All the while, scrubbing the image of him and his stained hands from her memory.
That knowledge made his shoulders bunch.
“You are right.”
She snorted.
“As I always am. Now, go bathe yourself. Wash the blood from your hands and the anger from your eyes. You cannot demand her affections the way you demand fealty from your warriors. A Dróttning is not made by force, Njáll. She is forged in the flames of a man who is worthy to stand beside her.”
With a soft peck on his cheek, Astra turned, leaving Njáll alone with only her words for company.
Wood groaned as he leaned against the side of his house. The blood on his hands had dried to a stiff, black crust, flaking off as he flexed his fingers. Smoke curled from the longhouse, a grey ribbon against the sky.
For now, his kona was safe in the longhouse.
That was enough.
He wouldn’t go to her tonight.
For the first time in his life, Njáll would practice the one thing he loathed most. Patience.
A flicker of resolve solidified within him. He’d become a blade worthy of her warmth, or he’d be nothing at all.
Twenty
Elara
Smoke hung low around the rafters, weaving through the ornate wooden carvings etched into the pillars. She tugged the furs around her shoulders tighter, the bench creaking with each slight movement.
When she ran, she half expected Njáll to chase her.
Frustrated and relieved that he hadn’t. For some reason, her feet led her to the longhouse. She hadn’t found it in her heart to flee, not completely.
Not that she had anywhere to go.
Still, something tethered her to this place. Told her to stay close.
An exhausted groan fell from her as her shoulders slumped. Her fingers trembled. When she closed her eyes, she saw the light drain from the outcast’s.
And then she saw Njáll’s cold, emotionless features as he drew the blade across the throat.
Instinct told her to run, to keep running. She didn’t belong here.
But deep down, she knew she couldn’t.
It was more than Freyja or Fate or whatever annoying magic brought them together.
She knew a gentleness brimmed beneath the surface. That Njáll was more than war and blood—even if it was only for her.
She cursed herself under her breath.
Weak, stupid girl.
This would be her death, falling for a demon.
And she had no control over it. Nomatter how hard she clawed to pretend she didn’t care for him, didn’t crave him, didn’t feel anything for him, it was fruitless.
In front of her, the Dróttning moved with grace, stirring a heavy iron pot simmering over swirling flames. The woman had followed her into the longhouse, silently staying by her side.
