“I know.”
He needed no further command.
With a low groan, Njáll stripped his tunic and climbed under the furs, pulling her close, sheltering her with the weight of his body.
“Until the end of the world, little flame,” he whispered, nuzzling into her throat.
Forty-One
Elara
Aheavy arm lay draped around her waist. Njáll had stayed close to her, only leaving her to direct and assist his warriors in rebuilding the things that had been destroyed.
The longhouse stood proud once more, its timber walls freshly scarred but intact, patched with new cedar. Claw marks still marred the tapestries that clung to the walls, tatters of the torn material etched into the fibers of the wood.
Seven souls had left them that night and the Konungr honored them with a funeral pyre that had been more a glorious celebration of their lives than somber mourning.
Ash, bone, and splintered shields no longer littered the ground, but scorched circles singed the earth.
Elara doubted they’d ever fade completely.
Most chillingly, several dwellings remained dark, their doors shuttered, marked by the distinctive, deep gouges that no amount of repair could entirely erase.
With permission from their owners, Njáll planned to tear the dwellings down and build them anew.
Despite that, Elara was content.
Her father settled into the dwelling by the river, fishing daily and building fences for the livestock and horses he planned to acquire.
A widower with long silver hair visited him almost daily, and while he insisted her mother was the only woman he’d ever love, Elara hoped they could find some shared affection for each other.
In the time since the last moon, Elara had fully healed. There had been no signs of the draugar or their intrusions. Hlif believed the binds Elara wove that night created an impenetrable shield, strengthening the veil and protecting her.
Fingers danced along her jaw, making gooseflesh skitter down her arms. She looked up and met Njáll’s dark, lingering gaze. Gold cuffs encircled his bare biceps; the onyx bearskin fur draped over his left shoulder.
A rush of heat pooled low in her belly, an instinct more than a reaction. Njáll unraveled every thread of her, only to weave them back together into something totally consumed by him.
And she loved it.
Almost as much as she loved him.
“Is there a reason my kona insists on being stubborn and refusing to wear my jewels?” he asked, nuzzling her throat while he pinched her hip, keeping her close.
A smattering of giggles and hushed exchanges followed them as they maneuvered through the busiest section of the village. Teeth flashed in her smile. People deserved to see their Jarl besotted and soft.
It made him more than a myth.
Fingers trailed over her naked collarbone, remembering the stunning amber necklace that waited for her that morning after she finished her bath.
A bath that Njáll insisted on joining. A bath that took nearly twice as long.
The memory made a shiver shake her slim shoulders.
Truthfully, she adored being spoiled, enamored by all the pretty silks and glittering glass gems. The chests in their home overflowed with more golden trinkets and finely crafted garments than she could ever want or need.
But what she enjoyed even more was Njáll’s building frustration when she denied him the pleasure of seeing her in the things he gifted her.
She reached out, running a playful finger down the long scar that bisected his torso, following it to the thick band of muscle around his waist. Tantalizing lines disappeared beneath his trews and she licked her lips.
