Chapter Twelve #2
“Give me a better one, then.” Freya’s eyes were earnest. She genuinely wanted an answer.
Every reason Astrid came up with could be dismissed as an excuse. How silly, then, to hold herself back when they were just two people on a balcony. She didn’t have to think about her duties as queen or Freya’s impending mortality or a power imbalance just now.
If anyone had power here, it was Freya.
Astrid fought her one last time, but even when she spoke, she knew it was futile as resisting her wyrd: “I can’t.”
Freya sensed her weakness and met it with breathtaking tenderness in her tone. “What if you could? What would you do if you could?”
By this time, Freya was so close, Astrid could feel her breath against the skin of her neck. She looked down at Freya—really looked at her, with her sharp hair and her sharp eyes and her fierce stance—and crumbled to pieces.
Astrid bent down, and Freya stretched upward, and they collided in the middle. Freya’s hand wound around the back of Astrid’s neck, pinning her in place. Her lips were so warm, so surprisingly soft. She tasted like mead. Mead and loyalty and danger. All the things Astrid wanted but could not have.
Astrid clung to Freya like she always had, backing her against the railing.
Nimble as ever, Freya hopped onto it, and then they were at eye level.
The soft sound of leather falling against stone was followed by Freya’s bare hands caressing Astrid’s face.
Astrid stepped closer—she needed to be closer, closer, closer even than this—and Freya’s thighs wrapped around either side of her, squeezing her hips.
With the fervor of someone doing something she knew she shouldn’t, Astrid kissed Freya, and she kissed her some more.
She touched the soft, short hairs on the back of Freya’s head.
She clamped a hand onto Freya’s thigh, and Freya made a sound Astrid had never heard before—something between an inhale and a moan.
And Astrid knew she could die happy here.
Denying herself this was foolish. She was suddenly self-conscious of her enthusiasm—aware her observant spymaster would pick up on how long Astrid had harbored these feelings.
With every movement, Astrid gave away a little more of herself and how much she truly cherished Freya.
But Freya was meeting her enthusiasm with every kiss. It was pure luck they’d felt the same way. Pure luck and, perhaps, a bit of a curse.
Astrid was overcome with the desire to see Freya’s face, not just to feel her, and she pulled away.
Two ragged lines tore down either side of Freya’s lips, and it took Astrid a moment to place them—where her tusks had dragged against Freya’s skin.
Freya’s lips were swollen, almost bloody, the skin scraped but not broken.
Astrid had not been careful. So much time had passed since she’d kissed someone. She should have considered Freya’s soft, human skin.
Gently, Freya leaned her forehead against Astrid’s and closed her eyes. The gesture was so tender, Astrid swallowed down bile. There was no one in the world she trusted as much as she trusted Freya.
Back in Astrid’s chambers, Fenrir yowled. The beating of wings sounded above them; then, a distinctive, rapid, repeating bird call. Freya’s eyes flew open.
Something whizzed past them. It was dangerously close to Astrid’s ear; she heard a whoosh and a clatter, and felt the wind move her hair.
Freya reacted first, unpinning Astrid from her grasp and landing lightly on the stone. She swore loudly.
Still overwhelmed by the kissing, Astrid did not register at first the tips of Freya’s fingers, glistening red in the moonlight. She did not understand the broken arrow in her hand.
“Freya,” she said, “you’re bleeding.”
Freya’s hand went to her ear. Thank the goddess. Just her ear, though it was nicked pretty badly—Astrid could see the sky where skin should be.
“It’s nothing,” Freya said. Her voice was cold. She walked up to Astrid, grabbed her arm roughly, and forced her back against the wall. “Do you see this?”
Freya was waving the broken arrow in Astrid’s face. Someone had been down below and seen them above and thought to kill them.
Someone had seen them kissing and thought to kill them. Someone who happened to have a weapon.
“An opportunist,” Astrid said at once. Her first instinct was to alleviate Freya’s concerns. “They missed.”
“You need to get off this balcony now,” Freya said. “Someone just tried to assassinate you.”
Astrid followed Freya’s orders to come inside and sat at the end of her bed. Fenrir curled up into her lap and she scratched his ears absently. From the antechamber, she heard Freya barking orders at the félag and the running of boots.
In her daze, Astrid was not worried about being assassinated. The arrow had come out of nowhere, so it was easy to imagine it as an act of the goddess and not an act of a mortal.
A sign Astrid shouldn’t let herself be close to Freya.
Freya came back. Blood streamed down the side of her head, onto her neck, pooling at the collar of her jacket. Had they really kissed just minutes ago? How easily they went back to being themselves. If Astrid pretended they had never kissed, how would Freya respond?
“Varin is setting up a safe room for you within the castle,” Freya said. “You have to follow me. We don’t know who did this or when it will be safe for you to appear in public.”
“Freya,” Astrid said, but Freya was done talking, her singular focus shifted to Astrid’s safety.
She so wished the arrow belonged to the goddess. If it belonged to someone here, and they really were intent on harming Astrid, and they’d seen her with Freya on the balcony…
They already knew how much Freya meant to her.