Despite the glimmer of something more in her twinkling eyes, he knew she hated him. Hated who he was and what he had done.
The knowledge lodged itself in his ribs, stinging sharper than any blade. No amount of gentleness could ever undo her perception of him.
How could it, when it was the truth?
Maybe she’d grow to appreciate his ferocity just as he desired her fire. They were more alike than she realized.
He itched to ask her more about the familiar—the great shadow lay at her feet, its form as wispy as smoke.
Each time he thought to ask, he stifled the words, not knowing where to begin. Even though she mentioned Heaven and demons, she spoke of Fólkvangr, the realmof Freyja’s chosen.
It could not be coincidental. Freyja’s influence shone from her, illuminating her like a firefly.
A glow drawing him in, if only to burn him with her incandescence.
He hated what she made him as much as she hated who he was.
Whether she knew she did it or not, he was certain her seiðr—magic—called to him. That she wove some spell or mysticism binding him. It was the only explanation for the odd feelings swarming within him.
Many feared and respected the abilities of the völva. One lived in their village, her winters far too many to count, a seeress capable of twisting fate and bending it to Freyja’s will.
Njáll had never been of that mind, finding seiðr and their Völva fascinating. He respected her like one would a skilled warrior. Hlif, the Völva, may have appeared frail, but the woman mastered a power he would never fully comprehend.
Yet, this little priestess bewitched him.
Part of him wished she had never appeared that day. Then he’d be unburdened by her intoxicating presence.
It clung to everything—his ribs, his tongue, his soul.
He’d never be rid of her, not now.
In only a few short days, she’d changed his world, changed him. It was unfathomable. And the only explanation for it was magic.
The tips of his fingers twitched, aching to wrap around the leather hilt of his axe, to feel the familiar weight of it in his hands.
If only to feel normal again.
This woman unraveled him.
He wanted to curse her, curse Freyja and the gods for this inconvenience. Only one thing mattered: finding what he needed to protect his people from a brewing war with Hel.
He was a jarl. He was not swayed by perky breasts and sharp tongues.
At least he wasn’t supposed to be.
Yet, here he was, ready to drop to his knees and worship the fiery terror who made his furs smell of wildflowers and honey.
Her beauty, her boldness… it was nothing he’d ever seen. In the face of death, she stood proud, protecting her loved ones with strength and resilience.
Something bloomed in the depths of his tattered soul. Something told him this woman was his.
That she was meant for him. That she would absolve some of the wickedness gnarled around him like old tree roots.
Magic turned him mad with a need to claim this flame as his own. To claim something with her beyond mating. Something like his parents had. A great love, guided by Freyja’s grace.
A kona who would make his burdens a little less.
It was as his father had always told him.
