Shadows stayed still, and Njáll held his girl tighter, murmuring in Norse.
If the panther retreated, it meant either her presence wasn’t needed or a stronger protective force remained.
The thought solidified something within him. This little flame was his, and he was hers. His axe was hers to wield, and he’d be the hand to strike it at her bidding.
His knuckles grazed softly over her jawline. Despite the fear lingering in her eyes, she slowly steadied in his hold.
The gods had proven Njáll wrong.
Freyja had guided him to his flame. Just as she had steered his parents.
For as fearsome as his father was, the Konungr was utterly besotted with his foreign kona.
A quiet healer who taught him balance.
Njáll would be no different.
He once thought love was a weakness, one he wouldn’t allow himself, moving from one fleeting pleasure to the next.
But now he understood how wrong he’d been.
All he wanted was to serve his girl, to make her forget the draugar, to feel nothing but peace in his presence. He wanted to make her fall apart on his tongue and give her such pleasure she would scream his name, not in terror, but in ecstasy.
He gazed down at her, his chest expanding when he saw her breasts rise and fall in sleep.
Early morning light filtered through the smoke hole, pushing against his eyelids.
Njáll rose to his elbow, gently brushing sleep-mussed curls off her face. While he longed to stay with her beneath his furs until they smelled only of them, he needed to speak to his father.
After last night, it couldn’t wait any longer.
Careful not to stir her, he shifted, but her nails dug into his forearm with surprising strength.
Something known ignited behind his sternum, flaring with such intensity it stole his breath. Njáll hummed, leaning forward to press his lips to her crown, inhaling the drugging scent of her.
Cool air hit his flushed skin as he slipped out of the furs, bare feet thudding on the hard ground. His neck cracked when he rolled his shoulders, yawning and tugging on a fresh tunic.
The bearskin fur of his cloak slid under the pad of his fingers, her scent still clinging to the threads as he slung it over his shoulder before lacing up his boots.
He stood, stoking the fire to keep her warm. Then he turned and saw her, awake and sitting up with furs pooled around her hips, eyes still clouded with fog.
Gods, she looked stunning like this, sleepy and adorable in his furs.
A small V bloomed between her eyes, and Njáll knelt on the edge of the bed, soothing away the mark with his thumb.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, his voice soft but no less commanding as he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to her lips. A cute pout appeared when he pulled away, making his heart flutter. “It is still cold. I must meet with the Konungr. I will return before the sun passes.”
She didn’t argue, a groggy smile stretching into place as she nodded, lying back down. Tiny fingers curled around the furs, dragging them up to her chin, and his heart squeezed at the sight before stepping out into the morning mist.
The scent of stale ale and cold ashes lingered in the longhouse. Women milled about the great hall, righting tables and sweeping floors. Their knowing smiles winked at him as they giggled, whispering to each other before nodding respectfully in his direction.
While annoyance shone in the piercing glaze of his eyes, he secretly enjoyed their gossip. They murmured about the quiet foreign girl who had stolen the Jarl’s heart. It made his chest swell.
He arrived at the entrance to his parents' private quarters, tucked away in the back of the longhouse, away from prying eyes. His knuckles rapped on the wooden beam, knowing better than to enter unannounced.
An uneasy feeling slithered through his limbs, too many memories of him walking in on his parents in the throes of their passions.
It’d only taken him twenty-five winters to learn better.
