Chapter 24
Lorna
The next three days passed in a blur of phone calls and strategic conversations.
Aksel provided me with names, but my v?lva’s sight showed me what to say to each person, which threads to pull, which promises to make.
I called party members I’d known for years, influential friends who had watched me play the dutiful wife and now heard something entirely different in my voice.
“Anders, it’s Lorna,” I said into the phone on the morning of the first day, my fingers twisting the silk robe I wore.
“Yes, I know about Takken. That’s why I’m calling.
Jagland needs leadership, real leadership, and I think you and I both know the party can’t afford to wait for trials and investigations to play out. ”
Anders Lindholm, one of the coalition’s senior members, was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of cautious interest. “What exactly are you proposing, Lorna?”
“A leadership challenge,” I said, the words flowing with a certainty born of my visions. “The party needs someone untainted by Takken’s corruption. Someone who can restore public trust while maintaining our coalition’s strength.”
“And you believe that someone is you?” He didn’t sound skeptical—merely curious.
“I know it is.” I let the steel show in my voice, the same steel that had carried me through Horakovsky’s torture. “Meet me for coffee tomorrow. I think you’ll find I’m not the woman you remember.”
The conversation with Ingrid S?rensen, the coalition’s deputy leader, went even better. My v?lva’s sight had shown me exactly what she needed to hear—not just political strategy, but acknowledgment of the frustrations she’d swallowed for years watching Takken’s increasingly erratic leadership.
“He never listened,” she admitted over our secure line, her voice tight with long-suppressed anger. “Every warning about Horakovsky, every concern about the energy deals—he dismissed it all.”
“I’m listening now,” I said simply. “And I’ll need your experience if we’re going to rebuild trust.”
By the third day, I’d spoken to seventeen key party members, six coalition partners, and three influential media figures.
Aksel monitored each conversation from his command center, occasionally providing data through encrypted messages, but mostly he let me work.
My visions guided me with increasing clarity—I could see which arguments would resonate, which promises would bind these people to my cause.
On the evening of the third day, Aksel found me in the safehouse’s small kitchen, reviewing notes for my final calls. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“It’s time,” he said quietly.
I looked up from my tablet, my heart suddenly hammering. “Time for what?”
“Tomorrow morning, you’re going to announce your candidacy at a surprise press conference.” His eyes held mine with absolute certainty. “The momentum is perfect. Any longer and we risk losing the initiative.”
The fear that shot through me was immediate and visceral. “Tomorrow? But I haven’t—”
“You’re ready.” He crossed to me, his hand cupping my face with that combination of dominance and tenderness that made my knees weak. “You’ve done everything necessary. The party is with you. The coalition is with you. All that remains is to claim what’s yours.”
I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his certainty. “And afterward?”
His thumb traced my lower lip, and I saw heat flare in his eyes. “Afterward, little v?lva, you’re going to take your Herra’s tól in your fisse and your r?vhul until you feel utterly reclaimed.”
My whole body trembled at his words. To my surprise, alongside the surge of need between my legs, I felt a spark of rebellion rise in my chest. Who’s he to claim the future prime minister? a defiant voice asked in my mind. To promise such obscene degradations?
Another voice answered, He’s the man who will whip you if you disobey… if you refuse him his way with your body… your pussy… your bottom. You are a bed thrall… a powerful man’s sexual servant… his submissive fuck toy—even if you’re a v?lva because of it… even if you’ll also be a prime minister.
I swallowed hard, my heart racing. “Yes, Herra,” I whispered.
The press conference went better than I’d dared hope.
My hands had trembled as I’d approached the podium in the Parliament building’s press room, but the moment I’d seen the cameras, something inside me had steadied.
I’d announced my candidacy with a clarity I hadn’t known I possessed, speaking of Jagland’s need for untainted leadership, for a vision that served the people rather than corrupt oligarchs.
And I’d introduced Aksel as my life partner.
The murmur that had rippled through the assembled journalists had been audible, but I’d held my ground.
“I won’t hide who I am anymore,” I’d said, meeting their cameras with unflinching directness.
“My husband’s corruption and my own journey through darkness have taught me that authenticity is the only path forward.
This man standing beside me represents the values Jagland needs—strength, integrity, and an unwavering commitment to our nation’s future. ”
Aksel had remained silent throughout, his presence a pillar of support at my shoulder. But I’d felt the weight of his approval, the fierce pride radiating from him like heat.
Now, hours later, we returned to the prime minister’s residence—my residence, now: for the moment I lived there technically just until the new prime minister was chosen, but I had no doubt that my vision would come to pass.
The Sons of Odin and the Pretorian Guard had arranged it so that every thread in Yggdrasil led to me residing here for at least the next six years.
The security detail that had accompanied us melted away as we entered, leaving us alone in the grand foyer. My legs felt unsteady, the adrenaline of the day finally catching up to me.
“You were magnificent,” Aksel said, his hand settling on my lower back. The possessive touch, light as it was, brought a familiar heat down below my belly. Warmth crept into my cheeks, too, at the thought of how insatiable I’d become for my Herra’s hard tól inside me.
“I felt like I was going to vomit the entire time,” I admitted, leaning into his strength.
“That’s what courage is, little one. Doing what must be done despite the fear.” He guided me deeper into the residence, past the formal rooms where I’d played dutiful wife for so many years. “Come. I have something for you.”
In the private sitting room, I saw it immediately—a wooden crate, perhaps four feet long and three feet wide, sitting incongruously on the Persian rug. My heart began to hammer as I recognized the dimensions.
“Herra, what—”
“Open it,” he commanded softly.
My fingers fumbled with the catches, and when I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat.
A bride saddle lay nestled in protective padding, but this one was different from the one at the safehouse.
The wood was darker, polished to a mirror sheen, and intricate Norse designs had been carved along its length—serpents and ravens intertwining in patterns that seemed to shift in the lamplight.
“I had it made specially for you,” Aksel said, moving to stand behind me. His hands settled on my shoulders, his breath warm against my ear. “For the prime minister who is also my submissive bed thrall. It seemed fitting that you should have one worthy of both roles.”
“Here?” I gasped, heat flooding my face. “But anyone could walk in,” I protested, even as my pulse quickened at the thought of what he intended. “The staff, security, visiting dignitaries—Herra, this is too embarrassing.”
Aksel’s hands tightened on my shoulders, and I felt him lean closer, his voice dropping to that tone that made my knees weak.
“If anyone sees it, you can simply tell them it’s an abstract work of art.
A sculpture celebrating Nordic craftsmanship.
” His lips brushed my ear. “No one will know what it’s truly for except you and me. ”
I turned to face him, my cheeks burning. “But I’ll know. Every time I sit at my desk, every time I meet with advisors or coalition partners, I’ll be looking at the thing you use to—to—” I couldn’t finish the sentence, the words too mortifying to speak aloud.
“To what?” he challenged, his steel-gray eyes holding mine. “To train you? To remind you of your place? To make you come so hard you see the world tree? To use what belongs to me for my pleasure?”
“Yes,” I whispered, my face aflame. “All of that. Herra, please, it’s too much. Can’t we keep it somewhere private? Your safehouse, or—”
“No.”
The single word cut through my protests like a blade. His hand moved to grip my chin, forcing me to maintain eye contact.
“The woman who will lead this nation needs to remember what grounds her. What makes her strong.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “This stays here, in your private sitting room, where you’ll see it every day and remember that you belong to me as much as you belong to Jagland.”
I knew I should submit. Knew that arguing further would only earn me punishment. But something in me—that spark of rebellion that had never quite died despite all my training, in part because I knew my Herra valued it despite his dominance—made me try once more.
“I won’t have it here,” I said, lifting my chin despite his grip. “It’s inappropriate. Undignified. The prime minister can’t—”
His hand moved so fast I barely registered it before it cracked across my bottom. The sharp sting made me gasp, and I saw satisfaction flash in his eyes.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My defiant little v?lva, hoping her Herra will put her in her place.”