The night air hit them, doing nothing to quell the rising tide of heat swirling in his veins. Stars twinkled above, the inky sky clear. Nails caressed the length of his spine, making Njáll hiss. They moved in relative silence, the village eerily isolated with the entire clan still at the celebration.
When they reached the edge of the valley overlooking the dark ocean, Njáll regrettably set her down. The waves crashed against the rock face below, stray sprays of saltwater cresting over the cliff’s edge.
Bright eyes blinked behind thick lashes. The wind tussled her hair as he rested his hand on her upper arms, stroking them when a shiver shook her slender frame. Unclipping his furs, he draped them over her shoulders, swallowing her in the material.
“What about you?” she asked, clenching her thighs as her pretty eyes lingered on the scars bisecting his body.
“As long as I have you, I am fine.”
Njáll stood behind her, sliding his palms along her curves, palming her belly and holding her close. The dark expanse of sea disappeared into the horizon, the waves churning at the surface mirroring the battered parts of him.
Eventually, his breathing steadied, buried in the lush, sweet scent of her curls. A sharp intake of breath made her breasts shake as she clutched her hands over his atop her stomach.
“Look,” she sighed, sounding so sweet and innocent as she pointed upwards.
The awe in her soft timbre made him smile, something he rarely did, except with her. A whirlwind of color painted the heavens in streaks of lilac, indigo, and peridot. The lights of the gods sang across the night sky.
While she followed the dancing lights, Njáll couldn’t pull his gaze away from her. The radiance on her face rivaled jewels crafted from colored glass.
The backs of his knuckles grazed her jaw.
This girl was a gift from the gods, and he’d never be worthy of her, but he prayed to Freyja she might accept him anyway. With more tenderness than he thought himself capable of, Njáll brushed her crimson mane to one side, resting his cheek against hers.
A primitive, primal instinct scorched him from the inside out. One ignited by the will of the gods, by Freyja. He had many duties in his life, but the most important one lay in his arms.
“Do you hear them now? The whispers?”
She shook her head, the movement slight. “No. They are quieter around you.”
Pride thrummed in the beat of his heart as he tightened his hold. Blood thrummed in his veins with purpose. One beyond duty and clan. A bond to one chosen by Freyja.
He’d sacrifice his final breath to save hers.
He swore the silent oath, vowing to always keep his flame burning brightly.
The wind howled, stilling again as she turned in his arms. She tilted her head back, studying his face, her expression pensive.
“Your father is the Konungr?”
His rough palms cradled her face, his thumbs tracing the constellation of freckles dusting her cheeks. The question surprised him. She had seen him shift at the training grounds, but in public, Njáll and his father kept strictly to their roles, as was expected of them.
“Yes,” he confirmed, one hand falling to the side of her neck. “He has been such for many winters. Blessed by Odin. Bonded by Freyja to my mother, the Dróttning—his queen.”
“Does that make you a prince?”
A booming laugh vibrated in his chest. His fingers flexed on her throat, his thumb feathering over her thrumming pulse.
“No, little flame. A prince is a title for soft lands. Here, I am a Jarl. A title earned not by birthright, but by skill and blood. I lead the Konungr’s warriors, serve the clan to secure our lands.”
There was so much she needed to know.
About him.
About their traditions.
If there were to be something more between them, she must know what it might be like to live among his people. She’d been vulnerable with him, sharing the stories of her mother and the draugar.
Now, she needed to know what path lay before him.
