It had been too long since she had danced, laughed, and drunk enough to make her dizzy. Njáll’s kin was good company. Kind and welcoming. Bjorn’s palm was warm in hers as he led her closer to the trio of musicians.
A group of men pushed the tables aside, making room as more people joined the dancers in the center of the hall. The feast roared on, drunken men spilling their ale as they listened, enthralled by the stories being woven.
“Skalds,” Bjorn said, leaning close to be heard above the din. “Tellers of fantastical tales and sagas of old. It’s supposed to be for children. But drunken warriors take more joy in it than the little ones.”
Elara’s nose twitched. The noise of the hall washed away, her belly rolling with the bright laughter pinching her cheeks. Bjorn matched her joy, smiling as he planted a large hand on her waist, spinning her.
Her long curls billowed behind her, the jewels in her braids clinking as they tapped each other with the movement. Sweat clung to her nape as she followed Bjorn’s surprisingly confident steps.
Not long after the drummers started a different rhythm, the temperature in the room changed.
Except it wasn’t the flames of the fire or her exertions from dancing.
Instead, a pair of eyes glared at them from the high table.
Elara gazed over Bjorn’s shoulder, drawn there by an intoxicating force. Njáll sat stone-still, his face tight and his chin high. A fierce, possessive intensity flared in his eyes, sending a thrill through her body.
In his silent glare, she felt it. His claim. His fury. Elara stumbled slightly, grasping Bjorn’s forearms for support. Arching a brow, Bjorn followed her stare, his smile nearly glittering in the firelight.
“Perfect. He lasted longer than I thought he would.”
She wondered whether he was mad. Njáll’s kin clearly had a death wish if he took any joy in that violent rage being leveled at him.
“Do you aim to anger Njáll?”
“Life is boring if I do not send our Jarl into a fury. Besides, he will thank me for this.” He winked, his smile broadening as he met Njáll’s narrowed gaze. “Tell them I fought valiantly,” Bjorn said.
“What do you mean?”
Sucking in a breath as if he were steeling himself for battle, Bjorn’s hand fell to her hip. He crushed her flush against his torso, his mouth resting on the top of her head.
Njáll jumped to his feet, slamming his fists onto the table hard enough to send full tankards of ale crashing to the ground.
Thirteen
Njáll
An unholy fire roared in his gut, threatening to set his entire body aflame with its fury.
Freyja’s magic swam in his belly, feeding the inferno there.
Wood cracked under his nails as he dug them into the table. The Konungr’s eyes bore into him, the intensity reminding Njáll to calm himself. But it was too late. He was past rational thought, past being calm.
All night he’d watched her, reveling in the bright smiles she shared with Astrid.
That grin beamed brighter than a full moon reflecting on still water.
Even her laugh lit up the empty spot in his chest where his heart supposedly resided. That laugh was melodic, carrying over all the din and spearing him straight in the sternum.
He should be the one making her laugh like that, not Bjorn. Not anyone else.
Him.
Then, that happiness faded, and Njáll swore he saw the light in her eyes dim. He’d been about to run to her side, certain the draugar had stolen the beauty from her gaze.
And then, as fast as it came, it left, and she joined Bjorn in dancing.
His kin’s hand rested on her waist, a smugness lingering in Bjorn’s eyes as he spun Njáll’s little flame, her skirts flaring around her. The tinkling laughter that followed each twirl went straight to his cock.
