Slowly, almost tentatively, she lifted her fingers to her mouth, tracing the curve of her lower lip. Her fingers jumped over the raised skin, still swollen from the press of Njáll’s mouth along hers.
If she closed her eyes, she could still taste him.
All salt and iron with the lingering sweetness of berry-tinged mead. He hadn’t slowed after hearing what the Völva said, kissing her lips raw until they fell asleep each night.
It maddened her. She wanted more. Internally, she begged for his hand to slip from her hip to the crux of her thighs.
The spot now ached almost permanently because of him and his talented tongue. He held her close, refusing to allow any space between them as they slept in his furs, illuminated by the glow of the fire.
Every brush of his skin along hers made her body flare with passion, strength, and desire. These new sensations unnerved her. They eclipsed the rest of the world, muting the remnants of grief and despair clinging to her.
His lips, his hands, his touch. It was a wonderful distraction.
A distraction from the weight sitting like steel in her stomach.
Njáll hadn’t pushed her to return to the Völva, to start the training she mentioned. The only semblance of relief Elara felt was the understanding that she wasn’t mad, butgifted.Even if she wasn’t certain it wasn’t a curse.
At most, Elara assumed she saw the future, but she never believed anything more would come from it. Not this veil-walking or mind spinning or brain throwing or whatever the hell the witch called it.
A shaky breath shook her shoulders as she kicked at wayward pebbles. She still didn’t understand this place. She was the daughter of a farmer, born to a land with rolling hills.
Somewhere that had rarely seen blood or battle.
Yet, here she was.
A foreign person in a foreign place that celebrated all the things she deplored—violence, death, war. Not only did she have to relearn who she was, but she had to do it in a place that seemed determined to remind her she didn’t belong here.
Elara craved peace, harmony, and hope. Things that meant little here. Here, those things were a weakness.
What was the purpose of binding two people who couldn’t be more different together?
He deserved to have someone strong and unyielding, like him. Someone worthy of being a queen—his queen.
She’d ruin Njáll.
Just like he had already ruined her.
Because she was.
Ruined.
One taste of his lips, and one swipe of his tongue, and she craved him like sugared berries in the winter.
The more time she spent with Njáll, the stronger it made the light inside her pulse. Its warm glow hummed with each thump of her heart.
With that light came the same incessant visions, so vivid they left her dizzy. Images of blood, smoke, and ash flooded her mind each time she slept. The tang of copper lingered on her tongue, the sound of shouts and clashing steel still vibrating in her mind.
When the nightmares woke her, Njáll held her close, murmuring soft Norse words and stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
A twig cracked near the edge of the forest. Elara’s gaze snapped to the spot, her spine straightening.
A shadow moved among the thick tree trunks. At first, Elara thought it was a stray dog or a deer bold enough to wander so close.
Instead, a figure stumbled into the light. A breath whistled through her nostrils.
A man stood before her.
Or what was left of one.
