One that would surely ruin him.
And he wanted it.
Wanted to be ruined by her.
Five
Elara
Loud voices pierced her dreamless sleep. Elara groaned, burrowing further into the darkness of her bed. Thick furs slid under her fingertips, the threads silky soft. The faint scent of cedar reminded her of a smoldering fire, making her wiggle in her makeshift nest.
Waves crashed against wood, and her body straightened as she shot upright. Her eyes widened, blood rushing in her ears. Fingers clutched the nearest fur, holding it against her chest as the memory of yesterday returned.
Elara had forgotten where she was. For a moment, she believed she was in her bed. Except this wasn’t home, and it hadn’t all been a nightmare. The last thing she remembered was the cold ache consuming her as she cried, huddled on the hard floor.
Someone had moved her.
She scanned the room for signs of the Dane, finding the black fur he had discarded last night gone. A skin of water sat beside a bowl with a cloth on the box at the foot of the furs.
The dry rasp in her throat itched. She crawled across the bed, clutching the skin like a small child. Cool water slid down her throat, and a tiny moan hummed past her lips. She drank it greedily, the dull throb in her head starting to fade.
More water sloshed in the bowl with the cloth. Elara dipped the fabric in, letting the excess drip off. Standing up, she clutched her temple with her free hand, too aware of the rocking motion beneath her.
Lashes fluttered shut as she sucked in a sharp breath, willing the bile in her mouth to disappear.
Slowly, she dragged the cloth over her face, wiping away the grime from yesterday.
Dust billowed off her dress. Her dirty clothes would have to wait until they arrived wherever they were going. Despite being surrounded by water, Elara wouldn’t dare to remove her clothes on a ship filled with raiders.
The Dane may have made promises about not harming her since it would offend one of his gods, but the others made no such vows.
The ship lurched, taking her stomach with it.
Blood receded from her fingertips until a sickening chill spread through her limbs. Nausea curdled low in her belly, and she swallowed away the urge to vomit.
She sucked in a slow breath, closing her eyes, willing the tumbling feeling in her stomach to go away. The tip of her tongue trailed over her teeth as she remembered something her father once told her helped with nausea.
Three fingers lay across her wrist, and she pressed down as hard as she could on a pressure point there, the tight bunch of her muscle unfurling.
Nails scraped over the cracked skin on her lower lip, picking at it, wondering what her father was doing.
“Papa,” she whispered.
In the aftermath of the attack on their home, he’d likely taken up the responsibility to see to the recovery. If only to distract himself. After her mother passed, he’d spent weeks working from sunup to sundown tending to the fields, barely leaving time to sleep and eat.
The pained grimace in his gaze when she told him she had to leave with the Dane would haunt her for an eternity. While he’d assured her he’d find her, she didn’t dare to hope. Like her, he had never been on a ship, and even if he had, he had no idea where they had taken her.
So he likely did the only thing he could to handle his grief at losing his last surviving child—work. Hopefully, Brynne survived and would look after him.
Her stomach rolled again, more worry this time.
As she swayed with the rocking ship, she ran her fingers through her curls, working snarls free until it billowed down her spine, skimming the small of her back.
With no leather ties to secure it in a braid, the heavy mane blew free.
Maybe fresh air would help ease her stomach.
Awkwardly, she wobbled to the hide like a newborn calf, pushing it aside. Bright sunlight spilled in, warming her cold cheeks. Men moved across the deck, carrying barrels and paying her no mind.
