That was what this little flame was. His tormentor. She held no whip, but her words and ire lashed his skin all the same. If he tried to fight it, the feeling tethering him to the Seiðkona tightened, refusing to let him breathe.
“You will leave.”
He blinked, taken aback. “Leave? This is my lodging.”
No bite echoed in his response.
Thick crimson curls spilled over her breasts as she tilted her head. She stood, smoothing her hands over her shift, carrying herself with the confidence and grace of a Dróttning.
Fuck. He was so fucked.
“Did the Konungr demand me to share your furs?”
She stepped close enough for her pebbled nipples brushed against him, making his traitorous cock thicken.
“No,” he rasped.
“Then please leave, Njáll. Last night we shared something. Something which has left me raw and exposed and unnerved. Leave me in peace to bathe and rest without your heavy gaze tracking each breath. I need time alone to reconcile myself.”
“Reconcile to what?”
“I do not know yet. And I cannot figure it out with you here.”
Veins pulsed in his neck as he bristled, his ego in tatters on the ground as she stomped on it.
It was an insult to be banished from his own home.
However, he expected no less from a woman who could one day be a Dróttning.
HisDróttning.
Pride tasted bitter in his mouth as he swallowed it. His teeth ground together, strained words escaping as his nostrils flared.
“Very well. I’ll have food, water, and clothes sent for you. Ask for Astra should you require anything else.”
With one last look at her, she dipped her chin. Njáll stalked outside. The wood groaned behind him with a decisive thump. Lingering remnants of her subtle scent tortured him as he wandered the moonlit perimeter of the village.
He refused to retreat to the longhouse and suffer his parents’ questions.
Instead, he followed a familiar path, leading him to the doorway of Bjorn’s house. The old timber structure sat nestled in a forgotten corner, away from prying eyes.
Lucky for him, his kin had no kona, and based on the quiet stemming from behind the oaken door, he had not taken another to his furs for the evening. Wood boomed under his fist as he knocked, urging the door open.
An overwhelming scent of woodsmoke, fresh meat, and stale ale invaded his senses.
Bjorn sat hunched on a bench by the fire, a bearskin wrapped around his shoulders. The man turned, a too-broad smile engulfing his bearded face. Laughing, he raised his ale in salute.
“Njáll. Jarl. Have you lost your way? What are you doing here among the wretched and the lowly when a pretty thing warms your furs this night?”
Ignoring the barbs, Njáll peeled off his sweat-damp tunic, laying it by the fire to dry.
“The heat in my chamber is too much. I need to sleep. Spare me a fur.”
A dark brow rose, and Bjorn leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. “Too much heat?”
Realization slid across his face all at once. The man released a deep, booming laugh making a scowl bloom on Njáll’s face.
“She sent you away.” Laughter spilled from Bjorn, the sound muffled as he took a swig of ale. “Banished from your own dwelling. Tell me, Jarl, what did you do to earn the little thing’s displeasure?”
