The gods really must hate me, sticking me with this impossible man.
The afternoon passes quickly, with Fhord setting another fast pace. By the time we stop, Hilde is done. She hasn’t worked this hard in a long time. I’m proud of her, though. I can feel the battle horse’s resolve as she pushes herself to keep up with Sigurd.
Fhord works in silence to unpack the horses and erect the tent before gesturing at me to do something—I have no idea what—as he starts to build a fire.
“What?” I ask, confused and a little frustrated.
“Set up inside the tent,” he explains, his voice low and slow, like he’s talking to a two-year-old.
“Words, Fhord. Talk to me. I don’t read minds.”
He spins to stare at me, his eyes bright with … accusation. For a moment, I’m convinced he knows I can touch the thoughts and emotions of other beings. But then a mask drops over his face again. “You’re old enough to know what to do,” he explains.
I shake my head and crawl into the teeny tent, digging into the packs to lay out our bedding. We’ll be sleeping nearly side by side. The gods definitely hate me.
Within a few minutes I’m crawling back out to join Fhord by the fire. He hands me a yam and a knife, then points at the pot simmering in front of him. We work in silence to prepare a dinner that turns out to be surprisingly good and satisfying. After we clean up, Fhord turns to me, ready to talk about dragons.
“I shouldn’t tell you this.” Fhord glances at me for a moment, then turns his eyes toward Sigurd. “Only those who ride dragons may know how their society works. But you already know more than you should. The damage is done. And it may help you hold your tongue if you know more about what you saw today.”
“Because if I spoke about it, I’d be condemned to the penalty?”
“Yes.” Fhord’s silent for nearly a minute, staring out into the distance. “I don’t like it,” he says at last, his tone flat. “I wish there was another way. But there isn’t. Sometimes dragons don’t want to submit to the riders chosen for them. They rebel. They need to be punished. Controlled.”
“Dragons don’t choose their riders?” I’d suspected as much, but it still surprises me to have it confirmed.
“They don’t.” Fhord’s voice holds no emotion. “Dragons cannot be ridden by peasants. That privilege must be earned. Only those who have built a place in Vanatia, who have proven their worth, deserve to claim such a mount.”
“The wealthy? Even if their wealth is given, not earned?”
“Wealth, power, family, loyalty. Those are the factors that guide the Dróttning’s decisions.”
“What if the dragon doesn’t want the rider chosen for it?”
“That’s what you saw today. Dragons that rebel against the dictates of the Kastali are disciplined until they comply.”
“Discipline? That’s what you call it?”
Finally, Fhord looks at me. His nostrils flare as he bares his teeth. “Idon’t do anything. I didn’t choose this. I wish there were another way. There isn’t.”
For some frustrating reason, I feel bad for Fhord. He hates this as much as I do. My hand wants to reach out and touch him, calm his rage. I don’t understand the emotions this man inspires in me.
As I watch, his face softens, the anger dissipating. “That man hurt the dragon,” I point out. “Badly. I felt his pain. He was completely hopeless. Discipline would not be so cruel. That’s torture.”
“They are stubborn beasts who hold great power. It sometimes takes … some distress … to force them to comply. The trainer must control them. Pain often works best.”
“What did he do to cause such pain?” I’m not sure I want an answer. The question slips out before I can stop it.
“It is a punishment unique to dragons. You don’t know enough about the beasts to understand.”
He has no idea what I already know about dragons, but I can’t tell him. Nobody except Toffer—and probably Thor—knows I don’t belong here. That I know much more about dragons than I should.
We sit in silence a few more minutes, waiting. I don’t want to sleep so close to him and I assume he feels the same. Eventually, though, I face the fact that I have no choice. I need rest.
He follows me into the tent a few minutes after I crawl in and snuggle under the covers, laying down without a word. My back is turned to him, but I can’t ignore his presence. My senses focus on his breathing, steady but not yet sleeping. Having him so close is electric, setting my nerves on edge. My spine tingles, my brain sending signals to every part of me that he’s here. He’s close enough to touch. To hold. To caress.
To fuck.
Holy Helheim. I can’t stand this man. I don’t want him. At all. My rebellious body, though, doesn’t agree. It’s never wanted anyone as much as it wants him right now. Even without his touch, my core is hot, pulsing. If he weren’t two feet from me, my hand would be in my pants, releasing some of the tension. The need.
