Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Njáll
Residual steam billowed up from the basin, blurring the flames from the hearth. Njáll sat on the edge of his furs, trews loose around his waist, face in his hands as water dripped from his still damp hair.
The subtle tap, tap, tap of the water hitting the dirt floor punctuated his thoughts. An exasperated sound rumbled in his chest as he ran a hand through the wet strands, pushing them off his face with a grunt.
Patience had never been a virtue sung by the skalds. They sang of fury, of speed, of the final bite of a blade.
Nothing in his training ever prepared him for this. For the agonizing crawl of time spent waiting for a woman to decide he was worth the trouble.
Njáll had always been the hunter, never wanting for anything.
Until now.
Now, he felt like a lamb cornered by a wolf, hoping for mercy.
And his beautiful, fiery girl was the wolf.
Teeth dug into his lower lip as he slapped his hands on his thighs. Blood slid over his tongue, and he wiped it away.
He’d left the kitten with his mother that morning, arriving at the longhouse hoping to catch even a glimpse of his little flame.
Anything.
Odin help him.
Part of him felt like a fool wandering through the clan, carrying a mewling bundle of fur. But he was a desperate man. Little room remained for pride.
His mother greeted him, a knowing smile making her eyes crinkle. Those soft hands patted his arms before cupping his face.
“She is well, Njáll. Do not worry. She is eating. Sleeping. Thinking.”
“Thinking of what?” he demanded, the words harsher than he intended. “Many apologies, Mamma,” he uttered, feeling like a small child under her glare.
She waved him away. “That is not for me to share. She will tell you when she is ready. For now, she is safe in our home, until she is ready to rejoin you in yours.”
His mother took the kitten from his arms, reassuring him as only she could that all would be well.
To trust in himself, in his girl, in Freyja.
So Njáll watched her walk away with his offering, hoping Elara would accept the little bundle of fur for what it was.
A gift. A blessing. A reminder that for her, he could be soft.
For him, it was a hope.
A cruel, uncomfortable thing that made his skin itch and his mind race.
He wanted to hate his girl. Hate her for what she did to him, for what she turned him into.
But he couldn’t.
Gods.
He adored her.
All of her.
Her fire. Her spirit. Her strength.
She was like a wildflower caught in a blizzard, refusing to wither. She didn’t relent, didn’t alter who she was.
And for that, he’d always admire her.
He didn’t want to break her. He only wanted her to harden herself, help her become the person who could survive him, survive the clan, and what duty demanded of him and any woman who stood by his side.
He’d been a fool.
She already embodied all those things, just in a way he hadn’t recognized.
Hopefully, she would find it in her heart to see him for what he was and what he could be to her.
A warrior. A shield. A partner.
It was what he wanted, and what they both needed.
Freyja saw it.
But in the end, free will reigned supreme.
It was always a choice.
And they would have to choose each other.
Njáll had already chosen her.
And he prayed to any god who’d listen that she’d choose him.
His callused hand rested in his loose, still dripping hair, knowing he was in for another unpleasant night of no sleep. His warriors would face his ire again tomorrow, when his frustrations poured into his blade.
A soft creak made him stiffen, bringing with it a rush of air.
Slowly, his gaze moved upward. His heart hammered more violently than anything he’d ever experienced before. Even over the din of his rushing blood, he heard a tiny, high-pitched mew.
There she stood, stone-still in the archway with the kitten tucked close to her. She held the little bundle with so much tenderness it made his throat ache. The creature’s curious eyes blinked in the firelight, its black-booted paws kneading in Elara’s woolen dress.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Her piercing green eyes glittered like freshly spun glass, exposing himself. He sat there, stripped of his armor and authority, damp and wanting, nothing of the jarl he prided himself on.
Instead, he was a man.
A man awaiting the judgement of a woman who held the power to destroy him in her tiny hands.
Eventually, she stepped forward, strands of auburn hair falling over her pale face as her gaze dropped to the kitten and then back to him.
No fear lingered there.
Nothing of the wide, blown pupils he had last seen when she ran from him.
All he saw was iridescent resolve.
Still, he didn’t know what she had hardened herself to do.
To accept him or to cast him aside.
Soft lips parted with a hesitant smile, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to wet her lip. Her breasts strained against her dress with a slow breath. Njáll’s heart forgot how to beat while he waited for her judgement.
“Thank you,” she said, a quiet confidence in her voice cutting through the thickness in the room. “For her. She’s perfect.”
Air rushed back into his lungs, his heart still fluttering far too fast. He rose, the furs sliding off his lap. Despite how he towered over her, it was him who felt small in her presence.
He yearned to graze his knuckles over her creamy skin, to be bathed in her warm light. He resisted the temptation, his fingers sore as he clenched them.
“You deserve nothing less than perfection, little flame. I was uncertain if you would keep her. If you’d want her.”
A small V bloomed between her brows, the corners of her mouth turning into a frown as she gazed down at the kitten. The tip of her finger traced the curve of the creature’s ear, stroking the side with her thumb.
“Your mother told me she is the blessing of Freyja. That you found her.”
After a long day of dueling warrior after warrior until no more dared to challenge him, Njáll collapsed on a log by a broken piece of fencing. Sweat stung his eyes, the burn in his lungs doing nothing to soothe the ache festering like rot in his chest.
And that was when he heard it, a tiny whining sound.
“She cried out under a fallen tree. Alone and in need of someone to love her. Care for her. I thought of you.”
A sound caught on a breath, and Elara held the bundle of fur tighter, staring at him.
Boldly—or foolishly—he stepped forward, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body.
“Little flame,” he whispered, his voice a low plea. “I do not weave pretty words. I am a blade. A Jarl. One day, I will be Konungr. I cannot be calm. I have to be the storm.”
Pinpricks tingled in his hands as he reached out, cradling her jaw and trailing the pad of his thumb over her freckles. She didn’t recoil at his touch, and he took the first deep breath he had since she left him.
“But for you,” he started, “I will do whatever you command of me. I will serve you. Worship you. Honor you. I cannot change what is expected of me. I cannot be gentle out there, with the clan, with our enemies. But with you, little flame, I will be soft, malleable. I will be whatever you need. If you allow it.”
The kitten let out a contented purr, and Elara trembled slightly. She abused her poor lower lip, and Njáll plucked the raw flesh free, stroking the sore spot.
“Your mother told me things I hadn’t understood. Things I hadn’t considered,” she murmured, hair falling over her glass green eyes.
The gods blessed his mother with wisdom. She needed it to handle his father… and him.
“My mother has a way with words that I do not. She sees people, understands them. Has a way of making sense of the world.”
Elara nodded, a flicker of emotion brimming in her eyes.
“I know you are a warrior, Njáll. A leader. Someone who can’t show weakness.”
She shifted the kitten into one arm, grazing her fingers against his bare forearm. Her touch seared like a brand, making his blood boil and his cock stir.
“I will not ask you to be someone you aren’t. I only ask for the same for you. That you accept me as I am, and give me patience to acclimate to this world.”
The thick lump in his throat faded away. He gazed at her dull nails clutched around his scarred skin. The contrast was staggering. Her quiet strength and his blood-stained soul.
“I will try. I cannot promise I will not fail sometimes. But for you, I will be the hearth, even if I must be ice to the rest of the world.”
Carefully, he bracketed her face with his two scarred palms. She relaxed into his touch, a small, broken sigh escaping her. The kitten crawled out of her arms, perching on his flame’s shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of her neck.
A breathy laugh fell from him. “It seems she is claiming her territory.”
“She is a hunter. Feared among mice,” she chuckled, a wide smile touching her eyes.
Her hands covered his, still holding her precious face close, afraid she might disappear if he let go. Lashes fluttered, clarity sparkling in her eyes like river stones after a rain.
“I was wrong,” she hummed, stroking his knuckles. “I do belong here. With you. The idea of not being near you… it troubled me. It wasn’t fate or Freyja or destiny. It was you. I want you.”
A swell of pride bloomed in his chest, and he didn’t wait any longer. He leaned down, his mouth finding hers with practiced ease.
He held her close, growling as her sweet lips parted for him. The tip of his tongue swept along hers in unhurried, deliberate strokes. She tasted of berries and mulled wine and his.
A rasping moan fell from her, and his cock hardened, straining his trews as he deepened their kiss, greedily taking more. He wanted all of her sweet noises, wanted to drown in them.
She melted into him, her nails raking down his sculpted back before wrapping her arms around his waist.
This was the choice.
She chose him.
And this kiss was where everything started to feel less like fate and more like love.
The love the Volva spoke of.
It terrified him.