Chapter 15
Fifteen
Njáll
Awhimpering murmur cut through the darkness, pulling Njáll from the deepest sleep he had in many seasons. The dying glow of the fire sent soft shadows spilling over the bed. His chin rested against the fragrant curtain of her curls, inhaling the sweet scent of wildflowers and honey.
Heat spread across his chest. The comforting weight of his flame tucked into his body soothed the possessive ache that had grown over the past week. His entire being hummed with contentment—a sated peace knowing she was safe.
That he had claimed her in front of the clan and no one would question her place among them.
As loath as he was to admit it, Bjorn might have been right. A different kind of magic stole his heart. Not a spell woven by a Seiekona, but something divined by Freyja and fate.
Oh, his mother would be thrilled and smug, especially after all the times Njáll had rolled his eyes when she told the stories of how Freyja brought her and his father together. And Astra would be insufferable.
But that was for later, right now was for him and his flame and no one else.
His grip around her waist tightened, his fingers stroking the thin material of her shift.
Someday soon, he’d feel the soft brush of her skin under his touch. Watch as streaks of scarlet flamed her delicate skin while she writhed beneath him, lost in the pleasure he gave her.
A sudden jerk broke him from his reverie. She tensed in his hold, her limbs twitching as a tiny, desperate whine tore from her throat. Muscles went rigid, all softness seeping from him as his warrior rose to the surface on instinct.
He scanned the room, listening beyond the wind outside and the crackle of embers in the hearth. The shuddering chill of the draugar never came, making his mouth twist when her thin, ragged voice wheezed.
“No… No… Njáll.”
With her eyes still shut, she clutched the furs, her knuckles almost translucent under her grip. A strangled sound hissed through her teeth, her beautiful features twisted and unfamiliar.
“Don’t leave me! Blood… Broken… Coming,” she shrieked, thrashing in his arms.
Sweat trickled over her pale brow, all the color gone from her cheeks. Her frantic breaths turned into gasping sobs as she tried to push away from him.
He had never seen a nightmare such as this—something so consuming and vivid.
“Little flame,” Njáll growled, the rough command hissing through the quiet night.
Cold burned his fingers as he squeezed her shoulders, trying to force her out of whatever tormented her. Her eyes snapped open, wide and wild, horror evident in her dilated pupils.
Silent tears slid down her cheeks, and he pulled her snugly into him, cradling her head under his chin. He had never felt so powerless. He did not enjoy it.
How did he protect her from something he could not see? How did he fight an enemy that was not here?
Blood slid along his tongue as his teeth pierced his lip. Njáll pushed his own worries aside, focusing entirely on the girl in his arms. Her heart raced, pounding against his chest as he soothed his fingertips along the column of her spine.
“Hush, little flame. You are here. I am here. There is no blood. Only us. You are safe.”
She continued to tremble, staring unseeingly into the distance.
“Look at me,” he commanded, using the tone of a jarl who wouldn’t be questioned.
Those dull eyes gazed at him, devoid of any spark. He bracketed her frigid face with his scarred palms. Many moments passed before the trembling in her frame subsided, her breathing evening out.
“Njáll,” she croaked, her sweet voice harsh.
“I’m here.”
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against his pulse point. The room remained eerily silent, with no sign of Alruna materializing in the wisps of smoke.
Shadows stayed still, and Njáll held his girl tighter, murmuring in Norse.
If the panther retreated, it meant either her presence wasn’t needed or a stronger protective force remained.
The thought solidified something within him. This little flame was his, and he was hers. His axe was hers to wield, and he’d be the hand to strike it at her bidding.
His knuckles grazed softly over her jawline. Despite the fear lingering in her eyes, she slowly steadied in his hold.
The gods had proven Njáll wrong.
Freyja had guided him to his flame. Just as she had steered his parents.
For as fearsome as his father was, the Konungr was utterly besotted with his foreign kona.
A quiet healer who taught him balance.
Njáll would be no different.
He once thought love was a weakness, one he wouldn’t allow himself, moving from one fleeting pleasure to the next.
But now he understood how wrong he’d been.
All he wanted was to serve his girl, to make her forget the draugar, to feel nothing but peace in his presence. He wanted to make her fall apart on his tongue and give her such pleasure she would scream his name, not in terror, but in ecstasy.
He gazed down at her, his chest expanding when he saw her breasts rise and fall in sleep.
Early morning light filtered through the smoke hole, pushing against his eyelids.
Njáll rose to his elbow, gently brushing sleep-mussed curls off her face. While he longed to stay with her beneath his furs until they smelled only of them, he needed to speak to his father.
After last night, it couldn’t wait any longer.
Careful not to stir her, he shifted, but her nails dug into his forearm with surprising strength.
Something known ignited behind his sternum, flaring with such intensity it stole his breath. Njáll hummed, leaning forward to press his lips to her crown, inhaling the drugging scent of her.
Cool air hit his flushed skin as he slipped out of the furs, bare feet thudding on the hard ground. His neck cracked when he rolled his shoulders, yawning and tugging on a fresh tunic.
The bearskin fur of his cloak slid under the pad of his fingers, her scent still clinging to the threads as he slung it over his shoulder before lacing up his boots.
He stood, stoking the fire to keep her warm. Then he turned and saw her, awake and sitting up with furs pooled around her hips, eyes still clouded with fog.
Gods, she looked stunning like this, sleepy and adorable in his furs.
A small V bloomed between her eyes, and Njáll knelt on the edge of the bed, soothing away the mark with his thumb.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, his voice soft but no less commanding as he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to her lips. A cute pout appeared when he pulled away, making his heart flutter. “It is still cold. I must meet with the Konungr. I will return before the sun passes.”
She didn’t argue, a groggy smile stretching into place as she nodded, lying back down. Tiny fingers curled around the furs, dragging them up to her chin, and his heart squeezed at the sight before stepping out into the morning mist.
The scent of stale ale and cold ashes lingered in the longhouse. Women milled about the great hall, righting tables and sweeping floors. Their knowing smiles winked at him as they giggled, whispering to each other before nodding respectfully in his direction.
While annoyance shone in the piercing glaze of his eyes, he secretly enjoyed their gossip. They murmured about the quiet foreign girl who had stolen the Jarl’s heart. It made his chest swell.
He arrived at the entrance to his parents' private quarters, tucked away in the back of the longhouse, away from prying eyes. His knuckles rapped on the wooden beam, knowing better than to enter unannounced.
An uneasy feeling slithered through his limbs, too many memories of him walking in on his parents in the throes of their passions.
It’d only taken him twenty-five winters to learn better.
“Come in,” the sweet voice of his mother called.
When he entered, she greeted him from her place on a thick fur by the fire, the glow lighting up her face.
Hazelnut eyes beamed at him as she tended to the worn kettle hissing near a bowl of dried herbs. Strands of silver streaked through her curls, catching the firelight as she stood.
The Dróttning possessed formidable strength, rivaling that of the Konungr’s.
She was the only person who could still his wrath and tame his wolf.
For all that power, she carried herself with an unassuming confidence, spending her time tending to the ill as the most skilled healer among their people.
Her prowess in all things humbled Njáll.
He carried a deep respect for both his parents; they embodied what a Konungr and Dróttning should be.
Images of jeweled eyes flashed in his mind. He knew without a doubt his little flame would be the kind of Dróttning his people needed: strong, brave, and selfless.
“My son,” she said, the affection warming him.
Small, yet firm hands wrapped him in a tight embrace as she rose. Her lips brushed his cheek before she turned his face this way and that, assessing for any wounds needing tending to.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he shook his head.
“I am fine, Mamma.”
“And what of the young girl you now court?”
It felt like shards of ice stabbed at his throat as he coughed, his eyes wide.
The title was too much and not enough to explain what his little flame meant to him. Yes, he’d claimed her in front of the clan and made his intentions clear.
But it was more than alliances.
No, what stirred within him for his little flame was something divine, a gift from Freyja, an honor to protect her blessing.
For some reason he didn’t understand, both Freyja and his girl had deemed him worthy of her affection, and he would not waste it.
“She is well.”
“I should like to meet her properly, Njáll,” she said, raising a stern brow.
“Yes, Mamma. You will.”
“Hjartae mitt,” came the gruff voice of his father.
Moments later, the curtains swept aside, and the towering form of his father strode in. Except for the streaks of silver in his white-blond hair, he showed nothing of his age, as commanding and foreboding as he had been since Njáll’s birth.
Njáll spread his hand over his heart, tilting his head in a sign of respect.
“Konungr,” Njáll said.