Despite the cold indifference swirling around her, it only made her more stunning, illuminating her like a statue carved from ice. Huffing, he dropped his fur cloak to the floor with a thud.
Njáll had taken on hordes of warriors, survived blades to the chest without a wince. Yet, he found himself incapable of crossing the chasm between the door and the girl who entranced him.
He’d fall to his knees if only to have her glare at him.
Perhaps he had to do that to regain her favor.
Whatever spell she cast on him made him long for her forgiveness. He was no more than a hound begging for scraps from its owner’s table. And what a cruel charm it was, making him infatuated with a creature who despised him.
Njáll swallowed his pride, his mouth dry. A deliberate breath strained the fabric of his tunic across his torso. Words itched at the back of his throat. Ones he had only ever spoken to his parents.
“Little flame,” he began, his blood chilling when she still refused to look at him. “Many sorries. For the pain my people have caused you. For the pain I have caused you.”
Finally, she turned, and those bright, jade eyes met his.
They lacked all emotion.
No warmth. No anger.
Only hollow, barren shells he longed to see ignite with her passion.
Fury.
Anything.
The light from the fire cast a warm glow over her features. She looked like a goddess in will and appearance. The apology stripped him down to his marrow, waiting with stuttered breaths for the judgement from his little executioner.
Strands of auburn hair fell over her brow, and he itched to brush them off her face. She blinked, her long lashes fluttering before her pink lips parted.
“I accept your words, but it doesn’t change what has happened.”
Her words settled like rocks in his stomach, the gravelly pieces irritating his throat. The tendons in his hands pulsed as he clenched his fists. Those brilliant eyes watched him, her chin high and her shoulders back.
Words were pretty, fleeting things. They meant little.
Actions were loud.
He’d show her the lengths he’d go to earn her warmth.
Njáll disappeared into a darkened corner of his home, lifting the massive metal basin and placing it beside the fire.
Silently, she watched his movements. The tip of her pink tongue swept along her lower lip, appreciating how the sweat from his labors stuck his sheer tunic to his torso. His chest puffed out while he worked, bathing in her gaze.
Gathering two tin pails, he filled them with water from the river, steaming the buckets over a bed of coals before dumping them into the basin.
By the time the bath was filled with steaming water, sweat covered his body, dripping from his brow. Vapor hissed from the half full basin, and a look of longing bloomed on her tired face.
He placed a small cake of herbal soap and a square of linen by the washtub.
“You are exhausted from our travels. Soak away your troubles.”
“I doubt sinking into a steaming bath will make you disappear,” she hissed.
The tips of his teeth ground into each other, grating as he composed himself enough to keep from biting back. He’d drawn her a bath and admitted fault. What else did she require of him? Why was he doing this at all?
She could be at the longhouse, and he could be in his furs with a willing partner for the night. They’d both be happier for it. A restrained growl rumbled deep in his belly, his nails scraping along his scalp.
The idea of her alone and some faceless woman in his furs displeased him. The gods were punishing him. He must have displeased Freyja. It was the only reason she had sent for her chosen to torture him so.
