Chapter 34 Greta
Greta
Greta hid in her room for three days, applying tinctures to the wounds on her face and picking at the meals Nanna brought her.
She wrote home to Carrig, yearning for news of her beloved island, and missing her family more fiercely than ever.
She sent word to them of the Battle of the Blackspires, skimming over the gory details and devastating losses, and focusing instead on what she had learned, on how she could improve the beasts’ concentration in the face of unchartered pitches, like the horn the Spear had used to spook them at a crucial moment in battle.
Greta didn’t want her family to worry about her. She wanted them to be warm and well-fed, and proud of her. So, she kept her fear to herself, even as it gnawed at the edges of her heart. She knew Queen Regna would not go down without a fight.
Greta had to go back to work. To tend to her injured beasts and better prepare them for the next battle, when death would come again to Gevra.
War was a terrible, soul-rending cycle, but at least it distracted her from the painful cleaving in her own chest. It helped her forget how the king had held her in his sled, murmuring to her in the darkness, or how the phantom brush of his lips still lingered on her knuckles.
Greta had to forget, because if she didn’t forget, she would break.
And she refused to break.
She could weather the sting of her unrequited feelings, shove away her longing and focus on her tasks. She had faced far worse, and survived. She could face this, too.
On the fourth morning of her self-exile, she rose at dawn.
Now that her headaches were subsiding and her energy was returning, it was starting to feel like the walls were closing in on her.
She was growing restless, which was a good sign.
She washed and changed into her newly mended uniform, and braided her hair away from her face, examining herself in the mirror.
The purple bruises along her jaw were fading to yellow and the swelling in her right eye had finally abated.
After a quick breakfast, she practically skipped out to the courtyard, revelling in the rush of cool wind on her face and the familiar rumble of her beasts rising to face the day.
There were fewer now than there had been last week.
She knew the losses were many, but she resolved not to grieve in front of the animals.
For now, she would take on their pain and offer them comfort in return.
She made for the wolves first, relief flooding her at the sight of Tollo and Gale tussling in their pen. She grabbed the bacon strips she had swiped from the dining hall and tossed them to the wolves just as a soldier stomped into her path.
‘What are you doing out here, Iversen?’ said Captain Vine, dispensing with their usual greeting. ‘You’re supposed to be resting.’
‘I was resting. Now, I’m better.’ She tried to arc around Vine, but the soldier caught her arm, tugging her back.
‘You don’t look better.’
‘I don’t care how I look,’ said Greta, with as much politeness as she could summon, but her patience was ragged, and she didn’t care for the disapproval on the captain’s face. ‘I have work to do.’
‘You’re not cleared for that.’
Greta narrowed her eyes. ‘Cleared by whom?’
‘By the king.’
‘Why does the king have to clear me for work?’
‘Because he is the king.’ Vine gave a short huff. ‘Just … don’t piss him off.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s been insufferable lately.’
‘That’s not my problem.’
‘It’s everyone’s problem.’ Vine turned her around, gently nudging her back the way she had come. ‘Return to your bedchamber and rest.’
Greta stiffened but didn’t fight the captain. She was not about to get into an altercation. But nor did she have any intention of going back to her room.
‘Where is the king right now?’ she demanded.
‘Sparring or breaking something, I expect.’
‘Good,’ said Greta, charging ahead.
She felt like sparring, too. It was one thing to steal her heart, without remorse, but it was another to steal her beasts. Without them, she had nothing. She was nothing.
She stormed into the palace, her chest heaving as she made her way through the atrium, down the hall and into the east wing. The door to the sparring room was shut, but she could hear voices within.
She shoved the door open and stomped inside. ‘Clear me!’ she demanded.
Alarik, who was in the middle of sparring with his cousin, paused mid-strike.
‘What?’ he said, spinning to face her.
Elias disarmed him in one swift move, but the king barely noticed, letting his sword clatter to the floor.
‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking, Iversen?’ drawled Elias.
Greta ignored him, keeping her gaze and her rage on Alarik.
‘Clear me,’ she said, again. ‘I want to go back to work.’
Alarik narrowed his eyes, looking her over. ‘You’re not ready.’
‘That’s not for you to decide!’ she snapped.
‘Yes, it is!’ he snapped back.
Elias whistled. ‘Did that blow to your face rearrange your personality, Iversen?’
Alarik whipped his head around. ‘Get the hell out.’
Elias raised his brows. ‘It was a joke—’
‘Leave us!’ he barked, sending his spymaster slinking from the room.
Greta slammed the door after him then stood with her back against it. Her throat tightened, her anger twisting into something deep and painful as the king pinned her with that piercing blue gaze. His breath punched out of him, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Why had she come here? Why was she angry? And why did she suddenly feel like bursting into tears?
He took a step towards her, his voice softening. ‘What’s wrong, wildling?’
‘You.’ She closed her eyes, desperately fighting back tears. ‘You are what’s wrong.’
Silence yawned. The room narrowed as he drew closer, tugged by that invisible string in her chest. His scent washed over her, the heady mix of woodsmoke and pine making her dizzy. ‘You’re angry at me,’ he said, with quiet bewilderment. ‘Tell me why.’
‘I don’t know why,’ she said, in a cracked whisper. Her emotions were swirling like a blizzard. Too fast. Too many at once. She reached for a snowflake – something that had hurt her. ‘You left me alone.’
‘You ran from my bedroom, Greta.’
‘You never checked on me.’
‘I was giving you space.’
I don’t want space from you.
She clamped the words on her tongue. She couldn’t say that. What good would it do?
‘What else?’ he pressed, catching her tear with the pad of his thumb. She opened her eyes. He was standing right in front of her, and gazing at her with such tenderness it made her knees weak. Why had she come here, only to torture herself?
‘What else?’ he said, softer now.
She reached for a different snowflake – another point of pain. ‘You won’t clear me for work.’
‘You’re not well enough for work.’
‘How do you know?’ she challenged.
His gaze darkened. ‘You nearly died on that mountain, Greta. I’m the one who carried you home.
I’m the one who stayed awake in that sled listening to you breathe every minute of every hour of every day trying to make sure your heart didn’t give out.
’ The strain of that worry still tugged at his jaw.
‘So, when I tell you to take a week off, then take it.’
She folded her arms. ‘And do what?’
‘I don’t care,’ he said, mirroring her stance. ‘Sleep, eat, read, dance, skate.’
‘I don’t want to do those things!’ she burst out.
He braced his hand on the door frame, leaning into her. ‘What do you want, Greta?’
A dangerous question. Forbidden answers crowded on her tongue.
He watched her lips, silently daring her to voice them.
She reached for another snowflake. Not anger, but curiosity. ‘Did you send aid to my family?’
‘Yes,’ he said, at once.
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
‘Tell me anyway,’ she said.
He dragged his gaze back to hers. ‘I sent aid to your family so you wouldn’t have to worry about them. I don’t want your beast to hunger for food any more. I want it to hunger for other things.’
She snorted, the rueful words slipping out before she could stop them. ‘Well, now it does.’
And it’s torture.
His eyes flashed. ‘What does it hunger for?’
She chewed on her bottom lip.
‘Tell me what your beast wants, Greta.’
She shook her head. No, no, she could not.
He leaned closer, his breath feathering her cheek. ‘Then show me,’ he said, a rasp in his voice. ‘Please.’
Please.
The word was her undoing. Suddenly, it was too much – this raging heat between them, that ravenous look in his eyes. She was molten with desire, so addled with lust, she couldn’t stop herself even if she wanted to. She lifted her chin, closing the sliver of space between them.
Slowly, so very slowly, she brushed her lips against his. ‘This,’ she breathed, against his mouth. ‘This is what I want.’
‘Yes,’ he groaned, sliding his hand into her hair. ‘You can have it.’ His body trembled against hers, and Greta sensed the force of his need like a hurricane inside him. And yet his kiss was soft and searching. An answer to her own, and a question.
A plea for more.
He didn’t want to frighten her off. Greta had never been kissed before, had barely ever thought about being kissed, but in this moment, with this man, she had never felt so wildly alive, so close to the beast in her soul. It wanted more. She wanted more.
She wound her fingers in his collar, rising to her tiptoes until his body sank into hers, sealing every inch of space between them. She trailed her lips along his jaw, and he shuddered, still straining to taste her without devouring her.
She smiled, nudging her nose against his. ‘I won’t break.’
‘Yes, but I might.’ He kissed one corner of her mouth, and then the other. She opened for him, and his tongue swept in. She met him stroke for stroke, matching his hunger with her own. The beast inside her reared up, and she nipped at his bottom lip. He chuckled. ‘Do you want to play, wildling?’
She nipped him again. ‘Show me how.’
‘With pleasure,’ he rumbled.
She moaned as he deepened the kiss, parting the seam of her lips with his tongue and seizing her mouth. All thoughts spun away from Greta until there was only the thunder of his heart beating against hers, and the ragged gasps of her pleasure as he worshipped her with his tongue.
Time dissolved into nothing as she gave herself to the punishing perfection of his kiss, melting into the king’s embrace like she belonged there. There was a rightness to it, the taste of him setting her soul alight, the sound of his rasping breaths echoing her own.
Her knees began to tremble, buckling under the weight of this stolen moment – this blissful joining – that felt both primal and tender, impossible and inevitable.
Sensing her need as if it were his own, he hooked a strong arm around her waist, spinning her away from the door and walking her back towards the bench.
He pulled her down on to his lap, and she straddled his hips, neither one of them breaking the kiss as he slid his hands up her back, moulding her body to his own.
The heat between them became an inferno, every press of their lips no longer a playful exploration but a searing demand.
A desperate, burning claiming.
Greta could have stayed in his lap all day, drinking down his desire and still aching for more, if only the door hadn’t swung open when it did.
She was too lost in him to hear the footsteps behind her.
He was too lost in her to see the sword sliding from its sheath.
Then a familiar voice erupted, with a cold and rattling fury. ‘Get your fucking hands off my sister!’
Greta froze, her eyes flying open an inch from Alarik’s. She desperately hoped she had imagined her brother’s voice, but the king’s face went slack with horror. Before either of them could react, Tor grabbed her hood and yanked her off Alarik’s lap.
She stumbled backwards, falling against her brother’s chest. She felt it heaving with anger as his sword came around her, the tip of it now pointed at the king’s chin.
‘Go wait outside, Greta,’ said Tor, in a low, dangerous voice. ‘I’m about to murder the king of Gevra.’