’s onslaught.
With that knowledge, Njáll set out with his best warriors, knowing nothing of who he sought, hoping the little seeress would make herself known to him.
It didn’t take long for her to appear, the vision of her punching the air from his lungs.
A mane of thick crimson hair haloed around her pale face like a blood moon, making her tiny frame look more imposing than it was. His cock stirred at the sight, all his blood rushing southward.
Njáll was no stranger to appreciating beautiful women, and the way her chest heaved with ragged breaths, straining the thin linen of her dress, made his mind go hazy.
Full, pink lips parted. Lush, curvy hips accentuating her slim waist, which he longed to curl his hands over.
Still, he had a job to do, and he was not one to be deterred. Njáll was the jarl his father had trained him to be, and he would not be swayed by a pretty face.
Then, she did something that made him freeze, his knees cracking as his legs locked. She positioned herself between his blade and her father.
Something foreign stirred in his chest, something beyond desire. Something dangerous that made his breath catch.
His parents had told him stories of Freyja. Of her divine intervention in bringing them together. Of how their souls were bound by fate. It was a pretty tale. Yet, only that. A story woven by skalds for children and drunken warriors.
Then he saw her. A mighty mountain refusing to bend. A vision that moved him with the lightest touch.
But what made his heart forget how to beat was the sight of the smoky panther perched at her feet. Its gold eyes glowed as it protected its mistress like the great felines pulling Freyja’s chariot.
Her interaction with the creature made it clear they were not strangers. The panther’s presence seemed to draw a quiet peace from her, even in the face of death.
A death he was to bring. A certainty now warred with him.
Duty demanded blood.
Blood he was no longer confident he could spill.
Not without blaspheming Freyja. He’d honor Odin in one breath and scorn Freyja with the other.
This had to have been the Seiekona their Volva spoke of, and she willingly offered herself to him.
Waves lapped at the hull of the ship, pulling Njáll from his thoughts.
Braids spilled over his bare shoulders as he dipped his head in prayer to Freyja. The massive panther was her blessing. Freyja had given this girl an ancient gift she could scarcely understand.
As he continued to murmur to the goddess, the ocean stayed silent. A long, shuddering sigh rattled in his ribs.
Apparently, he’d be left to figure it out on his own, the gods offering him no answers.
One thing he knew was how breathtaking her bravery was. Even the memory of it made his cock thicken in his trews. The blaze in her eyes and the steadiness of her breath reminded him of the most seasoned warriors.
Something tugged at his navel with it, harkening back to the tales he heard from his mother about her and his father and how Freyja brought them together.
While he adored his mother and listened to her stories, Njáll never considered himself someone who believed in great loves granted by the gods. His parents were fiercely devoted to one another—something his sister Astra made doe eyes at—but Njáll questioned if it was truly Freyja’s guiding hand.
Maybe it was because he had never felt something so encompassing as his mother and Astra described.
He led without fear and fought with conviction. Never had he let pleas or tears sway him. But when his little flame offered him anything to spare her father and village, he couldn’t fight the warmth spiderwebbing through his body.
This girl was to be a Volva, not someone for Njáll to covet. Even if he enjoyed far too much watching beads of sweat trail down the delicate column of her slender throat.
His knuckles whitened as his fingers dug into the ship’s rail, veins pulsing in his hands. It was only beauty he told himself, refusing to acknowledge the heat licking up his spine at the mere memory of her.
The blood in his body tingled, recalling how she dug her dull little claws into him. And how he wanted to feel the drag of her nails across his skin again.
Next time, in pleasure, not anger.
To her face, he called her a prize, a boon bestowed upon him from Freyja.
But he feared it was much more than that.
Copper slid along his tongue as his teeth dug into his lip.
An unbidden growl rose in his throat, his carefully crafted control unraveling thread by thread. When he got home, he’d sink his cock into a slick cunt, and forget all about the girl who drove him mad, infesting his thoughts.
Starlight twinkled along the dark ocean waves. Njáll knocked his head back, sighing at the spray of the sea air on his skin.
His body ached in that delicious way it always did after a good battle. Fresh bruises colored a spot near his ribs, one of them most likely cracked given how a hiss of breath sent a shock straight to the spot.
A pleased groan rolled from him, imagining the steaming bath waiting for him when they arrived. The trip home would not take long—four or five turns of the sun, depending on the weather.
Each moment dragged into the next. Njáll stared out at the endless horizon. His warriors were settled with their ale and oars. There were no duties left to attend to.
Still, he fought against himself and the temptation daring him to return to his furs to find the pretty girl buried in them. His own desire poisoned him, making him doubt everything he had trained to be since he was old enough to hold an axe.
She would be his damnation, promising both utter destruction and exalted grace.
A pain throbbed in his jaw, his teeth grinding until they threatened to turn to dust.
“Too good for your furs, Jarl. No need to flash all those muscles and scars,” a booming voice called. “There are no pretty women to show off for here.”
“Except for the cute one he took from the village,” another familiar voice said.
A possessiveness coiled low in his belly, brimming with unfamiliar emotions.
Their footsteps grew closer. An exasperated breath caught in his throat, already tired of their presence. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Bjorn and Erik, lest they snap the last thread of his patience and he toss them into the sea.
His father’s sister and his sister would hate him for it.
Of everyone in the raiding party, they were the only ones who dared to question him. Others kept their heads down and their eyes averted, fearing and respecting him.
Bjorn was kin, and as such, given far too many liberties. Ones he knowingly pushed. He may have been the son of his father’s sister, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drive a dagger through his palm if he pushed him too far.
Not when his body burned with pain and his mind whirred with unanswered riddles. Bjorn tested Njáll’s tolerance at the best of times. He was lucky Njáll adored Bjorn’s mother and was only slightly terrified of his father; second only to his own.
Erik was well on his way to becoming kin, set to wed his sister at the first frost. He possessed a will of pure stone, a loyal warrior more than worthy of his formidable sister.
A sweaty palm clapped him on the back, Bjorn’s copper braid hanging over the front of his rumpled tunic. Erik stood on his other side, caging him between the two men.
“I wish to be alone,” Njáll hissed.
“And we wish to know why,” Bjorn grinned, a drunken glaze clouding his dark eyes.
“Because my patience is thin, and I do not wish to make your mother weep when I murder her only son.”
“Not that,” Bjorn interjected, not dissuaded by his threat. “The girl. Why?”
Odin, help him; they were not going to leave it. He hadn’t fully expected to find the creature the Volva spoke of. And as such, failed to craft an explanation as to why Njáll brought a foreigner back with them.
Ale made tongues loose, and the Konungr had sworn him to secrecy. No one was to know what they truly sought out in that village.
Not even kin.
“We don’t take thralls,” Erik said, his deep voice a curious rumble.
“She is not a thrall!” Njáll bit back.
A lump bobbed in his throat as Njáll swallowed, surprised by the anger rising in him at the comment.
For as long as Njáll had been alive, the Konungr had banned the act of taking thralls. The idea of anyone believing this girl was a thrall made his skin itch.
“If not a thrall, then why? You have never shown mercy. Who is this girl?” Erik asked.
“She pleases me,” Njáll said, flicking his hand dismissively. “The choice is mine.”
“Is that what you will tell the Konungr when you present our spoils? That she pleased you? Will you present her with the trinkets to be shared among the clan?” Erik continued.
Blood boiled to the surface, stinging his chest. In no life would Freyja’s blessing be offered as a trinket to be given away. If anything, she was the flame, and he was the moth, powerless against her alluring pull.
Frustrated with his silence, Bjorn poked him further.
“Are you that desperate for a wet cunt? Last I remembered, women willingly came to your furs. You didn’t need to steal them,” Bjorn needled.
Before he knew what happened, bone cracked under Njáll’s fist as it connected with Bjorn’s jaw.
A pained yowl pierced the night, and Bjorn stumbled back, the bones clicking when he worked it.
Something sparked in Bjorn’s gaze, the brief anger there dissipating as a smirk tugged at one side of his mouth.
A mask slid into place as Njáll shut down all emotion—drunk Bjorn more perceptive than the sober version.
Quietly, Erik observed them, his eyes shifting under his furrowed brow. Njáll’s throat scratched with a dry swallow. If there were any hint of Erik knowing the truth behind Njáll’s feelings for the girl, Astra would pry it from him in one night once they returned.
Still cradling his bruised face, Bjorn dipped his chin, mirth dancing in his eyes.
“Forgiveness, Jarl. I did not mean any offense to your kona.”
Erik’s eyes widened, darting between the two men. While his kin meant the title in jest—mostly—it brewed a storm behind his sternum.
Kona. His kona.
The title suited his little flame.
Njáll palmed his nape, sweat coating his hand as he rolled his shoulders.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bjorn. She is not anyone’s kona. Go sleep off the ale, and then have the healer see to your face.”
“As you command, Jarl,” Bjorn purred with an exaggerated bow.
“Come on. Let us go before you end up with something broken.” Wood groaned with the waves, the ship rocking softly in the breeze. Erik paused, looking over his shoulder at Njáll. “I hope you know what you are doing, brother,” Erik said, the words quiet as he helped Bjorn to his bedroll.
Unfortunately, for the first time in his life, Njáll had no idea what he was doing.
It terrified him, almost as much as the pale, blood-haired beauty in his bed.
Unable to resist the pull any longer, his feet moved of their own accord until he found himself standing in front of the hide hiding his private quarters away from prying eyes.
His neck cracked as he rolled it. He moved the hide aside, his senses immediately assaulted by wildflowers and honey.
The sight of his empty furs made his stomach tumble. He hadn’t placed a guard, not planning on her attempting to flee. There was nowhere for her to go.
All the tension in his muscles melted away when he finally spotted her, her chest rising and falling with slow breaths. There in the corner on the floor, curled up with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks, his girl slept.
Too stubborn to use his furs.
Something seized within him, disappointed he had caused her tears.
Tendrils of wispy smoke feathered around her feet, her familiar rousing from the candlelit shadows. As Njáll moved closer to the sleeping bundle, the panther stood, stretching out its long limbs, not threatened by his presence.
He wondered if the creature would rebuff his advances toward its mistress, but it did the opposite, moving aside to grant him access to the girl.
Njáll knelt, brushing a swathe of hair off her face, admiring the slope of her nose and the line of freckles speckling her skin like constellations.
“Who are you?”
“What are you to me?” went unsaid.
Aware of the shadowy eyes following him, Njáll carefully slid an arm under her knees and back, lifting her tiny frame as he rose. A mumbled sound of protest whimpered from her as she unknowingly curled into his embrace.
Something between a growl and a purr rasped in his chest at her touch.
If she’d been fully awake, she’d have shoved him away. He’d enjoy this moment while he could, drinking in her beauty. She grumbled more as he lowered her into his furs, her familiar returning to its post by her feet.
His callused palm caressed her face, her skin soft as he cupped her cheek.
“Shh, little flame. You’re safe. Both me and your familiar are here, warding off whatever plagues you.”
Njáll cared for little in this world beyond his family. Yet, this foreign girl with foreign powers had a claim over him.
One that would surely ruin him.
And he wanted it.
Wanted to be ruined by her.