“Too good for your furs, Jarl. No need to flash all those muscles and scars,” a booming voice called. “There are no pretty women to show off for here.”
“Except for the cute one he took from the village,” another familiar voice said.
A possessiveness coiled low in his belly, brimming with unfamiliar emotions.
Their footsteps grew closer. An exasperated breath caught in his throat, already tired of their presence. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Bjorn and Erik, lest they snap the last thread of his patience and he toss them into the sea.
His father’s sister and his sister would hate him for it.
Of everyone in the raiding party, they were the only ones who dared to question him. Others kept their heads down and their eyes averted, fearing and respecting him.
Bjorn was kin, and as such, given far too many liberties. Ones he knowingly pushed. He may have been the son of his father’s sister, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drive a dagger through his palm if he pushed him too far.
Not when his body burned with pain and his mind whirred with unanswered riddles. Bjorn tested Njáll’s tolerance at the best of times. He was lucky Njáll adored Bjorn’s mother and was only slightly terrified of his father; second only to his own.
Erik was well on his way to becoming kin, set to wed his sister at the first frost. He possessed a will of pure stone, a loyal warrior more than worthy of his formidable sister.
A sweaty palm clapped him on the back, Bjorn’s copper braid hanging over the front of his rumpled tunic. Erik stood on his other side, caging him between the two men.
“I wish to be alone,” Njáll hissed.
“And we wish to know why,” Bjorn grinned, a drunken glaze clouding his dark eyes.
“Because my patience is thin, and I do not wish to make your mother weep when I murder her only son.”
“Not that,” Bjorn interjected, not dissuaded by his threat. “The girl. Why?”
Odin, help him; they were not going to leave it. He hadn’t fully expected to find the creature the Völva spoke of. And as such, failed to craft an explanation as to why Njáll brought a foreigner back with them.
Ale made tongues loose, and the Konungr had sworn him to secrecy. No one was to know what they truly sought out in that village.
Not even kin.
“We don’t take thralls,” Erik said, his deep voice a curious rumble.
“She is not a thrall!” Njáll bit back.
A lump bobbed in his throat as Njáll swallowed, surprised by the anger rising in him at the comment.
For as long as Njáll had been alive, the Konungr had banned the act of taking thralls. The idea of anyone believing this girl was a thrall made his skin itch.
“If not a thrall, then why? You have never shown mercy. Who is this girl?” Erik asked.
“She pleases me,” Njáll said, flicking his hand dismissively. “The choice is mine.”
“Is that what you will tell the Konungr when you present our spoils? That she pleased you? Will you present her with the trinkets to be shared among the clan?” Erik continued.
Blood boiled to the surface, stinging his chest. In no life would Freyja’s blessing be offered as a trinket to be given away. If anything, she was the flame, and he was the moth, powerless against her alluring pull.
Frustrated with his silence, Bjorn poked him further.
“Are youthatdesperate for a wet cunt? Last I remembered, women willingly came to your furs. You didn’t need to steal them,” Bjorn needled.
Before he knew what happened, bone cracked under Njáll’s fist as it connected with Bjorn’s jaw.
A pained yowl pierced the night, and Bjorn stumbled back, the bones clicking when he worked it.
Something sparked in Bjorn’s gaze, the brief anger there dissipating as a smirk tugged at one side of his mouth.
