The draugar did not whisper, not daring to intrude. Njáll rested his mouth on top of her head, murmuring unintelligible Norse words that lulled her into a blissfully dreamless sleep.
Fifteen
Njáll
Awhimpering murmur cut through the darkness, pulling Njáll from the deepest sleep he had in many seasons. The dying glow of the fire sent soft shadows spilling over the bed. His chin rested against the fragrant curtain of her curls, inhaling the sweet scent of wildflowers and honey.
Heat spread across his chest. The comforting weight of his flame tucked into his body soothed the possessive ache that had grown over the past week. His entire being hummed with contentment—a sated peace knowing she was safe.
That he had claimed her in front of the clan and no one would question her place among them.
As loath as he was to admit it, Bjorn might have been right. A different kind of magic stole his heart. Not a spell woven by a Seiðkona, but something divined by Freyja and fate.
Oh, his mother would be thrilled and smug, especially after all the times Njáll had rolled his eyes when she told the stories of how Freyja brought her and his father together. And Astra would be insufferable.
But that was for later, right now was for him and his flame and no one else.
His grip around her waist tightened, his fingers stroking the thin material of her shift.
Someday soon, he’d feel the soft brush of her skin under his touch. Watch as streaks of scarlet flamed her delicate skin while she writhed beneath him, lost in the pleasure he gave her.
A sudden jerk broke him from his reverie. She tensed in his hold, her limbs twitching as a tiny, desperate whine tore from her throat. Muscles went rigid, all softness seeping from him as his warrior rose to the surface on instinct.
He scanned the room, listening beyond the wind outside and the crackle of embers in the hearth. The shuddering chill of the draugar never came, making his mouth twist when her thin, ragged voice wheezed.
“No… No… Njáll.”
With her eyes still shut, she clutched the furs, her knuckles almost translucent under her grip. A strangled sound hissed through her teeth, her beautiful features twisted and unfamiliar.
“Don’t leave me! Blood… Broken… Coming,” she shrieked, thrashing in his arms.
Sweat trickled over her pale brow, all the color gone from her cheeks. Her frantic breaths turned into gasping sobs as she tried to push away from him.
He had never seen a nightmare such as this—something so consuming and vivid.
“Little flame,” Njáll growled, the rough command hissing through the quiet night.
Cold burned his fingers as he squeezed her shoulders, trying to force her out of whatever tormented her. Her eyes snapped open, wide and wild, horror evident in her dilated pupils.
Silent tears slid down her cheeks, and he pulled her snugly into him, cradling her head under his chin. He had never felt so powerless. He did not enjoy it.
How did he protect her from something he could not see? How did he fight an enemy that was not here?
Blood slid along his tongue as his teeth pierced his lip. Njáll pushed his own worries aside, focusing entirely on the girl in his arms. Her heart raced, pounding against his chest as he soothed his fingertips along the column of her spine.
“Hush, little flame. You are here. I am here. There is no blood. Only us. You are safe.”
She continued to tremble, staring unseeingly into the distance.
“Look at me,” he commanded, using the tone of a jarl who wouldn’t be questioned.
Those dull eyes gazed at him, devoid of any spark. He bracketed her frigid face with his scarred palms. Many moments passed before the trembling in her frame subsided, her breathing evening out.
“Njáll,” she croaked, her sweet voice harsh.
“I’m here.”
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against his pulse point. The room remained eerily silent, with no sign of Alruna materializing in the wisps of smoke.
