Chapter 13
Thirteen
Njáll
An unholy fire roared in his gut, threatening to set his entire body aflame with its fury.
Freyja’s magic swam in his belly, feeding the inferno there.
Wood cracked under his nails as he dug them into the table. The Konungr’s eyes bore into him, the intensity reminding Njáll to calm himself. But it was too late. He was past rational thought, past being calm.
All night he’d watched her, reveling in the bright smiles she shared with Astrid.
That grin beamed brighter than a full moon reflecting on still water.
Even her laugh lit up the empty spot in his chest where his heart supposedly resided. That laugh was melodic, carrying over all the din and spearing him straight in the sternum.
He should be the one making her laugh like that, not Bjorn. Not anyone else.
Him.
Then, that happiness faded, and Njáll swore he saw the light in her eyes dim. He’d been about to run to her side, certain the draugar had stolen the beauty from her gaze.
And then, as fast as it came, it left, and she joined Bjorn in dancing.
His kin’s hand rested on her waist, a smugness lingering in Bjorn’s eyes as he spun Njáll’s little flame, her skirts flaring around her. The tinkling laughter that followed each twirl went straight to his cock.
Almost in slow motion, Bjorn’s hand moved lower, brushing over the curve of her waist. A deliberate, brazen challenge as Bjorn tugged her into his front.
Njáll’s vision tunneled, the edges blurring.
The feast dissolved into a suffocating hum until all that remained was the sight of Bjorn’s taunting glare hovering above a crimson crown of curls.
Wood scratched along wood as he rose, knocking his chair over and slamming his fists into the table.
“Njáll,” his father growled, his wolf roaring to the forefront. “Compose yourself.”
While the music continued, many froze at the sound, their expressions wide as they watched their Jarl unravel. He understood the Konungr’s reprimand, understood the expectations of him, of a jarl.
And still, none of that mattered. Not when another dared to touch what belonged to him. Kin or not. Njáll longed to cleave flesh from bone.
“úlfr,” his mother purred, scratching her nails across his father’s scalp. “Think of me. How would you have reacted in this situation?”
Something between a grunt and a snort escaped the Konungr, the tight lines around his eyes relaxing.
“A man who touched what is mine would be short a hand,” his father murmured, nuzzling into his mother’s curls and kissing her temple.
Taking that as permission, Njáll thundered across the hall, unbothered by the hundreds of eyes following his shattering steps. The musicians ceased and voices hushed. In all his seasons, Njáll had never heard such a deafening quiet echoing in the packed longhouse.
Before he realized it, Njáll towered over Bjorn, his exposed chest heaving and his jaw clamped so hard his teeth might turn to dust. Something lethal blazed in his gaze, turning his silver eye as sheer as a frozen pond, the other glinting like moss on granite.
“Take your hand off her, before I remove it for you,” Njáll demanded, the Norse words flowing like molten iron.
Fine furs brushed across his rough hand as he clamped it over Bjorn’s shoulder. Glaring at his kin, Njáll tightened his hold, the pressure a silent threat. The mirth drained from Bjorn’s eyes, leaving a chilling shell in its wake.
With a strangled grunt, Bjorn snatched his hand back as if he had been burned.
Aware of the eyes on them, Njáll restrained himself, dismissing Bjorn with an irritated flick of his fingers.
Bjorn stumbled backward, rubbing his shoulder. Logs crackled in the fire, the sound of sputtering sparks amplifying the stilted silence in the longhouse.
Slowly, Njáll focused on his girl. The vision was utterly breathtaking. She stood, haloed by the fiery riot of curls and braids framing her pinked cheeks. Pebbled nipples strained the luxurious wool of her dress as her chest rose and fell in quickened breaths.
The tip of her pretty pink tongue swept across her lower lip; her thighs pressed together. Wide, luminous eyes twinkled in the glow of the oil lamps, holding a mixture of awe, desire, and defiance.
A rush of blood moved south, straining his cock against his trews. The clan watched them, Njáll’s features impassive as he encircled an arm around her narrow waist, pulling her into the iron vise of his body with a possessive growl.
“Njáll,” she whisper-hissed, and his trews grew painfully tight at her ire.
Ignoring her weak protests, Njáll ghosted his knuckles over the hinge of her jaw.
Gooseflesh bloomed on the thin skin near her exposed clavicle. He took his time, trailing his hand along the delicate slopes of her form before settling on the small of her back and steering her toward the dais.
Only when the Konungr spoke had the clan been so quiet.
Njáll lifted his chair, pouring his muscled frame into it. The corner of his mouth lifted when he effortlessly lifted her, swinging her onto his lap. She squeaked the most delightful noise.
Something akin to a purr rumbled up his throat as he held her hand in place, pleased with how perfectly her tiny, warm body nestled into his.
His palm splayed across her thigh, wishing to hike up her skirts and let his fingers feather over the creamy skin. Hot breath hummed over his cheek, her dull little claws digging into his forearms—the touch both a warning and a plea.
The steely silver eyes of the Konungr met his, a silent assessment igniting in his irises. Njáll’s mother whispered to him, smiling softly at Njáll.
Finally, he dared to look at the treasure perched on his lap.
Bright streaks of scarlet skimmed underneath the line of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Those jade eyes twinkled with flecks of obsidian, rivaling the beauty of Freyja.
She squirmed, pulling a throaty, unfamiliar noise from deep in Njáll’s belly. Groaning, he clenched her thigh, nuzzling into her curls.
“If you keep wiggling like that, I will burst from my trews, little flame,” he grunted, the sound strangled.
Those dark-flecked eyes widened, her gaze flicking to his cock, lingering for a moment before returning to his face. The corner of his mouth lifted, a smug part of him enjoying how she stared at him.
Slowly, sound returned to the longhouse, but Njáll paid attention to none of it.
“You should not have done that, Njáll. I shouldn’t be here.”
The hand on her thigh moved higher, sliding along the span of her ribs.
“You belong wherever I am,” he breathed, the slow timbre making his girl shiver.
“Njáll…” she started, her mouth parted.
He drew in a slow breath. Hissing, he shifted, accommodating the hard, heavy length between his legs. Soft curls slid through his fingers as he palmed her nape, leaving her nowhere to run.
For a long moment, Njáll savored the claim, and the awe-stricken glaze clouding her pretty eyes. She didn’t reject it. Didn’t reject him. She drank it in, absorbing it in the protective crook of his massive embrace.
He plucked a piece of dried meat from a nearby plate, bringing it to her lips.
“Open, little flame. It is my duty to provide for you. Let the clan see how their Jarl worships you.”
Soon, music returned to the hall, voices carrying along the wooden trusses. Njáll smirked at the bemused expression tightening the creases around her eyes. Even as the drunken amusement grew around them, he still felt the assessing gaze of his father—watching them.
His gaze tunneled on this vision in his arms. His cock ached in his trews. Eventually, she parted those plump, plush lips, a mix between a scowl and a smile lighting up her features.
Her mouth closed around his fingers, sucking and licking as she took the offered food. Odin have mercy on him—every nerve lit up, catching fire and burning him with it.
Triumph twinkled in the recesses of her eyes as a rattling groan vibrated in his throat. He met the challenge in her gaze, feeding her fresh fruit and wine until she let out a quiet, little whine. The sound made him question if it was truly magic or simply her that captured his heart.
“Do you wish to torture me with your pretty noises?” he murmured, carding his fingers through the loose waves of her curls.
And then, he heard it—an unguarded, tinkling laugh warming the coldest parts of his soul.
She didn’t respond, merely smirked at him like the proud flame she was.
Gods.
Freyja had blessed him. Whether by magic or fate or luck, Njáll cared not. He would honor her above all others for bringing his perfect mate into his life.
The tips of his nails bit into the soft, supple skin of her chin, pinching hard enough to make her squeak.
“Come. Let me steal you away. I do not wish to share you any longer.”
Her pupils dilated ever so slightly. Her eyes flicked to his father, finding him relaxed with his mother in his lap, nuzzling her throat and murmuring sweet words in her ear.
“Do not worry. The Konungr understands.”
A pretty pink flush colored her cheeks as she nodded. Njáll slid his hands to her bum, teeth digging into his lower lip as he stood. At first, he intended to lower her to her feet, but now that he had her in his arms, he never intended to let her go.
“I can walk, you know.”
“Allow me this pleasure,” he purred, nipping at her jaw as he led them out of the longhouse.
A noncommittal noise fell from her, and she settled into his hold.
That was all the permission he needed.
The night air hit them, doing nothing to quell the rising tide of heat swirling in his veins.
Stars twinkled above, the inky sky clear.
Nails caressed the length of his spine, making Njáll hiss.
They moved in relative silence, the village eerily isolated with the entire clan still at the celebration.
When they reached the edge of the valley overlooking the dark ocean, Njáll regrettably set her down. The waves crashed against the rock face below, stray sprays of saltwater cresting over the cliff’s edge.
Bright eyes blinked behind thick lashes. The wind tussled her hair as he rested his hand on her upper arms, stroking them when a shiver shook her slender frame. Unclipping his furs, he draped them over her shoulders, swallowing her in the material.
“What about you?” she asked, clenching her thighs as her pretty eyes lingered on the scars bisecting his body.
“As long as I have you, I am fine.”
Njáll stood behind her, sliding his palms along her curves, palming her belly and holding her close. The dark expanse of sea disappeared into the horizon, the waves churning at the surface mirroring the battered parts of him.
Eventually, his breathing steadied, buried in the lush, sweet scent of her curls. A sharp intake of breath made her breasts shake as she clutched her hands over his atop her stomach.
“Look,” she sighed, sounding so sweet and innocent as she pointed upwards.
The awe in her soft timbre made him smile, something he rarely did, except with her. A whirlwind of color painted the heavens in streaks of lilac, indigo, and peridot. The lights of the gods sang across the night sky.
While she followed the dancing lights, Njáll couldn’t pull his gaze away from her. The radiance on her face rivaled jewels crafted from colored glass.
The backs of his knuckles grazed her jaw.
This girl was a gift from the gods, and he’d never be worthy of her, but he prayed to Freyja she might accept him anyway. With more tenderness than he thought himself capable of, Njáll brushed her crimson mane to one side, resting his cheek against hers.
A primitive, primal instinct scorched him from the inside out. One ignited by the will of the gods, by Freyja. He had many duties in his life, but the most important one lay in his arms.
“Do you hear them now? The whispers?”
She shook her head, the movement slight. “No. They are quieter around you.”
Pride thrummed in the beat of his heart as he tightened his hold. Blood thrummed in his veins with purpose. One beyond duty and clan. A bond to one chosen by Freyja.
He’d sacrifice his final breath to save hers.
He swore the silent oath, vowing to always keep his flame burning brightly.
The wind howled, stilling again as she turned in his arms. She tilted her head back, studying his face, her expression pensive.
“Your father is the Konungr?”
His rough palms cradled her face, his thumbs tracing the constellation of freckles dusting her cheeks. The question surprised him. She had seen him shift at the training grounds, but in public, Njáll and his father kept strictly to their roles, as was expected of them.
“Yes,” he confirmed, one hand falling to the side of her neck. “He has been such for many winters. Blessed by Odin. Bonded by Freyja to my mother, the Dróttning—his queen.”
“Does that make you a prince?”
A booming laugh vibrated in his chest. His fingers flexed on her throat, his thumb feathering over her thrumming pulse.
“No, little flame. A prince is a title for soft lands. Here, I am a Jarl. A title earned not by birthright, but by skill and blood. I lead the Konungr’s warriors, serve the clan to secure our lands.”
There was so much she needed to know.
About him.
About their traditions.
If there were to be something more between them, she must know what it might be like to live among his people. She’d been vulnerable with him, sharing the stories of her mother and the draugar.
Now, she needed to know what path lay before him.
And her.
If she chose to follow.
“Konungr is not a title earned through bloodlines, but strength. The right to lead must be earned. When my father moves on, I will challenge my claim to his title. It is a duty I have carried since I was old enough to wield an axe.”
“And if you lose the challenge?”
She pressed, some of the softness in her features receding.
Njáll gave the only answer a warrior of his distinction could give. His thumb slid under her chin, holding her gaze to his.
“Then I will feast in Valhalla. For only the one who becomes Konungr survives.”
A sudden shadow of sorrow bloomed in the recesses of her eyes, leeching the color from her cheeks. He hated the pained look twisting her gentle features. That quiet sadness sucked the air from his lungs.
He had expected respect, perhaps trepidation, but not that.
Something morose settled in her gaze. The look of a woman who cherished life. And now she stood beside a man who cherished glory in death.
He pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.
“Don’t mourn a death that hasn’t come, little flame. I will not fail the clan. I will not fail you. No warrior can best me. I will be the Konungr.”
And you will be my Dróttning.
A strong, passionate kona to lead him while he led their people.