Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Njáll
The musky scent of their arousal filled the dwelling. Njáll refused to let it dissipate.
For three days, he’d kept Elara captive in his furs, worshiping the elegant curves of her body until she fell apart on his fingers, tongue, and cock.
She’d thoroughly ravished him, leaving him more sore than after a day of training. And she was his to use as she saw fit. Whatever she wanted was hers.
He woke to the beautiful sight of her crimson mane spread across his chest, the weight of her thigh resting on his hip. Holding her wasn’t enough. He needed to devour her, claim her, until his essence was branded on her soul.
The tip of his nose brushed along her pulse, inhaling her sweet scent. A sleepy sound hummed in her chest, her lashes fluttering. The subtle smoky scent of her seier filled his lungs and he watched her for signs of distress, relieved when none came.
He’d abandoned his duties as Jarl until today, with the leave of his Konungr—all to show his kona his love was not some fleeting fire.
Soon, he’d have to return. For now, he savored her like berry wine.
Fine silks and soft velvets overflowed from his chests. All for her.
Even though all she craved was him. She cared little for the dyed dresses and the glass jewels and the gold brooches.
He’d spend hours cleaning the grime and soot from his skin only to slick it with sweat attempting to sate her hunger.
Still, he took pleasure in seeing her adorned in finery. Finery he provided for his kona.
She’d slip into a moss-green dress that suited her eyes, only for him to command her to shed it for the shimmering silks he’d purchased. He’d hung carved bone pendants from her slender neck, whispering crude, possessive praise against her slender throat until she whimpered.
Then, he’d worshiped the gentle slope of her waist, marking her creamy skin.
Most nights, he knelt between her thighs, his tongue serving her pleasure until she screamed his name, convulsing and begging for more.
His fingers ghosted along her arm, drawing runes into her abdomen.
One for strength, another for honor, and the last for protection.
A smattering of freckles ran along her shoulders, and something solidified as he traced the constellations on her body.
This was his future. She was his future.
He’d seen the poise of the woman who would one day stand beside him. How she maintained her reverence for life in a place intent on shearing it from her. He’d bind himself to her.
This passionate, fiery woman would be his wife. He’d marry his kona, binding their hearts and souls.
Reluctantly, he crawled out from under their furs, careful not to disturb her.
A discontented sound escaped her and she shifted, burrowing further into the bed.
This was what he wanted. To wake to her in his furs and in his arms, her face soft in peaceful slumber.
His cock twitched and Njáll rolled his shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple before getting dressed. Unfortunately, he could not stay locked away with her forever.
Too much of everything coiled in his muscles. Too much emotion. Too much energy. Too much desire.
The hard ground rumbled under his steps as Njáll ran the perimeter of the training grounds until his lungs burned.
Sweat clung to his skin and he shed his now sheer tunic, smiling at the throbbing pulse in his body. His warriors watched him, their faces curious as he joined them in the sparring ring.
Fingers flexed on the supple leather of his axe’s hilt, a frantic need thrumming in his veins. Njáll spent much of the day sparring until a trail of exhausted warriors remained in his wake.
Only after no one else dared to face him did Njáll relent, finding his father sprawled by the large firepit in front of the longhouse. The Konungr’s steely silver eyes assessed him, his head tilting ever so slightly.
Njáll was soaked with sweat, his torso smeared with a mix of dirt and dried blood—the only nick any warrior landed on him that day. And only after he’d faced another dozen men before that.
“You bleed, Jarl.”
Njáll spread his hand over his heart, tracing the wound.
“Only took a dozen men to make me bleed, Konungr.” The corner of his father’s lip twitched, warmth melting the icy ring around his irises. It did nothing to ease the flutter of his heart rattling along his ribs. “I have come to speak to you.”
The weight of the words settled on his father’s shoulders, but his demeanor did not shift. Instead, he stood, gesturing toward his private quarters.
Stale woodsmoke clung to the rafters in the longhouse. Logs sputtered in the communal fire, sparks hissing skyward.
His father ducked under a low-hanging beam, and Njáll followed. The space held so many memories. Ones of skinned knees and scraped elbows, but mostly of love.
As much as Njáll prickled when his parents were overly affectionate, it reminded him even a Konungr was afforded happiness, love, and a family.
A viscous feeling tightened in Njáll’s throat.
Ever since he had been old enough to hold a sword, he had prided himself on his resilience. Njáll led fearlessly, but now in front of his father, he felt like a young boy again, desperate for his father’s approval.
“I wish to ask for your blessing to take Elara as my wife,” Njáll said, the words slightly rushed as they tumbled out.
The word wife tasted sweet on his tongue, sounding more like an oath than a contract.
His father did not respond immediately.
Those discerning eyes flickered, and he rubbed a hand over the thick grey hairs on his jaw. Njáll kept his shoulders straight and his chin high, exhaling when his father’s deep voice finally pierced the quiet.
“I am proud of you, son. You have chosen wisely. She possesses strength of spirit and the wisdom of your mother. Your kona will strengthen you. She will bring balance to your life and be a good Dróttning when the time comes.”
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, his father squeezing the spot. The praise was the strongest confirmation he could have received. It unfurled the worry bubbling in his gut.
“You have my blessing.” The softness in his eyes receded, something sharp pinning Njáll to the spot. “But you are a thief, son. You stole the daughter of a man.” Njáll made to argue, but thought better of it. “Send a rider and ship to find Elara’s father. Offer whatever he requires for her hand.”
His father’s chest rose as he gripped both Njáll’s shoulders, forcing their gazes to lock.
No one instilled fear in Njáll except his father. He was the only person who held any power over the jarl.
“Tell him the truth, son. That his daughter is safe and content. That she is not a captive. That you would lay your life down for hers and one day she will be a Dróttning. He deserves the peace of knowing his daughter’s fate. You honor the gods with such words.”
Something cleaved through him, something precariously close to guilt.
While Elara spoke much of her mother, she rarely said much of her father.
Perhaps the pain of knowing he still lived, but was so far away, was too much.
Copper coated Njáll’s tongue as he bit his lip, bowing his head. He would make it up to Elara; he owed her that and so much more.
“It will be done. Thank you, Pabbi.”