“Ek elska þik, dóttir mín.”
Thirty-One
Njáll
Dew dripped from the ferns, clinging to the tawny furs of his cloak as he paced the dense, winding perimeter of their lands.
Veins flexed in his hand as he adjusted the grip on his axe, thumbing the supple leather. The thudding footsteps of his warriors pounded around him, each of them patrolling the leafy trails.
An unnerving undercurrent of stillness sliced through the familiar scent of pine, setting Njáll’s instincts on edge. His heart beat a steady rhythm against his ribs, a counterpoint to the restless thrumming under his skin.
It was his duty to protect their borders, yet every stride carried the subtle stab of friction beneath his sternum. An ache that longed for him to be reunited with his kona.
After reports of unusual activity on the outskirts of the forest, Njáll had taken a dozen of his best warriors to investigate, leading to him now being away from her for three turns of the sun.
A relentless friction tore at his sternum, warring between his duty to the clan and the absolute, consuming mandate to protect his kona.
For years, he’d been a warrior of distinction, made to cleave flesh from bone.
Except now, the enemies they faced could not be tamed by steel alone.
While she tried to hide it, Njáll saw the weariness plaguing Elara’s stubborn gaze.
In the three weeks since she began training with Hlif, Njáll had watched his little flame push herself to the brink of collapse daily.
At night, she returned to their home, stumbling into his embrace, physically and mentally spent.
Her muscles often twitched from overuse, while her mind buzzed with static.
Alruna rarely appeared, even though Elara noted the draugar’s constant presence, their indistinct murmurings hissing in the shadows.
Despite that, she still smiled, tuning out their voices and stealing sweet kisses from him. He’d insist on rest, on gently oiling her strained muscles until she dozed in his arms.
At first, she’d relent, not speaking and going lax in his arms as he massaged her. Soon his cock would harden and her breathing would rasp, and she’d grab his hand, demanding more from him.
Unable to deny her anything, he’d take her on the furs, her exhaustion quickly giving way to a fierce hunger.
Her tight, delicate heat would clench around him, fluttering desperately as keening cries fell from her, muffled by the furs.
He was hers to command, and command him she did—with every whimper, every sob, every climax that made her tiny frame quake with much deserved pleasure.
Then, his nails would burrow into her hips, clutching and taking from her until he spilled his seed, collapsing beside her with her name on his lips.
The scent of her lingered in the air, the taste of her branded on his tongue.
Knowing that it had been three long nights since he’d felt the weight of her body against him or licked the sweetness from her skin gnawed at the last of his patience.
The thump in his chest urged him to return to her.
A sharp whistle pulled him from his musings. His shoulders straightened, following the sound until he reached Erik.
The usual indifferent gleam on the man’s face faded, hinting at the unease tightening in his muscles. He stood against a moss covered oak, dappled sunlight glinting off his blade.
“Jarl,” he murmured, his voice tight. “Over here.”
Njáll dipped his chin in a tight nod. His soon-to-be kin rarely used his formal title unless others were present. Being addressed as such while they were alone made the hairs on his nape prickle.
A magnificent stag lay in the muddy earth, its crown of antlers still intact as its body slumped unnaturally. The wool of Njáll’s trews stretched as he crouched, tilting the bloodied head of the animal to the side with the tip of his axe.
