Flames danced along the stone hearth, mocking him.
Njáll sat on the edge of the massive bed of furs. His fingers idly traced the edge of a whetstone against the steel of his axe. Despite the busy work, his mind wandered.
A muscle jumped in his cheek when the wind howled.
It had been hours.
The Völva was a ruthless mistress. She demanded too much from Elara. He hated it. He hated the way her body nearly collapsed under the weight of her trainings.
A necessary evil. But he loathed the toll it took on her.
The oak door groaned on its hinges, and Njáll was on his feet before the latch had even cleared the strike plate.
Elara stumbled over the threshold, a barely there smile slipping into place.
So little of his bright flame remained in her gaze. She looked like a ghost draped in furs.
She swayed, her movements unsteady as she wobbled towards him.
Njáll reached her in two strides, his massive arms catching her before she could hit the floor. She felt impossibly light. It was as if her work with the Völva stole a little more of her each time.
A tired hand stroked his cheek, her smile no less breathtaking.
“It’s alright. I have you, little flame."
She didn’t speak. Only leaned her forehead against his chest. Her fingers wrapped weakly around his biceps. The scent of lavender and herbs clung to her hair, eclipsing the sweet scented soap she used.
He carried her to the hearth, gently lowering her to her feet. A sleepy smile greeted him as she swayed. Soft curves glided under his palms as he gripped her hips.
With practiced movements, he began to peel away the layers of her clothing.
“Njáll. What are yo?—”
“Shhh,” he interrupted gently. “Let me take care of you.”
A slight nod dipped her chin, her hands resting on his shoulders for support.
Fox furs slid under his fingers as he pulled it away from her, tossing it aside. The sweat-slicked linen dress followed. Gooseflesh broke out over her bare flesh as he slowly peeled away her shift.
Color returned to her cheeks. That pretty shade of pink crawled down her breasts. His gaze followed, lingering on her tight, dusky nipples. The amber glow from the fire illuminated her tanned skin, making beads of sweat glisten like morning dew.
A small moan escaped her. Njáll’s cock ached, his trews too tight.
He adjusted his length, ignoring the need sizzling up his spine.
“Njáll,” she whined.
“Patience.”
The moan turned into a growl, and he laughed. His knuckles grazed her face as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
He reached for a small clay pot resting near the stones of the hearth.
Thick oil swirled inside, infused with the scent of amber, crushed pine needles, and a hint of sandalwood. He poured a generous amount into his palms, rubbing them together until the friction made the scent bloom in the damp air.
“On your belly for me, kona. Let your jarl tend to you.”
A pleased sound hummed from her as she slowly lowered herself into the furs, her arms stretched out over her head.
