chapter four
bjorn
I watched her ride him.
Watched her grind, moan and slice him open the second he came, like a goddess sitting on the pulse of a dying world. And gods, I wanted to tear the flesh from my bones just to bury myself inside her.
Ma petite mort. My little death. She is both the salvation and my sin.
Now she’s soaked in blood, glowing like a Valkyrie high on chaos, and I swear by the end of the night I’ll fuck her so deep she’ll be chanting the old gods’ names through split lips and broken breath.
But not yet.
Not until the gods are full.
Not until I’ve given them every drop they’ve asked for.
Because this?
This is my night.
My fucking altar.
My purpose.
And the gods?
They are starving.
I stalk across the altar, barefoot and blood-slick, my chest rising and falling in heavy panted breaths. My breath steams in the air like a dragon’s snarl, and my axe hums at my back, heavy and patient, waiting for the next throat.
The firelight flickers across a fresh offering.
A woman. Red-branded. Naked. Kneeling.
She’s already trembling, but not with fear.
No, no.
With purpose. With hunger. With holy, filthy need.
Her thighs glisten, lips parted, pulse thudding like a war drum against her throat. She came here like so many others, marked in red, begging to be devoured by the gods.
And I?
I am their jaws. Their blade. Their holy fucking fire.
I fist a handful of her thick ebony hair and yank her head back, forcing her gaze to mine. She looks up at me like I’m carved from the stones of Uppsala itself, like I’m her god.
And for tonight?
I fucking am.
“So,” I growl, voice low and thick, “another desperate offering. A wretched little whore come crawling for a place in the eyes of All-father.”
“Y-Yes—” she gasps.
“Tell me, slut,” I snarl, my breath brushing her ear like a curse, “you think your cunt’s enough to earn you a place in Valholl? You think Freyja herself will open her gates to a squealing little sacrifice like you?”
She whimpers, her body arching into my hand.
I spit at her feet, the saliva hitting the dirt like a brand.
“You are meat. Pretty, wet, breakable meat. A plaything for the gods. Nothing more.”
She moans—pathetic, eager.
I drag my fingers between her legs, smearing her slick across her stomach, then slap her—hard—across the face.
The crowd erupts. Chanting. Howling. Grinding. They're unhinged, primal. Animals in heat, pawing at each other in the torchlight while the old gods watch from the smoke above.
Let them rut. Let them burn. Let them drown in the madness of Mímir’s wine.
From the side of the altar, Johnny slithers in, cackling. He’s painted like death, gore already smeared across his teeth, eyes wild with glee.
“Oooh, look at this one,” he purrs, crouching beside her like a feral thing. “All shivery and shining. You gonna share, big guy?”
“The gods want her writhing,” I snarl, jerking her head to the side and exposing her throat. “Make her beg for their blades.”
“With pleasure! ” Johnny sings.
He loops a leash—when the fuck did he leash her?—around her neck like he’s walking a dog. His teeth drag across her shoulder, fingers pressing into her ribs with too much force to be loving.
“You like pain, little pig?” Johnny hisses, dragging his nails down her spine. “You like knowing your last orgasm’s gonna happen while your guts are spilling across the stone?”
She sobs.
“Say it,” I snap, voice like thunder beneath the tent.
“I want it,” she wails. “Please. Sacrifice me.”
“Good girl,” Johnny whispers, licking the shell of her ear.
I lift my axe.
The crowd gasps.
The torches scream.
“Flesh for favor. Blood for balance. Death for the gods.”
I press the blade against her chest and carve the first rune—Tiwaz—for the warrior’s death. Then another—Kenaz—for fire. For knowledge. For the sacred agony she’ll carry to the other side.
Her blood rushes free, hot and slick, soaking her breasts, running in rivulets down her belly. Still, she moans. Still, she wants.
Johnny hums as he pulls a weapon from behind him—Alaska’s axe. The smaller one. Its polished handle slick with old sin.
“Let’s give the gods a show,” he croons.
He spreads her thighs and sinks the blunt handle deep into her. Her whole body jerks, mouth falling open in a soundless scream.
“That’s it, scream for Odin,” I murmur, dragging the tip of my axe across her collarbone.
Alaska crawls in like smoke, tongue already out, licking up the trail of blood and slick between the woman's legs like a devout little beast.
“Good pup,” Johnny giggles, scratching her head. “Gonna let her finish?” Johnny asks me, mock innocence curling in every word.
“Only if she dies with the gods on her lips.”
He grins like a demon let loose.
She’s shaking, convulsing, choking on her pleasure. And as her climax crashes through her, I lean in and whisper?—
“Come as I kill you, little lamb. Let the gods feel your ecstasy in their bones.”
Then—
I drag my axe from shoulder to hip.
Slowly. Deeply. Holy.
She screams. She shudders. She comes. She dies.
Perfect.
Blood splashes across my chest like a benediction. Her body collapses in a twitching heap, mouth still gasping like she's trying to speak to Thor himself.
I step back, soaked. Hard. Burning.
The gods are fed.
But I don’t move toward the shadows.
Not yet.
Because someone catches my eye.
Long, dark hair. Fur pelt slung over his shoulders like it was made from the skin of something sacred. Calm, but not the kind that’s afraid to feel.
No, his is the calm of someone who’s felt everything , and survived it anyway .
He stands just outside the altar’s radius, not masked, not branded in red.
Black band.
He didn’t come here to die, or to fuck.
He came because he understands.
His arms are folded, combat boots planted like he’s not just watching the show—he’s part of it.
Like this is his world too.
His eyes lock on mine. Sharp. Steady. Familiar in a way that rattles something primal in my ribs.
He doesn’t flinch when Johnny drives the axe handle between another guest’s teeth, cracking through enamel and cartilage like wet bark.
He doesn’t blink when the blood sprays across Alaska’s grinning face.
He just… watches.
Unphased. Unmoving. Unholy.
And then I see it in his eyes—that same gnawing need. That same reverence for ritual. That same willingness to descend into the fire just to see what burns last.
He knows.
Knows the gods want more than pleasure.
That blood isn’t currency, it’s communion, and that death is just the price of devotion.
“You didn’t come to play, did you?” I mutter, low enough for only the gods to hear. “You came because you crave this. Because you live here… in the rot. In the ruin.”
A breath catches in my chest. Not fear.
Recognition.
“You’re not a guest. You’re a wolf in the wrong skin.”
I grip my axe tighter. My hands are slick with blood, but I barely feel it. All I feel is him , standing there like an unanswered prayer, like the kind of omen they used to paint on cave walls when the sky cracked open.
He doesn’t need to kill to belong.
He just needs to watch.
And I wonder, will you bleed for the gods too, stranger?
Or will you make the whole fucking tent bleed for you?