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“You’ve already said you don’t believe me. What could I say that would make any difference?”
As a chief, Ragnar had been known for his mercurial shifts in temper. Generally, because none of his men – pre-change – had ever had the sense to know when his smiles were warnings, and his laughter the grumble of approaching danger, rather than an expression of joy. Since the change, he’d become too used to being understood, even when he tried to obfuscate. Leif could always tell what he was thinking, no matter what he said; the rest of the pack knew when to leave well enough alone, even when he was smiling wide enough to crack his face.
But this foreign bastard knew nothing, so Ragnar leaped to his feet with a loud, rough growl; stalked forward across the crushed rock of the floor and took the Sel’s throat in a tight, clawed grip. He pressed his thumb to the apple of the man’s throat, and dug in viciously, half-shifted nail pricking the skin. A pearl of blood welled, but did not drip.
And Cassius did not react, head tipped back, neck loose and pliant, gaze unbothered. The obedience, that placid acceptance of the abuse, heightened Ragnar’s growl; it was echoing around them, now, the nasty snarl of a beast; probably the guards above could hear it, though if they did, they didn’t interfere.
Ragnar thrust his face into the other man’s, and said, through clenched teeth, “I’mwatchingyou, you devil. Whatever you’re trying to do, you won’t succeed.”
“Will you?” Cassius returned.
Ragnar thought of killing him. It wouldn’t take much: he was unarmed, and restrained, and had no will to fight back besides, apparently. It would be the work of a moment, done before he could properly think it. A wrench of his neck to the side, a slash of half-shifted claws over the throbbing vein in his throat. A hand clamped tight over his nose and mouth, until his feet kicked, and then were still. Ragnar probably wouldn’t even be punished for it. Leif would do that thing with his eyebrows that meant he’d wanted to think better of him – foolish, sweet cousin, always thinking a man had the capacity for change – and Amelia might protest and glower. Surely her generals would raise a fuss about him being dangerous and untrustworthy. But in the long run, he would have done them all a favor, and there’d be one less Sel in the world.
But he couldn’t make himself do it.
He released the man with a shove, and stepped back, disgusted with himself.
When he was partway up the stairs, Cassius called after him. “Chief Ragnar.”
Ragnar paused, and his hand tightened on the railing until the wood creaked. “I’m not that. Not anymore.”
Cassius turned to him, slowly, hair whispering over his shoulders, the bone white of a wise old crone, the sight of it chilling against his smooth, too-pale face. He was like a ghost, one who’d found peace in death. “I’m not sure you know what you are. But you will learn.” It had the ring of prophesy, and lifted Ragnar’s hackles until all his skin tingled unpleasantly. “Before the end, you will know what you are, Ragnar Thorbrandsson.”
Then he blinked, and his face was just a face once more, brow wrinkled as though he was confused. His gaze dropped, and he murmured, “Sorry.”
Ragnar snorted in dismissal, and continued upward – though it was an effort not to run.
~*~
Thoughts of Amelia plagued Leif on his way up the stairs to his borrowed room. Truth told, being inside the house like this – being civilized again – was drawing on the version of himself he’d been before his turning. Four walls, and painted ceilings, and fine furniture gone dusty from disuse put a damper on his wolf; he imagined the thing sleeping, sulkily, curled up somewhere in the center of his chest, eyes closed against the silver candlesticks and tattered silk wallpaper. His senses were sharper now in every way, but he didn’t feel on the edge of losing himself wholly to the animal inside…
Save when speaking with Amelia.
He’d known staying behind with her in private had been a risk, and the wolf hadn’t disappointed: sitting up, tongue lolling, drawing her scent through his nose, over his tongue, deep into his lungs to fester there, until it became harder and harder to remember why he shouldn’t just grab her and drag her down to the rug before the hearth. A wolf instinct – the instinct and the actions of his Úlfheðnar ancestors, only men, but with never a concern as to whether the women they mounted wanted it, or reciprocated their interest.
He was getting better at keeping the beast in check. Tonight, physical exhaustion and blazing soreness had beaten back the relentless surge of want into something manageable. A pleasant stirring, only, and so the man in him had been able to study the lovely lines of her face in the firelight, and admire the way she tried to joke of her dead family, and nearly succeeded, save the flash of real hurt in her eyes. He’d heard the quickening of her heartbeat, and smelled the way she’d gone damp between her thighs – that had nearly been his undoing.
He'd thought about kissing her – had wanted to – and had known, as her pupils expanded, and her breath hitched, that she wouldn’t just allow it, but reciprocate.
But he’d bid her goodnight, because it was the right thing to do.
And because, should the wolf become too itchy and insistent under his skin, there was always Ragnar to sate his hunger.
He thought of Amelia all the way up the stairs, her snort of laughter, the way her shoulders had stiffened when he made mention of her sword skills, and then he arrived at his room to find it empty, with no fresh scent of Ragnar lingering in the air, and then all his thoughts shifted to what the Sel prisoner had said.
He closed the door, lighted the candles, and sat down in Ragnar’s usual chair to wait.
He didn’t wait long. He heard a floorboard creak down below, and then the fast, silent jog of soft-soled boots on the stairs. In the time it had taken Leif to get upright and out of bed, Ragnar’s limp had improved so that it showed only occasionally. It would plague him forever, no doubt, but didn’t appear to cause him distress or pain; it was a check on his stride – not unlike the torq he wore – but not a plaguing injury.
The door opened, and he entered on a swirl of anger, bitterness…and the scent of the prisoner, Cassius.
His gaze landed on Leif, and he froze, hand tightening on the doorknob. His expression was caught out, for the span of a heartbeat, and then he affected a grin, and his posture loosened, and he closed the door with atsk. “Off to bed so soon? Either you exploded like Selesee black powder the second she touched you, or you sent her storming off in a huff because you were too eager.”
“Amelia doesn’t strike me as the type to storm off.” If she left a conversation, he had no doubt she’d leave someone feeling as if they hadn’t been able to keep up, and had been dismissed. He nodded to the bed. “Sit.” Not an order – but there was a heaviness to his voice. A hint of command, and not a shred of amusement.
Fair: he was feeling heavy and unamused at the moment.
Ragnar knew that, because though he tried to smile his way out of it, the line of his mouth went tense. “You mean I actually get the bed for once? Or you mean you’ve stolen my chair?” He edged toward the bed, but only partway. “Isn’t that just like a prince: always wanting the best things for himself.”
