Chapter 27
Iqueue at the longhouse for breakfast, my temples throbbing from my truncated slumber.
Even though I eventually managed to fall back asleep after Mor was awakened in the middle of the night to tend a birthing shifter in the Fir Valley, my dreams were full of Nordin attacking Havrik and vice versa.
“Did you hear about Ty?” Saga’s ex, Yrsain, asks her current squeeze, a deeply freckled human by the name of Agar, who has recently moved from the Glaciers’ domain to ours. “He got bitten last night by the hostage.” Her eyes find mine over her girlfriend’s fiery locks.
I’d once upon a time been hopeful she’d stop disliking me, but she never did. Not when she was dating Saga, and especially not after their breakup. Which I heard she blamed me for, Fenrir only knows why.
“Leif said Ty’s racked with fever and chills,” Yrsain continues, still glowering my way. “I tried to get him a tonic for the pain but was turned away at the healer’s door.”
Since the healer is Mor, I bristle.
“Why’d she refuse to help him?” Agar asks, orange lashes reeling high.
“Because of his late father’s addiction. Apparently, that sort of thing runs in one’s blood. Dragonshit, if you ask me. Anyway, I’m going to go visit him after breakfast.” Yrsain steps forward. “I’d ask you to come with me, but it could be dangerous.”
“Why would it be dangerous?” the redhead asks, holding out her bowl to Tessja, who, when not herding our pack’s flock with her family, helps out in the kitchen.
Even though many Vales cook at home, many more rely almost entirely on communal dining. Especially those who’ve yet to find a mate but have moved out of their family dwelling.
“Because the vampyr toxin is in his blood, Agar,” Yrsain explains, “so if he bites you, he could turn you.”
Agar pulls in a startled breath.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I say before realizing I probably shouldn’t have weighed in.
“Didn’t realize how involved you were in our discussion, Zaskja,” Yrsain drones. “Or that you were so well-versed in all things vamps.”
My cheeks heat. “I’m not by any means well-versed, but I don’t think Tyron could transmit the venom by biting Agar. Maybe if his blood came in contact with hers, though…”
The girls’ relentless scrutiny makes me feel like I’m still wearing the fur cloak I shed at the door.
“Anyway, it’s probably best to stay away—like Yrsain advised.” I add the last part in the hopes that the female shifter will stop ogling me as though I were mud on her shoe. As they finally make their way toward two vacant seats, I pop my bowl out to Tessja with a falsely cheery, “Morning.”
She doesn’t reciprocate my greeting. All I get is a warning.
“Porridge is slimier than usual. Had to thin down the milk with water, ’cause my poor goats’ udders are running dry.
At the rate I’m milking them, I’ll be lucky if I have any herd left come winter’s end.
” She slops so little gruel into my bowl that I keep the recipient raised until she calls out, “Next.”
I frown. Where Tessja has given everyone else a ladleful—even Agar—I could lick the bottom of my bowl twice and be done with my meal.
“Is there a reason you’re starving Zaskja?” Nordin’s deep voice alters the rhythm of my heart.
I glance over my shoulder to find him sidling behind me, eyes as dark as the long-sleeved tunic that clings to his broad torso.
“Lady Stormsson instructed us to serve less to those who can’t shift.” Tessja’s light-brown complexion has flushed a bright pink.
A wave of irritation pours off his skin and splashes mine. “I didn’t realize the Glacier girl before Zaskja could shift.”
Not wanting to make a scene, I turn, murmuring, “It’s all right. I’m not all that hungry anyway.”
“It’s not all right.” He catches my hip, keeping me in place, then wrests the bowl from my gloved fingers.
“Nordin…” I grumble through clenched teeth.
His fingers squeeze my hip bone. “I saw what less looked like, and it’s not the dribble you gave Zas. Now, please fill up her bowl.”
I seal my lips as metal scrapes against metal in the painfully quiet room. Although I’m grateful for the extra food, I’m concerned about the repercussions of Nordin’s intervention. I’m already not a pack favorite, and even less so now that Ty was wounded.
“And just so we’re clear”—Nordin’s voice rings so loudly it disrupts the tempo of my pulse some more—“that vampyr is here because of me, not because of Zaskja. So if you have a problem with his detainment, you take it up with me, am I understood?”
Nordin steers me toward the deserted end of one of the communal tables, carrying my bowl while I strangle the spoon I slipped into my dress pocket earlier.
He takes a seat beside me on the bench, his massive frame shielding me from the stares directed our way, and slides the bowl in front of me. “How often has this happened?”
“Has what happened?”
“The ludicrous portions you’re served.”
“I’ve mostly been eating at home.” I dip my spoon into the gruel and carry it up to my mouth. It’s bland and slimy, like I imagine a slug to taste. “How’s Tyron?”
A nerve feathers his jaw. “He’ll live.”
“I heard Mor refused to give him something for the pain.”
The bench whines as Nordin pivots farther toward me. “Eira dropped off an herbal tonic last night. Who said otherwise?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Lies matter. Because lies turn into truths if repeated enough times.”
I set my spoon down in my bowl, spine stiff from the scrutiny we’re garnering. “Nordin, please drop it.”
He works his jaw from side to side.
“Did you already have breakfast?” I ask, to change the subject.
“I did.”
“Then how come you’re here?”
“Because I had a break between my training sessions with the pups.” He tugs at a string slung across his chest and threads it over his head. “And I wanted to give you this.”
This turns out to be a bow that’s so new, the buffed ash timber gleams bone-white.
“I finished crafting it right before my morning sessions,” he says, handing it to me.
The weapon has almost no weight to it, yet the curved arm is thick where it needs to be.
“It’s spectacular, Nordin.” As I twist it around to examine every detail—from Fenrir’s face etched on the riser to the purple Vale stripe painted along the length of the arched arm—his palm finds my thigh under the table.
I don’t startle, but I do swallow.
“Finish your porridge.” His murmur is so husky it pebbles my flesh. “So we can go fetch some arrows at your place to test out if it’s any good.”
Since everything Nordin crafts is exceptional, I grasp he’s using it as an excuse to get me alone. I set down the bow and shovel down the barley goo while his pinkie draws tiny arcs along the inside of my thigh. Though his touch is nowhere near my core, I find myself squeezing my legs.
I grip his fingers. “You best not do that.”
He slides his hand off my thigh and rubs his jaw, muttering a quiet, “Shit.”
“What age group were you training?” I ask to distract us both from the heat building between us, and to lead any eavesdroppers astray.
“Hormonal thirteen-year-olds. I wouldn’t be surprised if two of them will shift in the coming days, given how aggressive they are.”
I gather the last spoonful of mushy barley. “Were you aggressive before you first shifted?”
“According to Bjorn, I was.” He rubs his jaw again, targeting the paler slice of skin amid his brown scruff. “Still am. Especially on and around full moons.”
Explains Myrknótt… “So, I should keep all our arguments for dark moons?”
He smiles. “Planning on arguing often with me, love?”
My lashes shoot up, and I dart a glance around, relieved to find most shifters have gone back to chatting among themselves instead of ogling.
All but one.
Saga streaks out of the breakfast line, white-knuckling her bowl. “Hello, family,” she bellows, shoving right between us. “How was everyone’s night?”
“Mor had to go birth a pup in the middle of it, but apart from that”—and my nightmares of dueling werewolves—“great. Yours?”
“Restful. Don’t I seem rested?” Saga’s tone is so pert that I arch a brow. She leans over to hiss, “Could you two have been sitting any closer?”
I murmur back, “Yes. I could’ve sat on his lap; I didn’t.”
She levels me with a flat stare.
“We were just leaving.” Nordin sweeps his gift off the table and stands. “Zas was going to test out her new bow.”
“How fun.” Saga swings her legs off the bench and hops to her feet. “I love shooting arrows. I’ll come with.”
“You haven’t even had breakfast,” Nordin counters.
“Never been my favorite meal.”
Brother and sister stare at one another for so long that many are now watching their interaction.
I stand and carry my dirty bowl to the dish trough. After giving it a quick scrub and rinse, I set it upside down to dry, then return to the siblings, whose staring contest is still going strong.
“You’re welcome to come with us and test it for yourself, Saga,” I say, walking past them. “But I get to shoot first.”
I grab my cloak on the way out but don’t bother donning it, for my skin blazes too hot for an extra layer. And then I wait for them. It doesn’t take long for the heavy door to swing behind both white-haired Stormssons.
“Are you trying to get caught?” Saga asks.
“If you keep acting so nervy, we will,” Nordin mutters.
“Because you didn’t just refer to Zas as love back there?”
My face warms some more because if Saga heard it, then so did everyone else in the longhouse.
With a grimace, she says, “Best start calling me love too.”
Nordin slings the bow over his shoulder and crosses his arms. “I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
Saga taps her foot. “Gods, we’re so going to get caught.”
“We?” Nordin echoes.
“Well, yeah. I’m involved now.”
“Nordin and I will be more careful. Promise.” I catch her hand and give it a squeeze.
“On the upside, if we did get caught, you’d have a chance of becoming Alpha.” Nordin smiles.
She doesn’t. I don’t either. I hate it when he jokes about giving up on his dream.
“That’s about as funny as your plan to challenge Havrik to a duel to keep him away from Zas,” Saga carps.
“A duel?” The shrill voice that cuts through the air makes both siblings go rigid.
Where Saga murmurs a quick, “Shit,” Nordin purses his lips and cuts his stare to where his mother has just changed form on the trail leading into the village.
“You best be jesting, Son,” Sigrid says.
Nordin’s prolonged silence causes his mother’s features to shuffle between anguish and anger.
Anger that she directs at me. “Zaskja got herself into this situation. It’s not your father’s or your respon—”
“Mor!” Nordin’s tone is so bladed it slices through her sentence.
“What?” Sigrid snaps.
“Varganson’s demands are preposterous,” Nordin growls. “But worse is the fact that Far hasn’t told him to fuck right off.”
Because he’s entertaining the offer.
Sigrid tosses her arm in my direction. “Zaskja attacked an Alpha. There are consequences. She’s lived long enough among us to be aware of them.”
“If I hadn’t neutralized his magic, Havrik would probably have killed me, Sigrid,” I pitch in.
“Which is why you should be ecstatic and incredibly grateful that he’s suggested marriage.”
Saga sucks in a breath. “Are you kidding, Mor? Havrik’s a monster!”
“Don’t mistake strength for cruelty.” Sigrid’s response causes Saga’s mouth to gape and Nordin’s knuckles to crack. “If the male were a true monster, he would’ve taken Nika against her will, and he didn’t.”
A tremor zips through Saga’s fingers. “I can’t believe you’re defending his character right now.”
“I try to see the best in everyone.” Sigrid stares at me as she says this, as though she were looking for the best in me but has yet to locate it. She finally turns her attention back to her children. “Besides, despite her lack of magic, Zaskja isn’t weak, thanks to her upbringing.”
Saga’s lips flatten into a line as white as the trampled snow at our feet.
“Not to mention that she’s a Stormsson,” my aunt continues. “Havrik wouldn’t dare disrespect her, for he knows that doing so would be a slight to us all.”
Rage flickers like lightning across Nordin’s features, thundering in the cold blue morning. “If I learn that you and Far are entertaining the proposal, then I’ll challenge Varganson this very second.”
Saga’s breath hitches.
“Are you,” he begins, enunciating each syllable. “And Far. Entertaining. Giving Zas away. To that piece of. Ravine shit?”
“No, we’re not entertaining it.” Sigrid doesn’t even blink as she spouts what has to be a lie, since I know for a fact that her mate is very much considering it.
Unless she’s unaware of Ulf’s desire to pitch me into another pack?
A film slips over her irises. “Your father would like to see you, Nordin.”
“I’m busy at the moment. Tell him that I’ll track him dow—” Nordin’s molars jam so hard it cuts him off mid-word.
When he glowers at his mother, I take it that she must’ve apprised her mate of the situation, and that Ulf has taken the liberty of speaking directly into his son’s mind.
Without looking away from his mother, Nordin unhooks the bow and hands it to me. “I’ll come by the forge when I’m done.” And then he’s stalking off in the direction of his parents’ dwelling.
Sigrid shuts her eyes for an instant. When she opens them, the whites have become rosy. “If you have any affection for our family, Zaskja, you won’t force Nordin to concern himself with this matter.”
“Force him? Are you fu—” Saga tongues her teeth as though to sweep away the curse. “Are you kidding, Mor?”
Sigrid purses her lips. “I don’t kid about my children’s lives. Not after losing…” She inhales deeply, then finishes in a cracked voice, “Not after losing your brother.”
Her wet eyes transform my frustration into pity. Sigrid is scared.
Like I am. “I promise to keep Nordin from dueling Havrik, Sigrid.”
“That’s nice to hear, but his father will ensure that never happens.”
I frown. “How?”
Sigrid backs away. Before turning, she says, “He’ll forbid him with his Alpha pitch.”
My fingers clench around my new bow. What if Ulf uses his Alpha pitch not only to keep his son away from Havrik, but also from me?