It didn’t come.
Instead, she sat in the dirt, a cold, hollow emptiness threatening to swallow her whole.
Through thick lashes, she looked at Njáll, truly understanding him.
This was the Norse. This was the man she’d allowed herself to find comfort in, to hope for more from.
While with her, he may have softened, he was as much the demon she always believed—a harbinger of death.
No one in the village questioned his actions. They lived in a world where blood was a currency.
This was not a place for someone like her. How could she wake up and look at the hands that held her, knowing they were stained with blood?
She mended clothes, tilled soil, and raised goats.
Even knowing Rangar was a monster, Elara still couldn’t shake the loss of life. There had been so much pain and resignation in his gaze as he begged for help, looking at her as if she were his last hope.
“Little flame,” Njáll choked out, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. “Please. Say something.”
The backs of his knuckles grazed the hinge of her jaw.
Since the night of the celebration, she’d truly believed she was meant to be here. That she and Njáll might find common ground to grow together. There had been a spark. A spark that ignited into a blaze.
For a moment, in the quiet of the morning after Njáll left for training, she wondered if she’d found her place.
How wrong she’d been.
The spark hadn’t been a beginning; it had been a warning.
Freyja had been wrong. Elara didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong with him. She couldn’t be what he needed.
Njáll’s eyes sharpened on her, his patience waning as he waited for her to speak.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered. “I’m not right for you.”
She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the protest in her aching muscles. She ran, refusing to look back at the jarl, desperate to put as much distance as possible between them.
Nineteen
Njáll
Dust coated the back of Njáll’s throat like a layer of rust. He stood frozen in the churned dirt, the muscles in his forearms twitching.
His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fist. Njáll’s gaze followed the retreating shadow sprinting toward the longhouse.
She didn’t look back. Not once. Tiny fingers gathered her skirts, and she fled, her breath hitching with a sob, sounding like breaking glass. That noise lodged itself in his ribs, more painful than any blade.
Noises faded into the background, and he took a staggering step forward, his legs heavy. He longed to fix it, to wipe the terror from her eyes. All he wanted was to see her soft doe eyes flutter prettily at him while he kissed her lips until they were bruised.
“Don’t,” he rasped, the sound raw and foreign as he reached for nothingness.
Eventually, his limbs remembered how to work, and he rushed to catch her. A firm hand clamped around his biceps, stilling him.
“Leave her be, brother.”
The voice was a cool contrast to the flames roaring in his veins. Njáll wrenched his arm half-heartedly, attempting and failing to free himself from Astra’s iron grip. Nails bit into his skin, making blood rush to the surface. His sister’s eyes narrowed, the irises holding a flicker of something resembling pity.
“Let me go,” Njáll hissed, his voice vibrating into a low growl. She arched a brow at him, both of them knowing he could shake her off if he wantedto. “She thinks… she saw?—”
