Chapter 6
Six
Njáll
Njáll’s cock had been hard for the last two days.
Two days of imagining her beautiful fury being unleashed. Two nights of watching her sleep, entranced by the rhythmic sigh of her breath.
It was a strange vigil, and he didn’t quite know what to make of himself. Njáll, Jarl of the Western Pass, had his entire world narrowed onto the small, still curve of his little flame’s spine under the furs.
Every instinct he possessed dared him closer, to touch her, to ensure the shallow rise and fall of her chest did not cease.
Still, his feet remained rooted, heavy as stone.
Despite the glimmer of something more in her twinkling eyes, he knew she hated him. Hated who he was and what he had done.
The knowledge lodged itself in his ribs, stinging sharper than any blade. No amount of gentleness could ever undo her perception of him.
How could it, when it was the truth?
Maybe she’d grow to appreciate his ferocity just as he desired her fire. They were more alike than she realized.
He itched to ask her more about the familiar—the great shadow lay at her feet, its form as wispy as smoke.
Each time he thought to ask, he stifled the words, not knowing where to begin. Even though she mentioned Heaven and demons, she spoke of Fólkvangr, the realm of Freyja’s chosen.
It could not be coincidental. Freyja’s influence shone from her, illuminating her like a firefly.
A glow drawing him in, if only to burn him with her incandescence.
He hated what she made him as much as she hated who he was.
Whether she knew she did it or not, he was certain her seier—magic—called to him. That she wove some spell or mysticism binding him. It was the only explanation for the odd feelings swarming within him.
Many feared and respected the abilities of the volva. One lived in their village, her winters far too many to count, a seeress capable of twisting fate and bending it to Freyja’s will.
Njáll had never been of that mind, finding seier and their Volva fascinating. He respected her like one would a skilled warrior. Hlif, the Volva, may have appeared frail, but the woman mastered a power he would never fully comprehend.
Yet, this little priestess bewitched him.
Part of him wished she had never appeared that day. Then he’d be unburdened by her intoxicating presence.
It clung to everything—his ribs, his tongue, his soul.
He’d never be rid of her, not now.
In only a few short days, she’d changed his world, changed him. It was unfathomable. And the only explanation for it was magic.
The tips of his fingers twitched, aching to wrap around the leather hilt of his axe, to feel the familiar weight of it in his hands.
If only to feel normal again.
This woman unraveled him.
He wanted to curse her, curse Freyja and the gods for this inconvenience. Only one thing mattered: finding what he needed to protect his people from a brewing war with Hel.
He was a jarl. He was not swayed by perky breasts and sharp tongues.
At least he wasn’t supposed to be.
Yet, here he was, ready to drop to his knees and worship the fiery terror who made his furs smell of wildflowers and honey.
Her beauty, her boldness… it was nothing he’d ever seen. In the face of death, she stood proud, protecting her loved ones with strength and resilience.
Something bloomed in the depths of his tattered soul. Something told him this woman was his.
That she was meant for him. That she would absolve some of the wickedness gnarled around him like old tree roots.
Magic turned him mad with a need to claim this flame as his own. To claim something with her beyond mating. Something like his parents had. A great love, guided by Freyja’s grace.
A kona who would make his burdens a little less.
It was as his father had always told him.
One day he’d find a mate, a partner who would make the duty on his shoulders lighter, and when he found her, he must never let her go.
Granted, he’d said nothing of stealing the girl or how she’d hate him for it and spit at his feet. But nothing in life worth having ever came easily.
Njáll growled, running his fingers through his hair. A snarl hissed through his teeth; his eyes closed as his head fell back.
No, he felt nothing for her. Nothing beyond appreciation for her full breasts and lush curves.
This would not break him. Would not break a jarl. Njáll was stronger than whatever magic his little flame wove against him.
His.
The veins in his hands pulsed; his jaw clenched hard enough to bend steel.
Odin, help me, release me from this pretty tormentor.
She rested for much of the last two days, sleeping away the persistent nausea leeching the pink blush from her cheeks. Even with his mother’s draught, the rolling in her stomach failed to cease fully.
It was a mercy—her exhaustion—for it meant fewer opportunities for those verdant eyes to assess him.
His little flame had the heart of a goddess and the will of a mountain.
Damn her.
He grunted again, frustrated by whatever power she charmed him with.
Thoughts drifted to home as he stared out at the horizon, needing to feel the familiar dirt under his feet.
They would make landfall the next day. The worries plaguing him tightened in his belly, bubbling all the way up his throat. When they returned, he’d arrive victorious to the clan and his Konungr.
A warrior he respected, and a title he one day hoped to hold. How did he explain the girl captivated him, and he wished to stay close to her? To the Konungr, she’d be merely a tool to assist in the defense of their clan.
The thought of her being diminished to something so simple made his mouth turn dry. The tendons in his neck throbbed, his jaw clenched.
Njáll might be a jarl, but the title meant little to their Konungr. Njáll served as his blade, and as such, was expected to submit to his Konungr and the will of the gods. What he desired mattered not.
The safety of the clan depended on it.
Despite that, Njáll had never felt the want for anything more than the blood-haired beauty warming his furs.
Coarse hair prickled his fingertips as Njáll scrubbed a hand over his beard.
Dark clouds rolled in over the open water. Njáll imagined the knowing silver stare of the Konungr, its heavy weight already making his shoulders slump. There would be no hiding his affection for the girl once they arrived.
And yet, he’d risk it all for the girl whose hate he wore like a shroud.
Footsteps lumbered nearby as a humid chill settled around the ship, making a foggy mist cloud their path. Men kept their distance from their jarl after he’d struck Bjorn, fearing what he’d do to them after attacking his own kin.
An eerie stillness rippled over the water’s surface. The cool metal clasp securing his fur to his chest slid under his thumb and forefinger as he worried the engraved wolf.
Erik’s booming voice cut through the slicing breeze, growing with each gust of wind. His warriors anchored themselves to the deck with leather belts, hands clenched around their oars. Njáll walked the perimeter of the ship, checking the braces.
His thumb bounced over the pockmarks in the wood, unmoving as the ship rocked against the waves.
Sheets of rain poured from the sky. It lathed over him, washing away the dust from his sun-pinked skin.
Sighing, his head fell back, braids dripping down his back as water soaked his furs. There was something serene in a storm, the strength of it stilling his racing mind.
He whispered a prayer to Freyja to guide his steps.
A bright bolt of silver cracked across the dark sky, splitting the onyx clouds. Within moments, thunder roared, shuddering the ocean and praising Thor in the same breath.
Soon, the rain grew spiteful, stinging his face with each splash.
His feet moved, his leather boots squelching with each step. Another boom of thunder shook the wooden beams, making Njáll clutch one.
He paused outside the stretched hide hiding his quarters from prying eyes.
Except they weren’t his anymore.
They were hers, and he was merely an unwelcome guest.
The urge to complete his nightly ritual of checking on her tormented him, making his skin prickle. Nothing calmed the unease twisting his stomach until he ensured his little flame continued to burn.
Water dripped from the smooth hide as he pushed it aside.
An unnatural chill made the hairs on his nape stand on end.
It wasn’t the coldness of the storm, but an otherworldly frost making his breath mist. The sudden drop in temperature made his fingers twitch near the hilt of his axe.
Each breath he took seared his lungs.
Then he found her, rocking back and forth in the nest of furs. Her limbs trembled. Short, uneven breaths shook her slim shoulders. Sobs caught in her chest, her eyes swollen and stained with tears.
Until now, the timid sound had been lost in the roar of the storm. The powerful witch who stole every logical thought from him now looked so small and helpless—her mountainous will cracking.
He hated it. Hated whatever had done this to her.
Lightning cracked close enough to illuminate her pale face before a clap of thunder exploded above them.
Njáll flinched at the teeth-rattling sound, but the girl convulsed, her back rounding in a painful way. The heels of her hands covered her ears, her breath hitching in a strangled gasp that was half sob, half scream.
The desolate wail tore his soul in two.
A vibrating growl rumbled beside the furs, a pair of glowing eyes pinning him in place. The panther stood guard over its mistress, its gaze fixed on Njáll, its claws flexing as it prepared to pounce.
Water dripped from his laden furs, ticking ominously on the floorboards.
He didn’t dare move, trying to quiet the thudding of his heart. The creature had never looked at him before as an enemy, but with the state his little flame was in, it triggered something primal in the familiar.
It struggled to discern friend from foe, and Njáll didn’t wish to find out which one it deemed him.
A beat passed. Then another.
Slowly, the tension coiled in the panther receded, its limbs graceful wisps as its posture softened. The growl remained.