All the air thinned around them, leaving her lightheaded. She wanted to scream for it to stop, to demand the world go back to being small and manageable, but the silence following Astra’s explanation was louder than any storm.
Elara may not have bartered her soul to a god, but still, she felt as trapped as they were. Pressure danced along her fingertips in response, and Elara wiggled her fingers, following the feeling with her gaze.
“That was heavier than I intended this conversation to be.” Astra stood, helping Elara to her feet with her. “I meant to needle you about ogling my brother.”
Elara sputtered, choking on spit. A tinkling laugh rolled from Astra, whose bright smile only spurred on Elara’s embarrassment, making the flush stain any exposed skin.
“I see you have the clothes I sent. I will send for more. Wool for the cold season and fur cloaks. Green jewels to match your eyes.”
The quick change in topic sent a jolt to the base of Elara’s spine. She was a lot, but not too much. Elara enjoyed her eagerness and unbothered nature. It was refreshing after spending so much time with her regimented brother.
“Thank you. They are lovely.”
“Not lovely enough. Tell Njáll to spoil you more. People will talk if he doesn’t.”
“I don’t need more things.”
Unconsciously, Elara’s hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers gliding along the smooth surface of Njáll’s rune. These were the only gifts she wanted.
Jewels and silks were inconsequential.
“You are good for him. I will see you at the feast tomorrow.”
Elara glanced back at the training grounds, disappointed to see them nearly empty.
The pad of her thumb continued to stroke the etched lines on the stone as she retraced her steps back to Njáll’s house.
A hopeful feeling fluttered in her stomach, looking forward to the feast Astra mentioned. According to Njáll, it was a huge celebration with dancing, songs, food, ale, and stories. It reminded her of the harvest festival her village used to have each year before the frost.
It had been a long time since she had looked forward to anything.
Her fingers rested on the weathered wood of the door, taking a deep breath.
“Oh, God,” she shrieked, freezing at the threshold, knowing she should look away but unable to.
Njáll stood flawlessly naked by the washbasin, his tanned skin illuminated by the amber light of the hearth. Loose strands of dark hair spilled down his scarred back, free from its usual restraints. Beads of sweat followed the lines of muscles, coating his body in a thin, glistening sheen.
Despite the sight, Elara could not look away from where his cock hung heavy between his legs, half-hard and thick.
Steam from the bath coiled around him, giving him the appearance of a god emerging from the mist.
That infuriatingly desperate, singing desire coiled tighter and tighter until she thought she might pass out from it.
Her clit throbbed and her core clenched around nothing, and some feral noise trilled in the back of her throat.
A smug smile greeted her as she finally dared to meet his gaze. He did nothing to hide himself, instead watching her stare at him as he stepped into the steaming basin.
Water sloshed against the sides as he settled into the tub, his broad shoulders resting on the rim.
He lifted one hand, idly flicking the surface; droplets of water caught the firelight like scattered jewels.
She lied.
He was a demon—a gorgeous, delicious, tempting one.
“Little flame. Do you wish to stare or do you wish to share my bath?” he said, all command and confidence.
“What?”
