The Monster's Lover (The Fenris Series Book 1)

by Samantha MacLeod

  I shivered at that, and my empty stomach lurched. I couldn’t help counting the days, now. It had been twenty seven yesterday. Now it was twenty six.

  Twenty six days until King Nøkkyn claimed me.

  Jael sighed and shook his head. “Fine. Just, please, be safe. Stay where we can hear you if you scream.”

  “Of course,” I said, nodding cheerfully as I backed out the door.

  I sure as hell wasn’t going to stay where they could hear me.

  And I was planning on screaming.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My bare feet raced over the cold moss and pine duff of the Ironwood. I didn’t even bring a gathering basket this time; there was no need to pretend I was doing anything other than escaping, running into the woods to enjoy my last days of freedom. The slow drizzle of cold rain fell softly beneath the trees and, although my thin dress was soon soaked through, I didn’t feel cold.

  I followed the Lucky’s gentle meanders through a small birch grove and into the shadows of the enormous, ancient pines. The forest smelled of gentle decay, rainwater, and the tang of pine tannins. My breath quickened when I saw our boulder ahead, looming over a sharp bend in the Lucky’s murmuring waters. Fenris had been at that rock the last time I’d seen him, his muscular, naked body resting again the moss-dappled stone, almost as though he’d taken to spending all his time along the Lucky River, waiting for me.

  My heart beat a little faster at that pleasant fantasy.

  I frowned as I stepped from the shadows into the thick, gray drizzle. Fenris wasn’t waiting for me, but there was something resting atop our rock. I bit my lip and edged closer. It was a small, dark shape, almost like a river stone. I was close enough to touch it when I finally recognized what it was.

  Bread.

  A small, round loaf of dark bread waited for me on our rock. My stomach rumbled in anticipation, and my hands trembled when I reached for it, closing my cold fingers around the rasp of its thick crust. I brought it to my nose, breathing deeply. Oh, it was sweet rye! My mouth ached as it watered, and my fingers traced the surface.

  Someone had already taken a knife to this loaf. I turned the bread over in my hands, and my vision blurred with a sudden rush of tears. A small, dark heart had been cut in the center of the bread.

  My chest clenched until it almost hurt to breathe. Yes, I’d kissed boys in the village before. I’d even let Bryn run his hands up my thighs and press his stiff cock into my stomach as we danced. But none of those boys had ever given me so much as a ribbon for my hair.

  “Oh, Fenris,” I whispered as my fingers traced the heart. I pictured him holding a sharp, silver knife, smiling as he imagined my reaction to the sweet little gesture.

  I pulled off a piece of the bread and brought it to my lips. My mouth flooded with the taste; sweet, rich, and deep. Oh, stars! I took another bite and closed my eyes, carried away by the flavor. Bread! An entire loaf, and just for me!

  I tried to eat it slowly, to truly savor the experience, but the bread was gone far too soon, and I found myself blinking in the light rain, staring at my own empty hands. My lips and mouth still held the flavor, and too late I wished I’d saved just a crust to smell as I walked back home.

  With a hot rush of guilt, it occurred to me that I should have brought the entire loaf home and shared it with my mother and brothers. Of course, that could have led to uncomfortable questions—

  “Did you like it?”

  I spun to see Fenris standing behind me, a smile on his lips.

  “Oh! Fenris!” I flung myself into his arms, burying my face in his neck.

  “Did you get my message?” he asked.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “That’s not all. Watch.”

  He stepped behind a tree and emerged with his hands full. A huge leather water skin was tucked under one arm, and in the other—

  “A drinking horn?” I asked, unbelieving. “You have a drinking horn?”

  “Of course.” He grinned. “How else would you drink mead?”

  “Mead?” I couldn’t quite keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  I’d heard of mead, of course, in Bard Sturlinsen’s stories and songs, but I’d never actually seen it. Only kings and the Æsir and Vanir of Asgard drank mead. The men in our village drank fermented apple cider, or a salty wheat beer Da said tasted like horse sweat. And they drank from wooden or ceramic steins, often emblazoned with their names and proudly displayed above the hearth fire in the inn. None of them had anything as elegant as a drinking horn.

  “From my friend Týr,” Fenris said with unmistakable pride. “I told you I’d prove it.”

  My lip curled. “Right. Your friend the Æsir.”

  Fenris raised an eyebrow at me. Then he balanced the water skin against our rock and turned the tap. A light, golden liquid flowed into the pale drinking horn.

  “For my lady Sol of the Ironwood,” he said, handing me the horn. “The finest mead in the Nine Realms.”

  I hesitated, then took the drinking horn with both hands. It was long, and heavier than I expected. Its smooth surface was streaked with gold and black; even to my untrained eyes, it looked ancient. A silver band with some sort of writing ringed the top.

  “What is this?” I said, running a finger over the runes. “Is it a spell? Are you enchanting me, demon?”

  He smiled. “It says, Friend of the Æsir. That’s all.”

  I sniffed the liquid, which appeared to be bubbling faintly. It smelled pleasant enough, a bit like honey and a bit like the haze of spilled beer that hovered around the drinking tents at the Midsummer’s Festival. Eyeing the length of the horn, I tried to recall everything I’d ever heard about mead. The most important thing seemed to be draining the entire horn. Failure to do so was a grave offense in all the Sturlinsen stories.

  I took a deep breath and brought the horn to my lips. The mead was almost pleasant, although it stung a bit as it slid down my throat. I choked when I raised the horn further, and liquid spilled from the corners of my mouth to run down my cheeks. My eyes swam with tears but, by the stars, I could do this. I would do this.

  Gasping, I dropped the horn to the grass. Empty! Finally, it was empty! My body flushed with heat, and my head spun strangely, as though I’d whirled and whirled in circles until I could barely stand.

  Fenris stared at me with very wide eyes.

  “That’s a lot of mead,” he stammered.

  I wiped my lips. “It drinks good.”

  I giggled at my own words, then giggled again at his silly, serious expression. Oh, stars, he was handsome! I moved to kiss him, stumbled, and fell against his naked chest. I raised myself on my toes, seeking his soft lips.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, pulling back.

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” I purred. “Kiss me.”

  He did. I wrapped my arms around his chest, trying to keep my balance as the forest spun and shifted under my feet. His lips against mine were pure bliss. They were the most important thing in the Nine Realms. They were the only thing in the Nine Realms. I closed my eyes as my entire being focused on his touch, his lips.

  We danced like that for a long time, our mouths pressed together, our kiss the most important, essential thing in the universe. I felt so damned good, warm and soft around the edges, as though his mead had banished all the unpleasantness from life.

  His manhood twitched against my thighs, swelling and hardening. I moved again, seeking his heat, but my feet slipped on the moss and I fell to the side, breaking our kiss. His hand grabbed my elbow.

  “Sol, I should have warned you. Mead can go to your head.”

  I giggled again. Was he always so serious?

  “My head is good, sexy demon,” I said, although my words came out sounding a little fuzzy. My gaze slid from his face to the drinking horn on the ground.

  “Drain, drain, drain your horn,” I sang, remembering some of the doggerel the men chanted under the Midsummer’s Festival drinking tent. “Drain it while it’s thi
ck.” I giggled again, then turned to Fenris. “Can you drain it?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Can I what?”

  I let my eyes slide down the length of his lean, naked body. The Midsummer drinking song made it sound like a test of manhood to drain a whole horn.

  “I mean, if I can drain the horn, I’m sure a demon of Múspell can do the same...”

  “I’m not a demon,” he muttered.

  “Oh, I know! You’re not a demon. You’re the mighty Fenris, great monster of the Ironwood. Taller than a stallion, that Fenris. Fiercer than a were-bear.”

  I stepped back and cocked my head to look at him, but the effect was ruined somewhat by a hiccup slipping from my lips. A dark expression halfway between a smile and a scowl crossed Fenris’s lips.

  “You don’t think I can drain a single horn of mead?” He shook his head. “I guess you really don’t know me.”

  That stung.

  “So, prove it,” I pushed. “If you’re so great, then show me!”

  He sighed, then knelt to the grass and picked up the horn. I watched as he turned the tap to fill the horn.

  “All the way,” I insisted. “Full as mine.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he showed me the horn. Light golden liquid swirled and effervesced, coming all the way to the pale rim. I nodded, trying to look as serious as he did, although I couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

  He raised the horn to his lips and tilted his head back. Not quite as tall as a stallion, my demon, but he was a good head taller than me, with a body of lean, hard muscle. His dark, fiery hair cascaded down his back as his neck moved. A trickle of mead leaked from the side of his mouth. I wanted to lick it.

  “There!” he shouted as he dropped the horn, his cheeks flushed with triumph.

  A pang of regret lanced through my chest as he wiped the mead from his cheek.

  “Very nice.” I tried to whistle but it came out funny.

  He shrugged. “It’s not hard. Just open your throat and breath through your nose.”

  “Open your throat and breath through your nose,” I repeated.

  Just like that, I wanted to do it again. I wanted to show him that I could drain a horn of mead as well as he could. Maybe I could be a friend to the Æsir, too.

  Or, shit, maybe I could be one of the Æsir. Everyone knew Loki the Lie-smith was born in the slums of Útgarðar, not so far from the dark fringe of the Ironwood. And now he was one of them, living in Asgard and traveling the Nine Realms with his sworn blood-brother Óðinn.

  “Pour me another one,” I said.

  Fenris shook his head. “No. Sol, these days one is enough to make even my head spin.”

  I ran my fingers along his neck and rubbed my body against his. “Come on. I want to do it again.”

  His back arched, but his arms wrapped around my waist. “That much mead is not a good idea.”

  I giggled at that. I wouldn’t call anything we’d done together an especially good idea.

  “Please,” I pleaded. “Now that you’ve shown me how it’s done. Please. Let me. I wanna show you I can.”

  Fenris glanced at the somewhat deflated water skin, frowning. The woods seemed to pulse and sway around him.

  “Are you denying me?” I said, pouting at him. “The mighty Fenris of Ironwood has never denied me anything before.”

  He sighed heavily. “Fine. But just a few more sips. By the Realms, don’t drain the entire thing.”

  “But I can,” I insisted. “I can drain a horn just like Thor the Thunderer.”

  Fenris raised an eyebrow as he held the ivory drinking horn to the tap. “You are hardly Thor, little Sol of the Ironwood.”

  Oh, that did it. I was suddenly filled with the deep, unquenchable need to prove him wrong, to prove them all wrong. It didn’t matter that I was the daughter of slaves and soon to be Nøkkyn’s whore, stars damn it. I’d show my arrogant, beautiful lover I could drain his stupid horn just as well as his damned friend the Æsir.

  I grabbed the horn from his hand and brought it to my mouth. The first splash through my lips tasted good, but taste was not my concern. I tilted my head back, closing my eyes and opening my throat. The ground under my feet tilted alarmingly, but I ignored it. My entire being focused on draining the horn, proving I could take it all in. The world spun around me.

  My gut shifted in an odd way as the mead burned its way down my body. My legs flashed with heat before going numb. I dared a quick breath through my nose and forced myself to keep swallowing. The mead didn’t taste good anymore; it snatched at my throat and stomach lining.

  Another breath and I dared to crack open my eyes. I could see the distant tip of the drinking horn raised in front of my face. Almost there. Now it felt like I was swallowing gravel, but still, I opened my throat and took it all in.

  My eyes widened as the bottom of the horn suddenly appeared, draining all at once. I gasped for air, pulled the empty horn from my lips, and staggered back. The ground rose very suddenly to collide with my rear, but I didn’t feel a thing.

  “I did it,” I said. My lips felt numb.

  Fenris’s frowning face swam into view above me. There seemed to be two of him. Or possibly three. “Stars! Sol, are you all right?”

  I tried to snort. Of course I was all right. I was better than all right. I was like Thor, damn it. I could drain a horn like one of the Æsir. I could be one of the Æsir!

  “Sol?”

  Fenris came closer. He was swaying very strangely from side to side, and his brow was contorted into his usual frown.

  He was always so damned serious. I opened my mouth to tell him I was just fine, I was, in fact, feeling great, when something deep inside my stomach lurched violently. A hot jet of vomit poured from my lips, hitting Fenris’s naked chest.

  “Shit,” he yelped.

  I gasped in shame and clasped my fingers over my mouth, then choked as another wave of hot mead welled up inside me. It wrenched my mouth open, covering my fingers and running down my dress. The forest dissolved in hot, angry tears.

  “Sol, I’m sorry,” Fenris said from the red haze that filled my vision. “I’m so sorry.”

  I was dimly aware of Fenris’s hands on my shoulders, tilting me to my side as I retched and retched, my body seizing and spasming, far beyond my control. Gagging and sobbing as my stomach turned itself inside out, I pressed my cheek against the moss of the forest floor and closed my eyes, waiting for it to be over.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Sol?”

  Somewhere beyond the throbbing agony in my head and the churning acid in my stomach, the Lucky River was laughing. And someone was shaking my shoulder. Something wet and cool pressed against my forehead. I reached for it and found a soft strip of moss.

  “Oh, Sol. I’m so sorry.”

  I turned toward his voice, even though the motion sent a hot bolt of pain through my skull. Fenris lay next to me, close enough to touch, his blue eyes wide. A sudden wave of shame and embarrassment swept over me, making the back of my throat taste bitter. I closed my eyes to block out his beautiful visage.

  It was no good. Gentle fingers traced the curve of my cheek.

  “I cleaned your dress,” he whispered. “I-I didn’t want to wake you up, but it’s almost dark.”

  Almost dark? I forced myself to sit up, then groaned at the painful throb in my temples. The headache was so bad I could almost ignore the treacherous rumblings in my gut. Fenris’s arm wrapped around my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid of me to try to prove Týr is my friend—”

  “Shut up,” I hissed.

  He fell silent. Somehow, that only made me feel worse.

  Fenris helped me stagger to my feet. My dress pressed against my breasts and stomach, the damp fabric clinging to my skin. He must have washed it while I lay on the moss, dead to the world. He must have washed himself off, too. I gritted my teeth at the vivid memory of my vomit splattering his bare chest. I’d heard mead dulled mem
ories, but I suspected I was going to be stuck with that horrible image for the rest of my life.

  Fenris offered me his arm without speaking. I tried to think of something to say, anything to erase the humiliation of what I’d just done, but every time I opened my mouth, the words refused to come. We walked through the Ironwood in silence.

  As the mist-shrouded herb garden of our house came into view, I realized with a fresh wave of nausea that there were many other things I should tell Fenris. About King Nøkkyn. And about the Harvest Festival, the day my freedom would end.

  Fenris cleared his throat. “Sol—”

  I winced. He was whispering, but his voice still pounded at my temples.

  ”Don’t,” I said. “Just...don’t.”

  He looked like he might actually cry. It was a horrible expression, and I couldn’t bear it on his handsome face.

  I turned and limped through the mist without a backward glance.

  Ma, Jael, and Egren all turned to stare at me when I stumbled through the door. They were working together on the heavy towing strap for Jael’s sled, oiling the leather and patching the holes. They were doing, I realized, exactly what I should have been doing. My stomach lurched, and I ground my teeth together, fighting the rising wave of mead in my gut. A small fire crackled on the hearth, keeping the chill of the fog away; to me it felt too bright, and far too hot.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I stammered.

  I grabbed a sleeping fur and yanked it under the table. Ignoring their concerned faces, I pulled the furs over my head and let darkness swallow me.

  THIRST WOKE ME.

  My entire body ached, and my throat burned for water. The hearth fire had died down, until it was just a dim flicker of embers almost consumed by ashes. Fenris’s handsome face faded as I woke, and I realized with an uncomfortable pang that I’d been dreaming of him. My heart clenched. Stars, why didn’t I say anything to him when I left the forest?

  And what could I possibly have said?