Chapter 5
Five
Elara
Loud voices pierced her dreamless sleep. Elara groaned, burrowing further into the darkness of her bed. Thick furs slid under her fingertips, the threads silky soft. The faint scent of cedar reminded her of a smoldering fire, making her wiggle in her makeshift nest.
Waves crashed against wood, and her body straightened as she shot upright. Her eyes widened, blood rushing in her ears. Fingers clutched the nearest fur, holding it against her chest as the memory of yesterday returned.
Elara had forgotten where she was. For a moment, she believed she was in her bed. Except this wasn’t home, and it hadn’t all been a nightmare. The last thing she remembered was the cold ache consuming her as she cried, huddled on the hard floor.
Someone had moved her.
She scanned the room for signs of the Dane, finding the black fur he had discarded last night gone. A skin of water sat beside a bowl with a cloth on the box at the foot of the furs.
The dry rasp in her throat itched. She crawled across the bed, clutching the skin like a small child. Cool water slid down her throat, and a tiny moan hummed past her lips. She drank it greedily, the dull throb in her head starting to fade.
More water sloshed in the bowl with the cloth. Elara dipped the fabric in, letting the excess drip off. Standing up, she clutched her temple with her free hand, too aware of the rocking motion beneath her.
Lashes fluttered shut as she sucked in a sharp breath, willing the bile in her mouth to disappear.
Slowly, she dragged the cloth over her face, wiping away the grime from yesterday.
Dust billowed off her dress. Her dirty clothes would have to wait until they arrived wherever they were going. Despite being surrounded by water, Elara wouldn’t dare to remove her clothes on a ship filled with raiders.
The Dane may have made promises about not harming her since it would offend one of his gods, but the others made no such vows.
The ship lurched, taking her stomach with it.
Blood receded from her fingertips until a sickening chill spread through her limbs. Nausea curdled low in her belly, and she swallowed away the urge to vomit.
She sucked in a slow breath, closing her eyes, willing the tumbling feeling in her stomach to go away. The tip of her tongue trailed over her teeth as she remembered something her father once told her helped with nausea.
Three fingers lay across her wrist, and she pressed down as hard as she could on a pressure point there, the tight bunch of her muscle unfurling.
Nails scraped over the cracked skin on her lower lip, picking at it, wondering what her father was doing.
“Papa,” she whispered.
In the aftermath of the attack on their home, he’d likely taken up the responsibility to see to the recovery. If only to distract himself. After her mother passed, he’d spent weeks working from sunup to sundown tending to the fields, barely leaving time to sleep and eat.
The pained grimace in his gaze when she told him she had to leave with the Dane would haunt her for an eternity. While he’d assured her he’d find her, she didn’t dare to hope. Like her, he had never been on a ship, and even if he had, he had no idea where they had taken her.
So he likely did the only thing he could to handle his grief at losing his last surviving child—work. Hopefully, Brynne survived and would look after him.
Her stomach rolled again, more worry this time.
As she swayed with the rocking ship, she ran her fingers through her curls, working snarls free until it billowed down her spine, skimming the small of her back.
With no leather ties to secure it in a braid, the heavy mane blew free.
Maybe fresh air would help ease her stomach.
Awkwardly, she wobbled to the hide like a newborn calf, pushing it aside. Bright sunlight spilled in, warming her cold cheeks. Men moved across the deck, carrying barrels and paying her no mind.
She loathed how the first thing she did was look for the handsome man who had brought her here.
When she didn’t see him, ash coated her tongue.
Heat throbbed between her thighs. The thin line between hate and desire flared in her apex.
She had never been controlled by something as frivolous as attractive men. Granted, no one back home looked like him. Cords of thick muscle curled around his massive arms, slabs of granite defining his toned stomach.
Scars bisected his torso, marking his skin. He was as dangerous as he was gorgeous.
“Stop it,” she hissed under her breath.
He and his people brought only death and destruction.
Wood planks creaked under her steps as she made her way to the railing, waiting for someone to press a blade to her throat and shove her back into her makeshift cell.
Except it never came.
Curious gazes followed her, but no one moved.
Sunlight gleamed off the surface of the crystalline water. Foam glittered like precious stones atop the surface, making a tight smile push against her cheeks.
Cedar and salt air filled her lungs, the aroma unfamiliar but not unwelcome. It was pretty. She would have appreciated it much more if the colors hadn’t started to blur as her vision clouded.
The world spun as her feet stayed rooted to the spot. Knuckles whitened on the splintered wood as she leaned over the edge, her stomach emptying its meager contents into the ocean below.
Acid swam in her belly, the bitter taste lingering on her tongue as a pitiful sob puffed past her cheeks.
Tremors shook her hands while the rail dug into her abdomen. Cold sweat clung to nape, beading over her collarbone.
After a series of painful heaves, a woodsy warmth crawled up her spine, soothing some of the trembling.
Knuckles feathered over her shoulder as a hand pushed her sweaty hair to one side. A traitorous ache grew at the base of her spine at the tender touch.
Whispers tickled the tiny hairs on her neck, the scent of the Dane undeniable this close.
Part of her wished to lean into his touch, to relax for the first time in a year.
As if sensing her softening resolve, a large palm spread over her waist, low enough to avoid being indecent, but high enough to make her villainous nipples pebble.
No. No. No.
“It is not easy. Most struggle. My first time at sea, I could barely stand. I have something to help. Then food.”
The silken lull of his voice was too soft this close. Too warm. Too gentle. It threatened to melt the last of her resolve. She refused. Refused to let something as primal as taut muscles and a sharp jawline weaken her.
Gathering her strength, she spun to face him, slapping his hand away.
Light twinkled on the gold cuffs curled around his biceps. Since the last time she saw him, he had cleaned the blood and dirt away from his chest, revealing more lines of muscle embellished with scars under the fur draped across his shoulder.
Damn him.
A warrior with a long braid leaned against a barrel, watching them with barely restrained amusement flitting in his eyes.
While he might have been the most brazen, Elara was keenly aware of others watching them—listening.
Now more than ever, she couldn’t be seen as weak.
“Don’t touch me. Why do you care if I’m sick or not?”
She fought against the cramps stinging near her navel. The tip of his tongue ran over the points of his teeth as he tilted his head to the side. He scratched at the week-old scruff running down his neck, taking his time before he spoke.
“I am not a monster,” he said, his accent thicker than before.
Somehow, she doubted that.
He killed without mercy. Took without remorse.
“If lying helps you sleep at night, so be it. You slaughtered innocent people in my village. You killed my brother!”
He hadn’t killed him, but she needed to blame someone.
A growl rumbled low in his chest, his narrowed gaze a challenge, one she planned to meet. Dark black rings pulsed around the edges of his eyes. A viscous feeling coated her tongue, and she tried to ignore it.
Maybe she should throw up on him next time.
He said he wasn’t a monster.
Monsters were mindless, trapped by their instincts, devoid of choice.
Maybe he wasn’t a monster.
He was an intelligent leader, if ruthless. No. He was something far worse than a monster. Something sinful luring her into temptation. Something bound to be her ruin.
“A demon then.”
The lines around his eyes crinkled, and she couldn’t tell if it was mirth or frustration causing it. Boards creaked under his leather boots as he closed the little space between them, crowding her.
“What is a demon?” he asked.
You.
An unfortunately attractive one.
“Evil spirits that do the Devil’s bidding.” His eyes narrowed, and she continued. “The Devil oversees Hell. A torturous afterlife.”
Her words hung in the air, the din of movement in the background fading. Moments dragged on, his face contorted into something unreadable. One side of his mouth lifted, followed by the other, a predatory smile exposing his canines.
He spread his arms wide, palms facing up as he bowed his head to murmur in her ear like a lover’s promise.
Or a devil’s whisper.
“Let me be your demon. Blood will stain my hands so yours never have to. Let me sin for you, little flame.”
Air froze in her lungs, hardening like ice crystals until it hurt to breathe. The terrifying weight of his offer left her mind moving too fast for her to keep up.
Beneath the hate—the fear she tried to hide—heat coiled, deliciously licking up her spine.
She didn’t know how long she’d be able to fight the pull of this Dane, but she’d fight against it as long as she could.
Her eyes thinned into slits, her chin raised as she glared up at his haunting, discolored gaze.
“You’re not my anything. Demon or otherwise.”
The declaration lost some of its potency as she retched again, bile staining the wood between them with nothing left in her stomach to give. A troubled sound rattled in his throat. He rested a hand in the middle of her back, gently steering her away from the mess.
“Here. It is a tonic. My mother makes them. She is a healer in our clan.”