chapter five
giselle
T hey call it the Screaming Tent.
Not metaphorically.
Not as some cutesy, edgy little nickname.
No, no. Here, screaming is the whole fucking point.
The canvas walls pulse like lungs.
The moans are louder than the drums now.
And every step I take squelches against floors painted with the blood of those who asked for this—who paid for it.
The air is thick with heat and breath and smoke. It’s alive. Sticky. Sweet. Saturated in sweat and sex and incense that smells like cloves, ash, and something far more feral.
And in the middle of it?
Us.
I slip through the crowd, the scent of iron and submission crawling up my skin like a second pelt. Someone licks my thigh as I pass. Another drops to their knees, whimpering. I don’t stop. Don’t slow. I’m not here for them.
A stilt walker limps past juggling organs like juggling balls—glistening pink and purple.
Is that a liver? A kidney?
“Shit,” I mutter with a grin. “I missed a good show.”
To my left, a poor naked bastard’s strapped to a wheel—arms nailed straight into the spokes with silver stakes that glint real pretty in the firelight. Every spin drags his limbs further apart, bones creaking like they’re about to sing. His mouth’s all sewn shut, twitching like he’s trying to scream something poetic. Adorable.
A girl in a glittery clown mask rides his stomach like a carousel pony, moaning like it’s church, while some Viking-looking freak—full furs, bloody scroll, runes all over his neck—chants Old Norse prayers and burns symbols into the guy’s thighs with a brand the size of my fist.
Guess we’re doing devotions the fun way tonight.
The cirkies are everywhere, crawling through the crowd like spiders on drugs. One’s got a guest gagged and bent backward over a pew while they pour wine down his throat and slap him each time he swallows. Another’s dangling from the rafters upside down, jerking a leash attached to a man’s cock like it’s a bell rope and she’s calling mass.
There’s blood in the holy water, glitter on the corpses, and more than one set of teeth where they shouldn’t be.
I feel my nipples harden under the leather.
Gods, this place makes me giddy.
“You’re late,” Indie calls as I push past a wall of writhing bodies and into the center of the performance ring.
She’s standing before a woman on her knees—branded red, shivering, with a hunger in her eyes. Indie’s whip is already out, curling and cracking in the air like a serpent drunk on screams.
And beside her, lounging with one leg up on a low platform, is Lux. Not center stage. Not leading. Just watching the show and enjoying his queen in her true element.
He’s calm tonight. Mask in place, drink in hand, blood already dried across the inside of his forearm. One of the clowns from Johnny’s domain lies curled up at his feet like a dog, covered in bruises, begging to be ignored.
“Had to finish something,” I purr, circling Indie. “That black-brand from earlier. He screamed my name when he came. Thought it was romantic. So I split his sternum open as a thank you.”
Indie smirks, nodding toward the kneeling woman. Her back is already a patchwork of welts and blade marks.
“This one doesn’t scream,” Indie says. “She just moans. It’s rather disappointing.”
“Pity. Well, maybe I can fix that.”
I kneel behind her, drag my nails up her spine. She gasps.
“No, no,” I giggle, twisting the blade just enough to make her twitch. “Moaning? What do you think this is, a brothel with lighting dim enough to hide your shame? The gods don’t want your little whimpers, sweetheart—they want screams. Ugly, desperate, throat-tearing screams. That’s the only way you’re getting through the gates of Valhalla, you sloppy little offering.”
She twitches.
I press my dagger to her ribs, slow, slow, just under the flesh, and slide. Her cry rips through the tent like a trumpet in a war camp.
“There it is.”
A roar goes up.
Somewhere to my right, there’s a guest on his knees in a rusted iron cage, mouth hanging open like he’s praying for divine intervention—but let’s be real, baby’s just gagging for golden rain.
Two Viking-masked vixens are squatted on the bars above him, legs spread wide like sacrificial altars to every filthy little fantasy he’s ever had. They take turns pissing on his bare chest like he’s the piss goblet of glory, and he’s lapping it up like communion wine.
Tongue out. Eyes rolled back. Moaning through the bars like he’s three drops away from shooting his soul out his dick.
“Blessed be the piss,” I snort, giggling like I’m twelve and high on chaos. “Gross little gremlin’s living his best afterlife.”
I spin, and there it is—the bar.
Carved from bolted bones and iron scraps, lit by swinging lanterns and the occasional sexy zap of a busted fuse. The drinks? Glowing. Pink, blue, radioactive green. Honestly, it’s giving ‘choose your own death adventure’ with extra glitter.
They’re laced.
Of course they’re laced.
Classic Lux move. A little LSD slipped into the poison just to loosen up the tight-ass guests who still think screaming during sex is rude.
Not that this crowd needs any help.
Nah. These freaks showed up already soaked in kinks and daddy issues. The drugs are just the cherry on top of the clown orgy sundae.
And me?
I’m just here to stir the sprinkles and watch the world burn.
A girl in fur and nothing else slams back a glowing drink, pulls a man onto the table, and rides him with a knife between her teeth while the bartender pours mead directly into her mouth mid-thrust.
“Fucking legends,” I laugh.
And the tent?
It moans.
It breathes.
It bleeds.
And we haven’t even hit the grand finale yet.
To the left, two men in bear furs are spit-roasting a black-branded guest while feeding him pieces of raw liver from a silver platter. Every time he gags, the crowd claps.
“Gods, I love this tent,” I whisper, licking a drop of blood from the girl’s shoulder. “It’s where all the weirdos come to fuck.”
She nods, trembling.
I kiss her ear. “And bleed,” I add.
Then I slit a smile into her lower back, just because I can.
That’s when I feel it?—
Someone watching.
But not like the rest. Not moaning or drooling or panting.
Just... still.
My gaze flicks up?—
Bjorn.
That stare. That weight. That pull—like gravity just grew fangs and decided to bite.
He’s bare-chested, blood-slicked, every rune tattoo glowing like it’s carved from fire and shadow. His braids hang damp, clinging to his shoulders, and the way he moves?
Like a war drum with legs.
“Fuck,” I whisper, tongue flicking against my lip. “He looks like wrath wrapped in muscle and dipped in godhood.”
I feel his boots first. That slow, heavy thud of purpose—like the earth steps out of his way.
And then he’s on me.
No words.
Just a fist in my hair, yanking me back hard enough to make my whole spine sing.
I moan—loud, filthy, eager.
Because of course I do.
Because he’s here, and I belong under him like knives belong in ribs.
“You,” he growls, voice thick like smoke and thunder, “were perfect tonight.”
I giggle, breathless. “Aww, big guy—sweeping me off my blood-soaked feet?”
He leans in, mouth at my ear, voice like a prayer on fire.
“You looked like a goddess carved from chaos. My chaos. Mine to watch, and mine to fucking claim.”
I shudder, thighs clenching, blood pounding everywhere.
“And now?” he murmurs, dragging his nose down my cheek. “Now I’m going to remind every watching soul exactly who you kneel for.”
Oh, gods. Yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
I’d crawl through glass for this man.
But I don’t need to.
He always drags me where I belong— to my knees.
I laugh, wild and breathless.
“Did you like watching?” I purr, licking my lips as I feel him press against me—hot, hard and heavy with need. “Watching me tease the weak little lamb? Make him beg. Make him bleed. Watching me gift his death to the gods like I was born to do it?”
He growls, low and vicious, grinding against my hip like the answer’s carved into his bones.
Yes.
Yes, he liked it.
I smile, all teeth and bloodlust, and tilt my head just enough to feel his breath on my skin.
“Liked the way I made him scream?” I whisper. “Liked how I smiled when I slit him open? Does it make you hard, knowing I only ever kill for the gods and crawl for you?”
“Down,” he snarls, voice thick with lust and thunder.
I drop.
Like the obedient little monster I am.
Face up. Tongue out. Thighs clenched so tight I might leave bruises on my own skin.
He unfastens his belt, slow like a punishment, and drags his cock free—slick with sweat and the memory of battle. It’s still hot from the altar. Still tasting of fire and devotion.
And I want to drown on it.
“You’re not allowed to taste anyone else,” he rasps, voice wrecked with possession. “Not even with your fucking eyes.”
“Didn’t,” I giggle, wrapping my hand around him. “Only bleed them. Only worship you.”
I drag my tongue along the tip, slow and filthy, letting the tang of blood stain my lips like warpaint.
“Mmm,” I moan, lips curling. “Still warm. You taste like murder and thunder, my god.”
His groan breaks in his throat as his fingers twist into my hair, yanking tighter, like he’s afraid I might disappear?—
But I’m not going anywhere.
Not until I’ve taken every last drop like the good little darkling he made me.
“Good, little darkling. Show them who owns that wicked mouth.”
I do.
I suck him slow, then hard—like it’s a ritual, and every inch of him is some holy law I was born to obey.
My throat aches. My jaw burns.
I fucking love it.
He grips my skull like he owns it—because he does—breathing heavy, whispering those sharp little Norse prayers under his breath, low and guttural, like the gods are watching and he wants them jealous.
I gag, eyes watering, but don’t you dare think that’s regret.
That’s worship.
The crowd? Oh, they’re losing it.
Someone claps. Someone moans. Someone chants my name like it’s carved into their ribs.
Indie catches my eye and gives me a wink, her whip dragging slowly across some girl’s inner thigh while the poor thing cries and thanks her for it.
But me?
I don’t see any of them.
I only see him.
Only feel him—heat, hunger, the violence simmering just under his skin like thunder waiting for permission to strike.
I pull off with a wet gasp, chin slick, and breath ragged.
“They’re all watching,” I purr, licking him like he’s candy dipped in sin. “Getting off on you getting off on me.”
“Let them,” he growls, low and brutal. “Let them see who you belong to.”
I smile, wide and wicked. Then take him again.
I rock my hips against the floor, thighs clenched, body singing. If I could come just from this, I would. Hell, maybe I already am.
His fingers tangle in my hair again, tighter now, possessive. That rough, Viking grip that makes my spine arch and my stomach twist.
I’ve got blood on my tongue, spit on my chin, and his name etched into my bones.
And gods help me?—
I never want to leave this place.
“You want to be good for me?” he rasps, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.
I nod. Big eyes. Swollen lips. Devoted little monster.
“Then make it unforgettable,” he snaps. “Make the gods jealous.”
I do.
I give him everything.
And then?—
His breath catches. That shift. That edge in his voice.
“Behind you,” he mutters. “Don’t move.”
I freeze.
Because I know that tone.
I know it like I know the runes carved into his flesh.
Danger.
Not for me—no. Never me.
But someone’s watching.
And it’s not just a someone.
It’s him.
I tilt my head just enough to peek past his hip.
And there he is.
That man.
The one in the fur.
Black band. No mask. Still as death and twice as pretty.
Just standing there—watching.
Again.
My spine tingles. My stomach flips.
And I fucking purr around Bjorn’s cock.
When I finally pull off, my mouth wet, lips swollen, I lick the taste of him from my teeth like it’s bloodwine and grin like the damn lunatic I am.
“He was watching earlier too,” I murmur. “Didn’t blink when a man got his guts turned into garlands.”
Bjorn’s eyes narrow. Real slow.
“I saw him in the blood tent,” he growls. “Didn’t move. Thought he was a ghost.”
We lock eyes.
“You didn’t imagine him.”
He looks again, past me, over my shoulder.
Watching the stranger.
That unshakeable thing with a face carved out of old secrets and eyes like storm clouds ready to burst.
He’s not aroused.
Not scared.
Not even trying to hide how fascinated he is.
“He’s not afraid,” I whisper.
“No,” Bjorn agrees, voice dark with something that sounds suspiciously like awe. “He’s one of us.”
Then his fist tightens in my hair—hard—and he drags my mouth back to him like a god claiming tribute.
“Let him watch,” he snarls, voice low and brutal. “Make it fucking worth his while. Show him what a real Valkyrie looks like on her knees.”
I whimper. And gods, it’s not even for show.
“Say it,” he demands, voice jagged with lust and pride. “Say what you are.”
I flick my tongue along his tip, slow and teasing, like I’m branding it with sin.
“Your little death,” I breathe. “Ma petite mort. Your filthy little slut. Yours. Always yours.”
“Then take what’s yours,” he growls.
So I do.
I open my mouth and take him like worship, like ruin, like every prayer I’ve ever carved into a corpse.
He groans, low and guttural, hips snapping with the kind of control that only looks like restraint. He mutters in Old Norse—those lovely blasphemies I adore—like he’s praying while fucking a sacrifice.
The crowd? Gone.
Indie? Gone.
The tent? Gone.
There’s only him. Only us.
His hands are in my hair. My throat burns. I can barely breathe—and I don’t want to.
“You’re mine,” he growls, voice like thunder over a funeral pyre. “Mine to use. Mine to bleed. Mine to feed.”
And then he comes—hard, raw, with a sound that feels like a war cry for the gods.
I take it all. Every drop. Every shiver. Every goddamn thing.
I swallow him like it’s divine.
Because it is.
Then I drag my fingers across my lips, lick them clean, and smile up at him—grinning like a rabid thing finally given a treat.
“Thank you,” I whisper, voice sweet and soaked in sin. “For letting me drink from the gods.”
Bjorn stares down at me with that same look he always gives me when I’m filthy and feral and perfect.
But his gaze drifts back, past me.
To him.
The stranger.
Still standing there. Still watching.
Still calm. Still unmoved.
“What do you think he wants?” I ask, voice low, and sticky with curiosity.
Bjorn’s still catching his breath as his hand flexes once more in my hair.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “But I think he’s already chosen us.”