Chapter 9
Nine
Njáll
Flames sputtered in the firepit, filling his home with a scent that usually relaxed him. After the harsh toll of the last few weeks, Njáll craved the intimate comfort of his own space. A place where he could just be, with no expectations and no demands of his title.
Except this time, the wrath of the girl sitting on the edge of his furs coiled around her like a serpent, preparing to strike. She watched the flickering light in the hearth, her posture rigid as angry huffs puffed out her cheeks.
Despite the cold indifference swirling around her, it only made her more stunning, illuminating her like a statue carved from ice. Huffing, he dropped his fur cloak to the floor with a thud.
Njáll had taken on hordes of warriors, survived blades to the chest without a wince. Yet, he found himself incapable of crossing the chasm between the door and the girl who entranced him.
He’d fall to his knees if only to have her glare at him.
Perhaps he had to do that to regain her favor.
Whatever spell she cast on him made him long for her forgiveness. He was no more than a hound begging for scraps from its owner’s table. And what a cruel charm it was, making him infatuated with a creature who despised him.
Njáll swallowed his pride, his mouth dry. A deliberate breath strained the fabric of his tunic across his torso. Words itched at the back of his throat. Ones he had only ever spoken to his parents.
“Little flame,” he began, his blood chilling when she still refused to look at him. “Many sorries. For the pain my people have caused you. For the pain I have caused you.”
Finally, she turned, and those bright, jade eyes met his.
They lacked all emotion.
No warmth. No anger.
Only hollow, barren shells he longed to see ignite with her passion.
Fury.
Anything.
The light from the fire cast a warm glow over her features. She looked like a goddess in will and appearance. The apology stripped him down to his marrow, waiting with stuttered breaths for the judgement from his little executioner.
Strands of auburn hair fell over her brow, and he itched to brush them off her face. She blinked, her long lashes fluttering before her pink lips parted.
“I accept your words, but it doesn’t change what has happened.”
Her words settled like rocks in his stomach, the gravelly pieces irritating his throat. The tendons in his hands pulsed as he clenched his fists. Those brilliant eyes watched him, her chin high and her shoulders back.
Words were pretty, fleeting things. They meant little.
Actions were loud.
He’d show her the lengths he’d go to earn her warmth.
Njáll disappeared into a darkened corner of his home, lifting the massive metal basin and placing it beside the fire.
Silently, she watched his movements. The tip of her pink tongue swept along her lower lip, appreciating how the sweat from his labors stuck his sheer tunic to his torso. His chest puffed out while he worked, bathing in her gaze.
Gathering two tin pails, he filled them with water from the river, steaming the buckets over a bed of coals before dumping them into the basin.
By the time the bath was filled with steaming water, sweat covered his body, dripping from his brow. Vapor hissed from the half full basin, and a look of longing bloomed on her tired face.
He placed a small cake of herbal soap and a square of linen by the washtub.
“You are exhausted from our travels. Soak away your troubles.”
“I doubt sinking into a steaming bath will make you disappear,” she hissed.
The tips of his teeth ground into each other, grating as he composed himself enough to keep from biting back. He’d drawn her a bath and admitted fault. What else did she require of him? Why was he doing this at all?
She could be at the longhouse, and he could be in his furs with a willing partner for the night. They’d both be happier for it. A restrained growl rumbled deep in his belly, his nails scraping along his scalp.
The idea of her alone and some faceless woman in his furs displeased him. The gods were punishing him. He must have displeased Freyja. It was the only reason she had sent for her chosen to torture him so.
That was what this little flame was. His tormentor. She held no whip, but her words and ire lashed his skin all the same. If he tried to fight it, the feeling tethering him to the Seiekona tightened, refusing to let him breathe.
“You will leave.”
He blinked, taken aback. “Leave? This is my lodging.”
No bite echoed in his response.
Thick crimson curls spilled over her breasts as she tilted her head. She stood, smoothing her hands over her shift, carrying herself with the confidence and grace of a Dróttning.
Fuck. He was so fucked.
“Did the Konungr demand me to share your furs?”
She stepped close enough for her pebbled nipples brushed against him, making his traitorous cock thicken.
“No,” he rasped.
“Then please leave, Njáll. Last night we shared something. Something which has left me raw and exposed and unnerved. Leave me in peace to bathe and rest without your heavy gaze tracking each breath. I need time alone to reconcile myself.”
“Reconcile to what?”
“I do not know yet. And I cannot figure it out with you here.”
Veins pulsed in his neck as he bristled, his ego in tatters on the ground as she stomped on it.
It was an insult to be banished from his own home.
However, he expected no less from a woman who could one day be a Dróttning.
His Dróttning.
Pride tasted bitter in his mouth as he swallowed it. His teeth ground together, strained words escaping as his nostrils flared.
“Very well. I’ll have food, water, and clothes sent for you. Ask for Astra should you require anything else.”
With one last look at her, she dipped her chin. Njáll stalked outside. The wood groaned behind him with a decisive thump. Lingering remnants of her subtle scent tortured him as he wandered the moonlit perimeter of the village.
He refused to retreat to the longhouse and suffer his parents’ questions.
Instead, he followed a familiar path, leading him to the doorway of Bjorn’s house. The old timber structure sat nestled in a forgotten corner, away from prying eyes.
Lucky for him, his kin had no kona, and based on the quiet stemming from behind the oaken door, he had not taken another to his furs for the evening. Wood boomed under his fist as he knocked, urging the door open.
An overwhelming scent of woodsmoke, fresh meat, and stale ale invaded his senses.
Bjorn sat hunched on a bench by the fire, a bearskin wrapped around his shoulders. The man turned, a too-broad smile engulfing his bearded face. Laughing, he raised his ale in salute.
“Njáll. Jarl. Have you lost your way? What are you doing here among the wretched and the lowly when a pretty thing warms your furs this night?”
Ignoring the barbs, Njáll peeled off his sweat-damp tunic, laying it by the fire to dry.
“The heat in my chamber is too much. I need to sleep. Spare me a fur.”
A dark brow rose, and Bjorn leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. “Too much heat?”
Realization slid across his face all at once. The man released a deep, booming laugh making a scowl bloom on Njáll’s face.
“She sent you away.” Laughter spilled from Bjorn, the sound muffled as he took a swig of ale. “Banished from your own dwelling. Tell me, Jarl, what did you do to earn the little thing’s displeasure?”
To ease the spark of irritation Bjorn knew he was stirring, he handed a horn of ale to Njáll. The smooth horn glided under his fingertips as the sweet tang of the brew slid down his throat.
Part of him wanted to ignore Bjorn’s questions and drink until he passed out. But truthfully, he needed to speak with someone before he lost his mind.
“Her brother was killed in a raid. I believe the one wrongly embarked on when we were still in training. She blames me. Us. For his death. Also, I may have suggested she bewitched me. I don’t blame her, but… I apologized, and yet, she is still unhappy with me.”
Bjorn coughed, smacking his chest as he choked on a swig of ale. “You apologized? Gods above. You are more gone than I thought. Our Jarl, shackled by a tiny creature with flaming hair.”
“Freyja mocks me, Bjorn,” Njáll mumbled, slumped with his ale clutched between his massive hands. “That wicked woman has me under her spell. Some magic I cannot shake. It is the only reason I can explain why I care who she is or what she thinks.”
Snorting, Bjorn’s throat bobbed. The table beside him rattled as he placed his empty cup on the wood, facing Njáll fully.
“Magic,” he mused, scratching his beard. “Is that what you call it when women turn men into fools, Jarl? Our mothers’ would call it love.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Njáll spat.
Love was a fairy tale. One his mother and Astra adored. Even his father believed in it. Njáll never believed in love. He believed in alliances, in companionship, in sex, not love.
Bjorn raised his hands, dipping his chin.
Njáll couldn’t explain it to him. Not when the Konungr had sworn him to secrecy. He could tell no one about the girl’s true nature. About how the Volva foretold her or her ties to Freyja.
How Freyja’s magic cursed him.
Not love. Not some ancient bond crafted by the gods.
Freyja’s magic, wielded through a flame-haired siren who scarcely knew what she did to him.
It made it worse. How she didn’t know the power she commanded.
“There are many kinds of magic, Jarl. Some kinds harden a man’s cock when a beautiful woman looks at him.” Njáll rolled his eyes, but Bjorn continued. “Some turn even the most lethal of warriors into purring kittens.”
Njáll waved him off, grunting. He drained the last of his ale, tugging a fur over his shoulders.
His body ached. He longed for a hot bath, one to soothe his body and clear his mind.
Though it seemed no such relief was in sight for him.
Not until he found a way to be welcomed back into his own dwelling.
If he used the common bathing house, gossip would spread like a bush fire. People would mumble as to why their Jarl did not bathe in the solitude of his own home.
“How do I fix this?” Njáll asked, yanking the leather strip from his braids and letting his hair fall free around his shoulders.
“Did you explain to her what happened?”
“I could not find the words. They felt empty. She’s lost her brother, her mother, and now I’ve taken her from her father. I’m the demon she accuses me of being, I fear no amount of pretty words can heal the wound.”
Something sobered in his kin’s expression. His brows pinched and then his mouth furrowed. After a long pause, a knowing smile curved Bjorn’s lips.
“You want back in your own furs? You want her flame aimed at you in passion, not anger?” Bjorn shrugged, adjusting the bearskin along his back. “Give her time. Tell her the truth. And Jarl, I believe you must grovel.”