Page 139 of The Sun He Buried

Nope.

He says something under his breath in Old Norse that I understand perfectly and am not going to repeat. His hand closes in my hair—not pulling me off, not pushing—and then he’s coming in my mouth, and there is a great deal more of it than I was ready for.

I am not ready for any of it.

I come off him coughing, which helps nothing, and it goes on my chin and down my front and the noise I make is not a good one.

Above me Baldr says my name, wrecked.

Then his hand opens and he slides down the post and lands in the straw on his knees in front of me, breathing like he’s the one who ran through the snow.

He takes the hem of his shirt and cleans my chin, and then my front, unhurried.

“I tried to warn you, love.” He’s laughing. Quietly, but he’s laughing.

“You said one word.”

“I said move.”

“That’s one word.”

He presses his forehead to mine, takes a deep breath.

I push both hands into his hair and keep him there. “Better?”

Baldr doesn’t answer.

“That’s an answer.”

“Give me a moment.”

“Take two.”

“You planned that.”

“I came to talk.” I keep my face solemn.

He laughs into my shoulder. It goes on a while.

“Upstairs,” he says.

“That’s what I said.”

“No. I mean I’m going to take you upstairs and—”

“I know what you mean.”

“Upstairs.”

“Yes.”

Baldr stands and takes me with him. I wrap both legs around his waist.

“Snowpetal.”

He looks toward the hay.

Only her tail is visible.