Chapter 13
“Day three, how are you doing so far?”
Vidar stretches in the morning sun, showing off. Every muscle on display, like he’s carved from stone. Men don’t get much more impressive. A prime example. Heat pricks along my neck at his display. The man belongs in Asgard.
“Oh,” I say, leaning on the table and casually looking him up and down, “all things considered, I’m fine.”
It’s hard to move my eyes away. Willpower alone allows me to turn and focus on my task.
Cutting vegetables. Ausveig and I decided to prepare the evening’s soup outside, considering the beautiful weather.
The rhythm of our chopping helps me stay focused.
We have a basket of turnips and another full of purple carrots.
The sleeves on my linen shirt are rolled up, allowing a sweet wind to sweep over my forearms.
“Last night must have been tough,” says Vidar. “You did very well.”
My spine stiffens at the reminder of last night’s humiliation. He should have seen me with the girls right after.
He ends his stretch, the tight leather vest he’s wearing highlighting his rounded shoulders. He could probably lift me with one arm and place me on his shoulder, like a little girl. Or a queen on her throne. Ausveig throws me a quick sideways glance, signaling that I should answer.
“Thank you, Vidar, your guidance here has been vital. It has helped me adjust to my new life.”
I’m not sure if that is true. I’m not even sure what guidance he has offered. But he seems satisfied with my answer—as planned. Better if he views me as grateful. Docile. His smile widens.
“My father is impressed by your skills. It cost him a lot to convince the Volva to move to the forest, to make her take you in.”
“Did it?” I ask.
I wasn’t aware it had cost the jarl anything. I couldn’t imagine Groa accepting large sums for training. But I have heard of Volvas so wealthy they owned horses, land, and ships. Even golden chariots—like Freya’s, pulled by her cats.
“Yes, it’s a large investment. The jarl sees something in you,” he says, his voice thick with confidence. “I’m not sure what,” he teases.
“My balls, surely,” I say with a smile.
He laughs, smacking his knee.
“Your balls, exactly,” he says, pointing at me. “You’ll have to show them to me sometime.”
“Excuse me?” I play along coyly, giving Ausveig an exaggerated shocked look. “Watch it or you’ll anger the bull,” I say, much to Vidar’s amusement.
“You’re good fun, for a woman,” he says.
“You’re a funny man yourself,” I respond.
Vidar’s expression changes slightly, and he glances quickly at Ausveig, to read her reaction.
There’s a sea of difference between saying someone is funny and saying someone is being funny.
I’m happy it’s only the three of us. If there were more thralls present, he might make an example of me.
Humiliate me, order me to do some unseemly task.
“But,” I add, aiming to quickly contain the situation, “that skald, he’s a true funny man. You just have good jokes.”
“He’s a prick,” says Vidar. “Well preened, but not too dangerous. Would not want to have him next to me in battle.”
I breathe out. It did not escalate. My pulse thuds in my ears. Relief floods me as I chop my carrots.
“Against you then?” I ask.
“He couldn’t stand a minute.”
I look Vidar up and down, purposefully stopping a second on his toned arms.
“I believe that,” I say.
“What did you think of his poem last night?”
I snort. What a ridiculous question. Ari had added insult to injury. Salt to a wound. Shit to a shit pile.
“I wanted to end him,” I reply, making my voice cold. I raise my knife to my throat, pretending to cut across it with the wildest eyes I can muster.
He grins.
“And I believe that,” he says, before placing himself in front of us, spreading his shoulders and legs wide like a stallion showing mares his value. “Let’s just say—had you been my woman, I would challenge him and leave him bleeding into the grass.”
“Your woman?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I’m your slave.”
Chop, chop, chop. My work intensifies as seconds pass in silence. I’m afraid being claimed by Vidar might come with its own leash.
“You’re my father’s,” he says finally.
“I’m your inheritance,” I say with a forced smile, intending to make him uncomfortable. I have to admit, the man is attractive, but also disconnected from reality. He is talking to his father’s property. I couldn’t tell him to fuck off if I wanted.
“I would accept you over any blade, or farm, or gold,” he says, leaning one arm on the table. His face comes nearer to mine.
“Flirting with the merchandise?” I say with a grin, trying to save face.
“You wish,” he replies, lifting himself and walking backward with a smile. “If I were flirting, you would be naked in my arms.”
“Yet here I am, chopping carrots in my dress.”
I sigh without raising my eyes. Banter is always fun, but banter about my status as thrall—slightly less so. Seconds of silence pass without Vidar moving. Have I taken it too far?
“I wouldn’t want Ausveig to be jealous,” he says.
Ausveig snorts. Vidar walks off. I don’t shout anything after him.
“Been cocky since he was a boy, that one,” she says, turning to me with a grin. “Body like Thor though. Had I been your age, I might have considered it.”
We both laugh, exchanging sly looks.
We’re getting closer. I have a friend. A real friend. Cutting my hundredth carrot of the morning, I watch Vidar’s broad shoulders shrink with every step he takes. He can just go where he wants.
Vidar gets the last word. Kilda bites her tongue. He is the jarl’s son. I am a slave girl.