Page 27 of White Raven

The men exchanged words, probably a threat from the Northerner before he stomped into the doorway.

“What is your problem?”

Fuck, I hated this man. I tried to keep my temper.

“I can’t lace the back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Why not pick another one?” He pointed at the cupboard full of clothes.

My lids narrowed on him, my stubbornness setting in. Now it was on principle.

“I’m not your fucking thrall anymore,” he grumbled.

“Like you would ever have the honor of dressing me.”

“You think that is an honor? Wow . . . the pampered world you live in.” He shook his head. “Guess what, kanin . . . those handmaidens were thralls too, just with a nicer title.”

Indignation fired under my skin, gripping my hands into tight fists, the words to tell him to fuck off burning on my tongue. I whipped my head around, not wanting him to see how easily he could provoke me, how that comment burned in my gut.

“You are wrong,” I said through my teeth. “It is an honor to be a handmaiden of the White Raven. Girls dreamed of being one. Families raised daughters in hopes they’d be chosen!”

“Of course they did. You can believe anything if you are told it enough.”

“Fuck. You.” I stepped away from him, rage bubbling under my skin. I had to get away from him tonight. Reaching around, I yanked at the laces, trying to tie up the bodice, about ready to rip it off and grab another plainer corset.

He exhaled loudly, his footfalls crossing the floor. Except, they didn’t exit the room like I thought they would, they came toward me. Shock froze my breath when his huge frame stepped up behind me. I could feel the heat from him; the energy he seemed to carry with him engulfing my space.

I hated it.

A gasp caught in my throat as his fingers touched my back, burning where his hand trailed over my bare skin. He stopped, his fingertips pausing on my spine. I knew what caught his attention.

My tattoo. The symbol of the White Raven, of the power of the Day Realm.

An outline of a white raven, wings spread open in flight, with the Ægishjálmur, the Helm of Awe, above it and a trail of runes following down my spine. A marking of protection and awe-inspiring power. I had received it when I turned sixteen, in a ceremony to signal my coming of age.

Goosebumps coated my skin. His nearness sizzled my body and my stomach was swimming with queasiness at the closeness of the Night Raven. It itched my bones, making me uncomfortably aware of him.

He gripped my laces. “Stop moving,” he grunted callously, his breath gliding down the back of my neck. His large hands threaded the eyelets, pulling me back into his frame with every harsh tug. The Northerner had manhandled me since the moment we met, but it had never felt personal or intimate.

I detested this more.

“Are you done yet, thrall?” My tone taking on an uppity snap.

He yanked me violently against him. Using the laces to hold me in place, I could feel every muscle along his thick thighs and torso, the way his physique engulfed mine, but it was his semi-hard böllur pressing into the back of my ass which stole every ounce of air.

Huginn-Muninn.

“You ever call me that again . . .” His arm came around, his wrist flicking the blade he carried in his right hand. Slice. It was so fast I didn’t even understand . . .until ten inches of my hair that had been draped over my left shoulder fluttered to the floor in a cloud of plumage. “Next time I will cut it all off. I don’t make empty threats.”

I stared at the small section of shortened locks, now ending below my chin, the lost hair splaying over the wood floor like snow. In our culture, hair represented our feathers. Trimming it was one thing, which was still done very seldom, but we never cut it off. Some believed it was an insult to Huginn and Muninn to do so. Only the old and sick lost their plumage, a sign that the body was dying and would soon turn in its hair for feathers and be set free.

Raw rage and grief vibrated my body. A panic attack hummed at the edges.

“Do not forget yourself,” he growled in my ear, his mouth grazing my skin. “You are my prisoner, kanin. And I have no qualms about ripping you off your pedestal and showing you the real darkness of this world.” He shoved me away.

My fingers reached up and touched the severed ends as if they would scream out in pain, calling on our deities to punish me.

He sauntered to the cupboard, taking a pair of dark trousers, tunic, and boots from the shelf. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the outline of him changing, stripping himself of the blood- and urine-stained gray thrall’s uniform. Something I should never let myself forget. He was my enemy.