Chapter Fifteen
Freya had been refreshing her memory about orcish poisons.
She’d been calculating trajectories of projectiles, contemplating arrows and plants and the kitchen staff and how many ways there were to die.
Continually itching out of her skin, ready to burst from this room and apprehend every single person in the castle until she had some damn answers.
And then Astrid put her soft hands on Freya’s face, and Freya’s mind went completely empty. The only thought she had was to hold Astrid there in place the way Astrid was holding her. To ground each other the way only they knew how.
“My Queen,” Freya whispered. The way Astrid was looking at her was almost unbearable. So soft and trusting and full of affection.
“Astrid,” Astrid corrected gently.
“Astrid,” said Freya. “Should we talk about…?”
The unfinished question hung between them.
“No,” Astrid said. “Let’s not.”
This time, when Astrid leaned down, the kiss was soft and deliberate, not desperate.
Freya closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel every inch of contact between them, her hands on Astrid’s wrists and Astrid’s lips on hers.
Astrid was so careful with the kiss—Freya realized Astrid was trying hard not to graze Freya with her tusks, and Freya was touched by how much Astrid cared.
They’d built their bond of trust for a little over a decade, and it had evolved to something deeper and impenetrable.
A fortress within which only the two of them could reside.
Freya pulled Astrid closer, backing herself against the wall.
She loved Astrid’s hands enveloping her own and the feeling of Astrid’s firm body against hers and the way Astrid’s soft brown hair flowed around her ridged horns.
She loved that Astrid was so tall and strong and solid.
She admired her queen more than she could put into words, and the emotion filled her up.
I am not in love, Freya had told Brenn, and it was a lie.
She had been in love with Astrid for years. Maybe even as long as she had known her.
The first time Freya had seen Astrid was simultaneously forever ago and just yesterday. Beaten-down Freya, finally coming to a place that promised sanctuary and peace. And there Astrid had been, powerful and steady, the only leader to whom Freya had ever wanted to bend her knee.
And now Astrid was bending to reach Freya, and Freya was pushing off the wall and pressing the palm of her hand against Astrid’s chest to direct her deeper into the room.
When they backed into the bed, Astrid’s knees gave out and she sat on the edge of the sheets, surprised to be there, blinking as though coming out of a trance.
Still standing, Freya reached toward Astrid as though her hands couldn’t help themselves. She dropped them abruptly. “Do you need water? Or anything?” she asked, swallowing.
Astrid’s eyes were flushed, alive, when she shook her head, when she put one firm hand on Freya’s waist and dragged her onto her lap.
Conscious of Astrid’s warm thighs under her legs, Freya let her knees sink into the mattress on either side of Astrid’s and leaned in to kiss Astrid’s neck.
Astrid arched her back against Freya’s touch, and Freya had the thought that this was a kind of magic—the power to elicit this response, with Freya’s lips on Astrid’s long, soft neck.
Astrid’s pulse beat against Freya’s mouth; Freya’s fingers wrapped around Astrid’s horn; Astrid’s arm wound around Freya’s waist.
Astrid’s plait was undone, stray hairs askew, and Freya thought she had never looked more beautiful.
“Stars,” Astrid murmured at Freya’s kiss, then, “Wait, Freya.”
Freya stopped. Astrid broke the contact between Freya’s lips and her neck and rested her head on Freya’s shoulder. Her breathing was deep, rattling.
After a moment frozen—Freya in Astrid’s lap, Astrid on Freya’s shoulder—Freya stroked Astrid’s hair gently, and shifted to kiss the top of her head.
Freya waited in agony for Astrid’s next words. She was impatient. Life had come at her hard and fast, and she had learned to expect the same from it.
This left her unmoored, unknowing, and she hated being unknowing. Freya had learned the way Astrid worked, her rules and her preferences and her needs, but none of it applied to romance. She did not know Astrid’s boundaries, did not know what was acceptable and what was comfortable.
A pit formed in Freya’s stomach: A desire to discover this, too, the way she’d figured out the workings of this castle when she’d first arrived. Not knowing was the thing that kept her awake at night.
I would do anything for you, she wanted to say. I would be struck by a thousand arrows every day if it meant staying by your side.
But Freya and Astrid had never been the type to use their words to say anything so powerful or true.
“You make me forget,” said Astrid, “what a bad idea this is.”
Freya squeezed her eyes shut. She would stay with Astrid in any way Astrid would have her, and yet it hurt to hear. Already, Freya had voiced why they should be together however they wanted, and why it was a waste of time to hold back.
When had this started? How far back did it go? The first name, given like a gift. The ease of communicating without words. The offering of the dagger. Everything had been a gesture of love, almost since the start.
Freya couldn’t fathom how not to love her queen.
“What are you thinking?” Freya asked. Despite the care Astrid had taken, her tusks had still scraped Freya’s chin, and the raw skin stung in the cold, stale air of the room.
Astrid lifted her head to look Freya in the eye. Shifting, Freya lifted her legs so they weren’t touching Astrid’s. The breaking of contact was like the breaking of a spell.
“We shouldn’t touch each other,” Astrid said. “Not like this.”
“All right. Of course. As you wish,” said Freya.
She slid off the bed and back to her stool, with the poison book inside the romance book rested upon it.
Before, she hadn’t paid attention to the cover of the fictional book on the outside of her botanical research; now, the lovers in the illustration mocked her.
“I’m sorry,” Astrid said.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Freya whispered, biting back the My Queen and the subsequent correction to Astrid.
She would need to keep her mouth shut and stay in her place to maintain her proximity to Astrid.
It was not fair to Astrid to engage in something she wasn’t comfortable with, even if they both wanted it.
The want was present on Astrid’s face in the concerned furrow of her brow.
“What would you like me to do?” Freya asked finally. “Should I leave?”
“Please don’t,” Astrid said. “I feel trapped in here, Freya. I do. Is there any other way to keep me safe where I can have a window and walk around?”
“This is safest.” Varin had arranged the accommodations, and Freya trusted his wisdom after his many years of serving Astrid. He’d served the previous ruler, too, and helped Torden through its civil war. “I can bring something comforting in here to make you feel less trapped?”
Astrid did not look pleased at the prospect. Of course, Astrid’s usual rooms were already austere. Stripped down to the essentials, like Astrid was stripped down to the essentials of what it meant to be a queen.
“Don’t leave,” Astrid said, because she did not need to say what Freya already knew. “But don’t touch me. And I won’t touch you.”
Freya’s gaze dropped to Astrid’s hands in her lap, fidgeting, one of them rubbing the inside of Astrid’s thigh.
Almost as if…
Something light and buoyant simmered through Freya’s fingertips. Her original assumption about not knowing Astrid enough in this aspect was wrong.
Freya dropped the books on the floor and sat rigid in the stool, setting her feet apart ever so slightly. “Of course. We won’t touch each other,” she said carefully.
“Yes,” Astrid said. Her fingers found the waist of her trousers, and she nudged them down an inch at a time. Freya merely watched as the fabric passed over Astrid’s knees, then her calves, pleasantly toned, and finally past her ankles and onto the floor.
The hem of Astrid’s tunic lifted as she rolled it up with her fingers. A slow reveal, like pulling back a curtain.
Her brown skin reflected the room’s warm candlelight, and then the tunic was bunched around her waist, her smallclothes revealed. White cloth covered Astrid’s softest parts, wisps of dark hair curling around the edges.
Astrid paused with her tunic rolled up to her hips. Her legs opened wider and then came to a stop. A second passed, then two.
She was waiting, Freya realized.
Freya fumbled with the laces of her trousers, stood to slide them down, left them at her ankles.
Her bare legs were exposed, and Astrid was drinking in every inch of them in a way Freya rarely let anyone do.
Freya raised her tunic and placed her fingers against the pin keeping her smallclothes in place. Astrid mirrored the movement.
Freya licked her lips. Should she say something? Were they really doing this?
“Astrid,” she started, and Astrid unclipped the pin holding the cloth covering her in place, and Freya had no words left.
Astrid’s eyes were intense, set on Freya’s, as she parted her legs farther for Freya to see her. Between her legs, Astrid glistened in a way that made Freya’s mouth water. How Freya yearned to drop to her knees, to touch and taste and satisfy her queen.
Instead, she sat back on her wooden stool and unraveled her own undergarment, revealing herself to Astrid in reciprocation. Their eyes met, blazing. Freya gave a slight nod; Astrid’s hand drifted toward her inner thigh.
The division between them and the rest of the world, the realization of Freya’s fantasies come true—all of it culminated in a sense of surreality.
It was not hard to imagine the hand Freya placed against her hip was Astrid’s and not hers.
That the slow, circular movement Astrid began against her clit was something out of a dream.
Freya mimicked Astrid’s movements, following her pace. She was overly conscious of every one of her senses, as if time had slowed down. A faltering on Astrid’s face, so unlike her. Their breaths filling the tiny space, faster and faster. A squelching noise, almost embarrassing in volume.
A moan—Astrid’s. They’d reached a frantic speed with their touching, and Freya leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
She pretended her fingers were against Astrid’s cunt and not her own; she pretended she was being touched by Astrid and not herself.
She heard a hitched sigh, imagined the look on Astrid’s face that she would make if Freya was the one to pleasure her.
If Astrid could lie there and focus on her pleasure alone.
In her mind, Freya saw Astrid’s head rolling back, her horns catching on the fabric and pulling it, her mouth parted in satisfaction. How it would feel to run her hands over Astrid’s bare spine.
The change in breathing was Freya’s only indication Astrid was close. Her eyes snapped open. Astrid was struggling to sit up. Her other hand twitched against her thigh, and Freya wanted to take it, to finish out together, but she didn’t quite dare.
Astrid’s eyes squeezed shut. Her body began to tremble.
She let out a soft, “Oh,” and shivered. Freya’s body reacted more to Astrid than to her own movements, and she rode the crest of the wave coming on and held it back for as long as she could, until it overcame her all at once.
She clamped her mouth shut to hold in a noise the guards outside would have heard.
Astrid’s hand came to a stop, her fingertips wet in the candlelight.
Later, after they’d taken turns cleaning themselves up in silence, Freya returned to her stool, her body buzzing with energy.
She needed to discuss what this meant, where this was going, what to expect.
And she was fairly certain Astrid had little intention of doing so.
The conflicted look on Astrid’s face when she stole glimpses of Freya from under her sheets left no doubt in Freya’s mind about Astrid’s internal struggle with what she wanted.
Freya knew what Astrid wanted. She would have to let Astrid come to that conclusion with finality on her own.
And so Freya kept her quiet. Her leg bounced with anxiety, and nothing would stop it. When she crossed her arms over her chest, she could not stop them from shaking a bit.
And Astrid noticed.
“Freya,” she said, and Freya waited for the chastisement to come. Perhaps an order to leave. “Can you take out my plait?”
Rather than getting up, Astrid turned her back to Freya and shifted to the other side of the bed, like she wanted Freya to get in.
Freya was conscious of the smell of sweat clinging to her skin after this long day as she lifted the covers to join Astrid.
She found the iron band holding Astrid’s hair in place and twisted it free.
They had no comb or hair oils. Instead, Freya used her bare hands to unwind Astrid’s long hair.
She raked her fingers through the soft brown strands and allowed herself to soak in Astrid’s comforting smell.
“Thank you, Freya,” Astrid said, and Freya could not stand the unknowing of it all.
“Did we take it too far?” she blurted.
Astrid took Freya’s hand in hers and wrapped Freya’s arm around her. Freya nestled into her back and waited for a response. For any confirmation or firm rejection.
She wouldn’t get it. Astrid pressed Freya’s fingers to her lips and sighed.
“Too far,” Astrid said, “and somehow not far enough.”