Almost in slow motion, Bjorn’s hand moved lower, brushing over the curve of her waist. A deliberate, brazen challenge as Bjorn tugged her into his front.
Njáll’s vision tunneled, the edges blurring.
The feast dissolved into a suffocating hum until all that remained was the sight of Bjorn’s taunting glare hovering above a crimson crown of curls.
Wood scratched along wood as he rose, knocking his chair over and slamming his fists into the table.
“Njáll,” his father growled, his wolf roaring to the forefront. “Compose yourself.”
While the music continued, many froze at the sound, their expressions wide as they watched their Jarl unravel. He understood the Konungr’s reprimand, understood the expectations of him, of a jarl.
And still, none of that mattered. Not when another dared to touch what belonged to him. Kin or not. Njáll longed to cleave flesh from bone.
“Úlfr,” his mother purred, scratching her nails across his father’s scalp. “Think of me. How would you have reacted in this situation?”
Something between a grunt and a snort escaped the Konungr, the tight lines around his eyes relaxing.
“A man who touched what is mine would be short a hand,” his father murmured, nuzzling into his mother’s curls and kissing her temple.
Taking that as permission, Njáll thundered across the hall, unbothered by the hundreds of eyes following his shattering steps. The musicians ceased and voices hushed. In all his seasons, Njáll had never heard such a deafening quiet echoing in the packed longhouse.
Before he realized it, Njáll towered over Bjorn, his exposed chest heaving and his jaw clamped so hard his teeth might turn to dust. Something lethal blazed in his gaze, turning his silver eye as sheer as a frozen pond, the other glinting like moss on granite.
“Take your hand off her, before I remove it for you,” Njáll demanded, the Norse words flowing like molten iron.
Fine furs brushed across his rough hand as he clamped it over Bjorn’s shoulder. Glaring at his kin, Njáll tightened his hold, the pressure a silent threat. The mirth drained from Bjorn’s eyes, leaving a chilling shell in its wake.
With a strangled grunt, Bjorn snatched his hand back as if he had been burned.
Aware of the eyes on them, Njáll restrained himself, dismissing Bjorn with an irritated flick of his fingers.
Bjorn stumbled backward, rubbing his shoulder. Logs crackled in the fire, the sound of sputtering sparks amplifying the stilted silence in the longhouse.
Slowly, Njáll focused on his girl. The vision was utterly breathtaking. She stood, haloed by the fiery riot of curls and braids framing her pinked cheeks. Pebbled nipples strained the luxurious wool of her dress as her chest rose and fell in quickened breaths.
The tip of her pretty pink tongue swept across her lower lip; her thighs pressed together. Wide, luminous eyes twinkled in the glow of the oil lamps, holding a mixture of awe, desire, and defiance.
A rush of blood moved south, straining his cock against his trews. The clan watched them, Njáll’s features impassive as he encircled an arm around her narrow waist, pulling her into the iron vise of his body with a possessive growl.
“Njáll,” she whisper-hissed, and his trews grew painfully tight at her ire.
Ignoring her weak protests, Njáll ghosted his knuckles over the hinge of her jaw.
Gooseflesh bloomed on the thin skin near her exposed clavicle. He took his time, trailing his hand along the delicate slopes of her form before settling on the small of her back and steering her toward the dais.
Only when the Konungr spoke had the clan been so quiet.
Njáll lifted his chair, pouring his muscled frame into it. The corner of his mouth lifted when he effortlessly lifted her, swinging her onto his lap. She squeaked the most delightful noise.
Something akin to a purr rumbled up his throat as he held her hand in place, pleased with how perfectly her tiny, warm body nestled into his.
His palm splayed across her thigh, wishing to hike up her skirts and let his fingers feather over the creamy skin. Hot breath hummed over his cheek, her dull little claws digging into his forearms—the touch both a warning and a plea.
The steely silver eyes of the Konungr met his, a silent assessment igniting in his irises. Njáll’s mother whispered to him, smiling softly at Njáll.
Finally, he dared to look at the treasure perched on his lap.
Bright streaks of scarlet skimmed underneath the line of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Those jade eyes twinkled with flecks of obsidian, rivaling the beauty of Freyja.
