Chapter 8
Eight
Njáll
White-foamed waves crashed into the underside of the ship as it pushed through the final dredges of its journey, the shore now in sight.
Laughter and shouts grew among the warriors, all of them eager to return to their furs and their konas.
For him, however, their approach didn’t bring the same excitement. It brought a crushing realization of what awaited him when they arrived. Uncertainty lodged itself between his ribs, stabbing him with each weary sigh.
Age had not dulled the Konungr’s wolfish instincts. The moment they arrived, his keen gaze would land on the girl, and it wouldn’t take long for him to discern she was more than a mere trophy to Njáll.
A foreign witch, one their own Volva had foretold.
How did he explain to the Konungr that this Seiekona had bewitched him? How Njáll enjoyed being susceptible to her wiles entirely too much. It spurred a passion within him he had never felt before unless there was a blade in his hand.
Njáll rolled his shoulders, his body stiff after sleeping at an awkward angle all night.
Granted, he’d suffer a thousand aching muscles if it meant he got to hold his little flame while she slept in his arms each night.
A snarl rose in his throat. He could feel the glare of her eyes on him.
What bothered him more was the arrogant smirk of his kin beside her.
Apparently, there was no love lost between them. Bjorn was still intent on needling him by making his little flame’s lashes flutter prettily.
The scarlet mane of her hair flashed in his periphery, and his nerves flared, attuned to her presence. A caged beast raged within him, demanding he tuck her protectively into his side and claim her for the whole clan to see.
Straight-backed and graceful, she stood at the prow, looking like a queen. The breeze blew her lush hair behind her like a goddess riding into battle.
What he wouldn’t give to be speared by her blade.
If he were to be under her spell, he would enjoy it.
Her seier may have called to him, but the rest of her remained indifferent. All the crumbled walls from the night before came back stronger.
And it was his fault.
At least she believed it was his fault.
And he didn’t know how to get her to believe otherwise.
An uneasy emotion squeezed his chest until it ached at the memory of the pain on her face. When she spoke of her brother, barely grown, falling in battle as he tried to defend his sister and family from an onslaught.
One he knew of.
One led by rogue clansmen.
Njáll had been well into his training when it happened, still considered a boy by his mother, yet a warrior by his father. A group of warriors thirsted for blood, denied the Konungr, stole ships and attacked an English village across the sea.
The unauthorized raid cost his little flame her brother.
No clan had ever traveled to her shoreline before then.
Until now.
He longed to reassure her, but when her ire turned to him, blaming him for the terrible things his clansmen did… The last of his control snapped, reminding him of the vile creatures who tormented his sister.
Why should he not blame her for their actions if she planned to do the same to him?
He hated himself the moment the words left his lips. The terror twisting in her eyes made his gut churn.
Everything spiraled out of his tightly leashed control when she asked him why he had spared her.
It should have been easy to tell some foreign girl his clan needed her. How her abilities had been foretold, and he had come to collect her.
Unfortunately, it had not been easy. This girl’s magic slithered into every vein and pore, making him feel things he never expected.
Njáll begged Freyja to tell him he was wrong, how the girl was not his.
She didn’t.
Freyja remained silent.
He cursed the goddess for binding him to such a brave, beautiful thing. He’d never be the same again.
A girl who only came up to his chin, yet with a will strong enough to tower over him.
Now, he had only himself to blame for the distance between them.
After last night, she was too exposed; he didn’t wish to burden her further.
This girl was his destiny and his destruction.
He could pretend all he wanted that it was nothing more than insidious magic drawing him to her. But the light illuminating the dark parts of his soul spoke otherwise.
Tortured souls bound by Hel and Loki sought her out. Freyja did not merely favor her.
She was chosen.
Like his father. Odin granted him the form of a mighty wolf to battle Fenrir at Ragnarok.
It was a blessing and a burden.
One this girl could scarcely understand.
She might not wield a blade, but she was as powerful as any warrior, bathed in Freyja’s grace. Whether she liked it or not, she had a part to play in whatever war brewed in the shadows.
And Freyja had seen fit to bring them together. Njáll might not have believed in love divined by the gods. But he did recognize some destinies were inevitable. It was more than magic or beauty or bravery.
Freyja brought them together.
Eventually, she’d understand, but for now, her anger glowed bright enough to incinerate him.
The tips of his fingers throbbed as he dug them into the railing.
The ship grated against the stone of a small jetty. The men cheered, a roaring din carrying across the sea.
Now was not the time for him to wallow in his burdens.
Njáll moved, slipping into the familiar mask of a jarl. He ordered his warriors, directing them to unload the substantial caches of silver, gold, and jewels they had collected.
Still, his gaze drifted to her—to her dangerous, alluring form.
Sunlight shimmered in her wild curls, highlighting the empty glaze in her eyes. Leather boots thudded against the deck until he reached her side, desperate to feel her soft skin under his fingertips as he brushed her hair over her shoulder.
“We’re home, little flame,” he said, the name a cautious plea for forgiveness.
“Home,” she murmured, her voice hollow. “Your home. My cage.”
The words sat like a stone in his belly. With a tight grimace, he palmed the small of her back, unable to ignore how touching her made his fingers tingle. Giving into the magic chaining him to her might have made him weak, but for some reason, he cared little.
“You will stay by my side. Do not speak. Trust me to handle this.”
She snorted, and his fingers flexed on her hip.
Passion, fury, and strength all brimmed in her resolute gaze.
His cock thickened in his trews.
Pebbled sand crunched beneath the attaché of warriors. His girl followed silently beside him, her eyes widening a little more with each step they took.
Soon, they reached the outskirts of the village, the timber homes quiet.
The clan awaited their arrival at the longhouse. The girl beside him now seemed so small, her slender frame trembling, despite how she tried to stop it.
“Do not worry,” Njáll whispered, his voice barely heard over the rancorous greetings filling the hall. “The Konungr is intimidating, but noble. You will not be harmed.”
Tension seeped from her skin, her shoulders dropping from their pinched position by her ears. “Thank you,” she murmured, the barest hint of affection coloring her tone.
It was a small victory, but one he’d carry with him through the coming days.
Usually, the packed longhouse was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat. Today, however, it hummed with palpable energy.
Children eager to see their fathers, women eager to see their lovers, and parents eager to see their sons.
Dense crowds of people lined the ceremonial hall, their faces alight with joy. At the head of the great oak table stood the Konungr, flanked by the Dróttning—his wife.
A familiar feeling knotted in his chest.
One of reverence and respect.
The Konungr was a fierce warrior. The kind the skalds wove tales about. Silver streaked his greying hair like lightning. His grey eyes glowed like moonlight, seeing what others didn’t. He wore no crown, only the authority of the victories marring his skin.
Beside him stood the Dróttning, a woman of elegance. Waves of chestnut curls, interwoven with strands of silver cascaded down her back, framing her freckled face. Laugh lines creased around the edges of her eyes and mouth, showing a life well-lived.
Her mossy gaze landed on the girl next to Njáll, gentle amusement lighting up her features.
As they reached the dais, his little flame stiffened. His fingers feathered to her waist, squeezing gently before his hand fell. The motion did not go unnoticed by the Konungr.
He knew it wouldn’t. His king saw everything.
“Konungr,” Njáll said, dropping to one knee with a hand over his heart. “The raid on the southern territories brought great success. We secured three villages, a full complement of iron ore and other wares, as well as securing the much needed southern pass.”
Rough parchment slid along his fingers as he fished the manifest out of his pouch and presented it. The Konungr scanned the document, listening impassively as Njáll recounted their victories.
Once he had finished, a hush fell over all assembled.
“Well done. Rise, Jarl.”
The command did nothing to loosen the tightness in his limbs. It only strengthened its hold, knowing what was to come.
As Njáll rose, the Konungr’s gaze shifted. They were no longer resting on the spoils of their conquests, but fixed with an unnerving intensity upon the girl doing what she could to remain stoic beside him.
Even as the tang of her fear thickened in the air, she lifted her chin, and his cock stirred at her bravery.
The oversized linen shift dusted with dirt emphasized her slight frame. She was a single spark of delicate fire amidst a landscape of stone. His heart thudded, thankful she could not understand the Norse tongue.
“And this,” the Konungr said, his tone dropping to a threatening rumble commanding absolute silence in the hall.
His gnarled, scarred hand gestured to her, and his strong girl didn’t recoil.
“This is not amber nor gold.” The Konungr’s voice dropped low enough for only him to hear. “Is she a thrall?”