“He did that on purpose, didn’t he?” she asks as she spins her head to glance at me.
I look up quickly but then return my stare to her ass. She’s so fucking sexy with her clothes clinging to those generous cheeks. “He took more pleasure in that than he has in anything for a long time,” I agree. I finally drag my gaze up, giving her the smirk she’s grown to love, much as she tries to deny it. “He’s as determined to break down your barriers and claim you as I am. Not long now,” I add before she can disappear into a cavern.
“Forever is a long time,” my skjaldmær murmurs. But her lips tip up at the corners, a smile emerging despite her fight to show me only disdain. Rising, she shakes her head and strides away, not looking back again.
We’re so fucking close to Helheim, but I’m no closer to claiming my mate. The thought of returning there without having fucked her—the possibility that I’ll never again feel her cunt quiver around my cock as she comes—stirs something ugly inside of me. She’s mine, and she’s stretching my patience further than it’s ever been before.
Spinning, I look back at the water in time to watch the turnip beast dive into the lake, an arrow piercing the surface. My connection to them rumbles within me, stronger than it has been. The fates intended them for me too, those fickle bitches. They gave me Wrath and must have known he’d share with no other beasts.
Still, flying beside the dragon, my mate on my back, stirred something inside me. A longing I felt for the briefest moment when I first saw them—before Wrath claimed our body and attacked—reminded me that I’m bonded to them, too. That oneof the fates’ weaves projected a happy life with my skjaldmær and dragon.
What if it were possible? I almost don’t chase the thought, my hatred for Balin and distrust of the fates deep and virulent enough to taint everything they touch. But then I remember how it felt to fly with Finaan on our back. And I know.
I’d kneel down to my enemy, prostrate myself at his feet, if it meant I could keep my mate.
That should scare the fuck out of me. It probably will later. Right now, though, with her scent lingering around me, I want nothing more than her.
Before I can change my mind, I stride to the packs we brought with us, then lean down and shuffle through them until I find what I’m looking for: the papers the rat stole from Balin’s room. He started blathering decades ago about finding a way to free me, his self-loathing at being tied to someone in Hel’s service driving him to distraction. The last time I was in Álfheimr, he told me he’d gotten closer. Maybe my enemy holds the key to my freedom after all.
I open the folder, scanning the pages as I search for what I need. And then I plop to my ass, my shoulders drooping, when I find a half-page note he wrote to himself, as if he might forget. The script is his but not the words; he’s too flamboyant for this stoic decree. I suspect he went to some witch and wrote her words exactly as he received them. He’d want to keep this, since the witch’s augury probably gave him the most joy he’s experienced in a long time.
I hold the plan to doom me to Helheim for eternity. A wraith this time, discarding every bit of power my mistress has granted me over the years. Balin would like that, the cretin. But I’ll be gods-damned before I ever give him the satisfaction of my death.
My gut twists as I finally accept the fact that the fates—those vindictive bitches—have corrupted my weave.
There’s no escape from this life I chose. I’m Hel’s. And I’m a pathetic fool for ever letting myself believe I might have another path, picturing a life in the sun with my mate.
Helheim is my home. If I want my skjaldmær with me—and I desperately, unrepentantly want her with me—then I have no choice. Finaan belongs to Hel, too. Hel will come first, always. My piddling little desires, my deranged hope for another path, never had a chance.
I’m the most ludicrous dolt to walk any of these worlds for letting myself embrace such a laughable fantasy.
It’s time to snuff out any speck of hope I might have felt when Finaan rode Wrath.
We’re nearly home and I need to again become the elf I’ve been since I swore fealty to my mistress. There’s no room in my psyche for the softness, the gentleness, that Finaan and the dragon unearth in me. Hel will destroy me for letting them infect me the way they have. If she knew I’ve had doubts about taking Finaan back to her—that my skjaldmær’s nightmare about Hel has me questioning what I plan to do to my mate—she’d skin me alive.
I don’t know how long I sit there, digging out and smothering every soft part of me unearthed since the serpent carried us away from Vanatia. It’s a long fucking time, and it’s still not enough.
“Master,” Svend mutters from behind me, drawing my gaze away from the water’s flat, lifeless surface. His head is bowed, as it should be, eyes looking down.
“What?” I demand. The hole in my chest throbs, and I wonder if it could be sated with his suffering. A bit of his blood splattered across my face would do me good. I turn fully, looking the weasel up and down as I ponder where I’d draw his sacrifice. His cock, perhaps? It’s always produced the loudest screams, given Wrath the most pleasure he can get from another being’s pain.
“Shall we prepare a meal?” Svend mumbles—probably anticipating where my thoughts have gone—as the stray rat we somehow picked up scampers over.
“It’s time to eat,” the critter squeaks. His gaze darts to the cavern Finaan followed as he adds, “before she can return. We don’t have much food. Maybe she won’t notice.” I glare at the rat, and his eyes blow wide in response. “Maybe … maybe we should wait,” he yelps, before spinning in place and racing away.
The eagle and the serpent taught him well. He knows when to get the fuck away from a predator.
Turning, I give my full attention to Svend. “Do you think that’s what I crave?” I ask, projecting my words as a whisper in his ear.
Digginginside, I nudge Wrath. I don’t know what’s been wrong with him lately. He should have awakened when he felt my intent, pushing against my boundaries as he demands the weasel’s blood. From the moment he emerged all those centuries ago, he has always—every single time—risen and demanded his share of any pain I give. Since we traveled to Vanatia, though, he’s been easily satisfied, barely hungry for the activities that consumed us in Helheim.
He lifts his head, searching through my eyes for our mate, and then descends into his hole again.She isssss not here, he hisses, his frustration at me flickering through our bond.
She’s not the only thing in our life, I remind the ungrateful prick.The weasel is ready for us. Will you help me bleed him?
I crave her, he tells me, his tone sharp.Bleed the weasssssel if you must. I care not.
Useless fucking bastard, I mutter, nudging him again. I’ll be gods-damned if I’m going to do this alone. He dragged me to Helheim to sate his need for sacrifice. He’ll help me satisfy mine.Join me.
