Chapter 7 #3
His thumbs rubbed slow, soothing circles over her ribs, the kindness of the gesture more infuriating than comforting. Nothing was real about Njáll or what he did. He tried to calm her as one would a skittish mare.
“Under your protection, as what? Your pet? Your prize? Your totem?”
Labored breaths shook her chest; her gaze locked on his.
“No.”
“Then as what?” she snapped, slapping her palms into his frustratingly muscled chest and hissing at the sting radiating across her skin.
“As mine,” he snarled.
“I belong only to me,” she growled back, glowering at him. “I’m not your anything, Jarl.”
Something in her voice spurred him on, the hand on her hip drifting to her chin. His thumb and forefinger held her in place, the grip claiming, but not painful. Dark, glittering desire flooded his eyes, turning the grey one molten silver and the other a lush, mossy dew.
“Are you certain?” he whispered, a dangerous caress traveling over the column of her throat. “Because the seier you control me with says many things. It demands I worship you like a goddess, little flame.”
She snorted. As if she had any power over him.
“You cannot call me a creature one moment and a goddess the next. You are maddening and speak in riddles.”
His tongue dug into the points of his teeth with a smile. When he started to speak, a banging sound thumped on the tanned hide, ripping through the fragile tension in the room.
“Jarl,” a lilting, accented voice boomed. “The inlet is in sight. We need your command.”
All at once, Njáll faded into the bloodied leader she’d seen the day he brought her here. His posture turned rigid. His focus shifted away from her, staring unseeingly over her shoulder.
Only a moment ago, his eyes shone with an intimate glow. It unnerved her.
Now, they were hard, as unfeeling as slate.
She used the renewed distance to catch her breath, clutching her throat. Linen bounced under her fingertips as she smoothed out her shift, trying to distract herself.
“Coming,” Njáll said, the sound resolute as he clasped his fur cloak over one shoulder.
As he made to leave, he paused with a hand still clutched around the hide.
“Stay here. I will return before we make landfall.”
“I hate you,” she hissed.
“I know, little flame.”
A slow breath strained his chest under his tunic. Braids slid over his shoulders as he moved, his broad back disappearing. The hide slapped against the wood, and Elara wasted no time in following him out onto the deck.
Goddesses didn’t take orders. Only pets did.
Until he decided which she was, she’d do as she wished.
Stepping outside, a strong breeze stung her face, carrying with it the scent of pine and salt.
Sea spray splashed her cheeks, cooling her overheated skin.
The ship hummed with activity. Men shouted from their positions at the oars while others moved about the deck, securing barrels and provisions with swathes of rope.
Njáll stood near the front, a hand resting on the hilt of his axe. A hulking, red-bearded warrior hugged Njáll’s right side, nodding as he spoke.
As Elara moved into the open, a shadow detached itself from the bustle, approaching her.
A warrior with one long, almost black braid moved with an easy, rolling gait. His lips quirked as he slowly came to rest beside her.
“Hello. I’m Bjorn. Son of Amund.”
The immediate shock of him knowing her language receded quickly. His eyes roamed over her, not hungry, but inquisitive. She snapped in his direction, her fury from her fight with Njáll still simmering beneath the surface.
“My name is not yours to know, and I am the daughter of someone you have never met.”
Dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth as he chuckled. Bjorn scrubbed a hand over his nape, color blooming in his tanned cheeks.
“I can see why our Jarl is fascinated by you. You have a sharp tongue and cutting beauty.”
She didn’t miss the appreciation in his tone with his remarks.
Despite that, he stayed a respectable distance away.
While he stayed focused on the inlet, his gaze drifted to her and Bjorn, his muscles bunching under his tunic.
It was nice to talk to someone who didn’t make her so confused.
“What do you know of beauty and sharp tongues, Bjorn, son of Amund?”
A wide smile split across his face, pushing his cheeks toward his eyes. She worried she might have misread this warrior, and her comment would bring unwanted advances. He drew the pad of his thumb across his lower lip.
“They claim even the strongest of men.”
She blinked, her lashes fluttering.
When she looked up, her gaze locked with Njáll’s. A possessive glint darkened in his eyes, but it wasn’t aimed at her. No, all his ire was trained on Bjorn, the threat in his unspoken look undeniable.
Still grinning like a madman, Bjorn clapped her on the shoulder, like a brother would greet his little sister.
“What did you do to anger him?” she asked.
“Reminded him of a weakness.”
“And what is that?”
“You.”
Elara’s breath hitched in the salty sea air. When her gaze returned to Njáll, he radiated a cold fury.
Then she realized the truth: she wasn’t a pet nor a goddess.
Instead, she was a pretty curse threatening his existence as Jarl.
They were destined to be each other’s undoing.