chapter ten
bjorn
T he wooden horse waits.
Four legs. Iron bolts. A spine carved sharp enough to split you open just from sitting wrong. And that’s the point—there’s no right way to sit on Brúnhildr. She was made for pain. Built for sacrifice.
They called it a torture device once. Way back in the old books—used on traitors, witches, thieves. You’d be stripped down, hoisted up, legs spread wide, dropped onto the blade of wood until the pain taught you something about yourself. Or broke you trying.
We built ours by hand.
Sanded the beam until it gleamed. Sharpened the ridge to a cruel point. Stained the wood in blood and ash until the grain turned dark as sin. Brúnhildr, Johnny named her—said she reminded him of a war maiden, proud and punishing. I liked that. She doesn’t just punish. She remembers.
And tonight, she’s hungry.
A girl kneels beside the base, branded black and eager. Leather cinched at her waist, her thighs already trembling. Her eyes flick up to me like I’m a god about to hand her a revelation.
I step closer, running a hand along the peak.
“She won’t bite,” I murmur, voice low. “Not unless you ask nice.”
The girl moans.
Johnny circles her like a vulture, laughing, already wrapping the rope that’ll keep her tied down once she’s up. Alaska watches, crouched low, eyes gleaming through the mess of chains around her neck.
We don’t have to speak to know how this goes. Lux is in the crowd, Indie beside him, watching the setup with sharp, approving eyes. The firelight reflects off the lacquered beam, and the crowd presses in.
They know what this is.
They came for it.
I look at the girl again—shaking, breathless, dripping with anticipation. And gods help me, I love this part.
Brúnhildr always draws blood.
And that blood? It’s always an offering.
She’s stripped bare. Ankles bound. Wrists cuffed behind her back. Runes streak her thighs in smudged red, her breasts raw and welted—evidence of Indie’s whip, and the fun she clearly had breaking her in.
“You begged for this,” I growl, circling her like a predator. “So you’ll take it. With pride. With pain.”
Her head bobs. She’s crying. Smiling. Wet.
“Please. Hurt me.”
Johnny giggles from the far side of the horse, licking red off his thumb. He’s painted like sin, blood smeared across his lips like lipstick.
“Gooooood little slut,” he sings, eyes wild. “Tell Daddy Johnny what a depraved little doll you are.”
“I’m nothing,” she gasps. “Just a thing. A toy for the gods.”
“Atta girl,” Lux says coolly, stepping behind her. “Now climb.”
She obeys.
Shaking. Moaning. She lowers herself onto the wooden peak, legs split wide, the sharpened edge sinking into the soft place between them. Her scream rips through the tent like a hymn. Her body spasms. Blood trickles.
And still, she rides it.
I grip the edge of the platform, pulse pounding.
The crowd watches, breathless. Waiting.
“Look at her!” I bellow, voice raw, wild. “She’s not just flesh—she’s faith ! This is what devotion looks like!”
Johnny cackles from the other side, twirling his blade like a conductor’s wand.
“She’s singing,” he grins. “Can’t you hear it?”
Her sobs turn to whimpers, to gasps, to trembling prayer.
Lux leans close, dragging the edge of a blade across her collarbone. “Bleed for them. Make it beautiful.”
Not deep. Just enough to draw red.
Johnny hums, climbing the other side of the platform and whispering into her ear, “How’s it feel, baby? Having your cunt peeled open for an audience?”
She sobs and leans forward. Lux catches her hair and yanks her head back.
“Don’t you fucking fall,” he snaps. “You stay on that blade like a good little shrine.”
The crowd moans. Some cheer. A masked woman starts crying and fingering herself against a post. A man in chains jerks himself raw while biting down on a hot coal.
“Look what you’re doing to them,” I whisper in the girl’s ear. “You’re making the whole world come.”
“Can I come?” she pleads, eyes wide, body trembling as her blood soaks the beam.
“Only when the gods do.”
I press my fingers between her thighs—slick with blood and arousal—and push two inside. She howls.
“You feel that?” I growl. “That’s your shame. That’s your prayer.”
Johnny’s behind her now, stroking himself over his pants, hips swaying like he’s dancing to a tune only he can hear. His head tilts, eyes wide and glossy, that unhinged grin stretching ear to ear. Blood streaks his cheeks like warpaint, and his chest rises with shallow, giddy breaths.
“This is so beautiful I could cry,” he whispers, voice thick with awe and madness—like he’s watching a sunrise made of sin.
“You’re fucking crying already,” Lux mutters.
“Nope,” Johnny giggles. “Just drooling.”
He spits in her hair and she moans.
I grip her hips, lifting her slightly, then slam her down again. The peak drives deeper and she screams again. Louder. Higher.
“You were made for this,” I tell her. “Made to bleed for something greater.”
She shakes. Her eyes roll.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please let me come.”
“Do it,” I say. “But know this—your pleasure belongs to the gods.”
She wails and shudders. Coming hard as blood drips down the beam in rivulets.
And then Johnny slams the hilt of his blade into the back of her head.
She slumps.
Not dead. But wrecked.
Used.
Perfect.
“Flesh for fire,” I murmur, dragging a rune across her back with a streak of her own blood. “Blood for balance.”
The crowd erupts.
They scream like zealots, clawing at the air, moaning into each other’s mouths, bodies thrashing in unholy rhythm. Someone throws a severed hand onto the platform—it slaps wetly against the wood, twitching like it still wants to participate. Another masked guest offers up their own body, kneeling, arms outstretched, tears and blood running down their cheeks in equal measure.
The fire roars.
The gods are fed.
And Brúnhildr drinks deep.
But the hunger isn’t gone. Not yet.
“The gods grow bored,” Lux calls from the edge of the platform, his voice cold and slick like polished bone. “Will no one reward her sacrifice?”
“Use her,” Johnny sings, spinning in place like a blood-drunk ballerina. “Share her with the gods. Let her ruin mean something.”
A ripple of hunger rolls through the pit. A dozen hands twitch upward, but only one man steps forward.
Burly. Wretched. Reeking of rot and old liquor. His black band is stained, his pants already undone. His mask hangs crooked off one ear, revealing pockmarked cheeks and a crooked sneer.
He climbs the steps without invitation, eyes locked on the girl slumped over Brúnhildr’s spine like a broken doll.
“Reward her,” I growl. “Let the gods watch.”
He grunts, grabs her by the hips, and yanks her off the horse. She slumps to the floor in a heap of sweat and blood, limbs limp but still twitching, moaning low in her throat.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He drops to his knees beside her, dragging his filthy hands over the insides of her thighs where blood still runs in slow rivulets. He moans like it’s mead. Like it’s holy. His fingers tremble as he spreads her legs, mouth falling open, breath catching as he leans in?—
Not out of reverence.
Out of greed.
He buries his face in the mess she left behind. Slurping. Groaning. His fingers dig deep, leaving bruises as he gorges himself on the offering like a starving disciple before an altar.
The crowd roars louder. Someone faints. Someone else comes just from watching.
“Blessed be the mad,” Johnny whispers, grinning wide enough to split skin. “Blessed be the blood.”
I stand tall above them all, dripping, silent, the gods still hot in my lungs.
And below me?
One woman’s sacrifice becomes a feast.
Brúnhildr doesn’t just drink tonight.
She inspires worship.