by Ree Thornton
Jorvan shook his head. Even if he could bear the taste of what he'd once proclaimed was the nectar of the gods, he would not addle his senses willingly.
"It was drugged ale that led to our capture. I'll never risk being caught unawares again."
Valen walked beside him silently, as though his presence could provide the comfort he could not put into words. "That is understandable, yet Rúna caught you unawares this day."
"Já. It will not happen again."
"Halt, let's talk." Valen grabbed his forearm and pulled him to a stop.
Jorvan reluctantly faced his brother. "I do not want to talk," he said, though he knew Valen would not cease until he had said his piece.
"Not speaking of what happened to you is why you cannot sleep. This must stop, brother. You need to talk about it so you can move on. And you need to tell Rúna about it. She deserves to know."
His gut roiled at the mere mention of it. It was bad enough he'd had to live it. He would not put that burden on Rúna too. "Nei."
"Stop being a fool! Look at what happened today. You lost control. You are not ready to wed, brother."
Was he right?
Valen continued. "You need more time. You cannot take this darkness into a marriage. What happened in the fight with Rúna proved that you are a danger to her."
He shook his head. "I can control it." Valen was wrong. He would never hurt Rúna. Would he?
"Stop lying to yourself." Valen ran his hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "If she had been a lesser warrior, you would have killed her. Are you willing to risk her life?"
His objection died as doubt wore away his steely resolve. He didn't want to hurt Rúna, but he had tried to do just that this very day.
The acrid tang of bile rose in his throat. The thought of losing her again was like a blade to the chest, but to lose her by his own hand … He would never forgive himself.
Valen reached out and clasped his shoulder. "It is not fair to go into a marriage so wounded. If you cannot give her up then she deserves to know the truth before the wedding."
Jorvan pushed his brother's hand off his shoulder. Beneath his tunic, his flesh burned as a reminder that the darkness had not just taken his mind hostage, but his body too.
"Think on it, brother…" Valen released a heavy sigh. "And try to get some rest." After casting him one final somber look, Valen spun on his heel and walked back toward the village.
Jorvan stood motionless, watching his brother walk away. Was Valen right? Should he withdraw from the contest and let her chose another?
Chapter Six
Rúna
The next day, Rúna leaned against the weathered trunk of an old oak tree and studied the wolf as he watched her clansmen swimming in the cool waters of the river.
"It is unseasonably warm," Ásta said, as she wiped the water from her face with a towel. "I am glad that there is no contest this day, and that we can bathe before the long cold winter."
"Já," she said, and stretched her arms up over her head. "I am glad to rest a day."
Ásta looked at her with concern. "Do you still hurt?"
"A little," she lied. Her body ached from defending against the wolf's brutal attack yesterday.
Ásta glanced at where he stood alone on the riverbank. "His behavior yesterday was … unexpected … concerning."
"Já," Rúna agreed. "I have never seen him act without honor after a loss before." She had known something was wrong the instant that bloodlust had filled his eyes. She had seen it many times on the battlefield when men lost their wits.
Ásta wrapped the towel around her hair and squeezed the moisture from her long amber locks. "What do you think caused such a violent reaction? Did you say something to anger him?"
"Nei. I said naught. Something is not right with him." She knew it was the truth.
Even now, the wolf stood stiffly on the riverbank with his gaze fixed on the water rushing downstream, rather than swimming or relaxing with the other warriors.
"I have no doubt you will discover his secrets, Rúna."
"Já. I will, and then I will use them against him."
Dànel was standing in the shade of an oak tree drinking ale and talking with Valen. To the casual observer he was deep in conversation, but she had been watching all of her suitors closely and all morning his gaze had kept returning to Ásta. The young man was lusting after her friend.
"Dànel wants to bed you, Ásta," she teased.
"Nei." A flush of rosy red crept across Ásta's cheeks.
"Já. His eyes follow you everywhere."
"I could not…"
"Why? There is naught wrong with taking what pleasure you can in this hard life. He is young, but gentle and kind." Ásta deserved happiness, even if it was merely fleeting moments of bliss found in the arms of a man. Not once in the four years since she had rescued Ásta from the battlefield where her husband had died, had her friend taken a man to her furs.
"I cannot." Ásta turned and hastened away.
"Give him a chance," Rúna called out, though she knew it would be ignored. Ásta's love for her beloved Njal meant she was unable to move on. She walked through life neither dead nor alive, caught in the gray abyss of grief and memories. It was difficult to watch her friend suffer so.
Rúna sighed and turned back to watch the wolf. She could do nothing for Ásta, but she could help herself. She needed to find a weakness she could exploit in the next challenge, something that would tip the scales in her favor.
He stretched his neck and looked up at the sky. His loose shirt flapped in the wind and fell open at the neck, the white fabric making his skin look as golden as the shimmering idols of Óðinn her father worshipped. He bent to pick up a rock, pausing to rub his fingers across it before skimming it out across the water. He ignored everything around him, not reacting to the joyful laughter of her clan nor the child crying for his mother. The tension in his stance told her he was alert, aware of everything, yet chose to remain alone.
Elin, the pretty swordsmith's daughter, walked out of the river toward him, swaying her hips seductively. The pale damp fabric of Elin's tunic did little to hide her breasts or hard nipples. She was a buxom woman and much favored by their clansmen, though none had succeeded in wooing her into marriage yet.
Rúna bristled at the overt display that signalled Elin's willingness to bed him. He would not resist her, men rarely did, and he had long had a taste for sampling women and discarding them. She'd been a fool to believe him when he'd told her none that came before meant anything after he had met her.
She huffed and watched him as he spoke with Elin. It was for the best that he find another and move on, for cert he wasn't getting anywhere near her furs. She should have sent a woman to him to distract him earlier. Mayhap if he liked Elin enough he would claim her and leave?
His jaw tightened and his long hair danced across his shoulders as he shook his head.
The smile fell from Elin's face, and it was clear that his rebuff had not been gentle when she stormed up the riverbank and onto the trail back to the village.
After her hasty exit, Leif Gustafsson sauntered over and offered a mug of ale.
The wolf shook his head and lifted the leather water flask that hung from his hip to his lips.
Rúna stilled. She had never seen him turn down cold ale. Had he truly changed?
He arched his head back, closed his eyes, and drank heartily.
Heat pooled between her legs. Freya help her, bathed in sunshine as he was, the man looked like a god.
Then a trickle of water escaped his lips, ran down his neck, and disappeared beneath his loose shirt.
The shiver that wracked her body shook her from the daze. She couldn't fall for his handsome pretence again, not when there was little of substance beneath. Mayhap he had changed some, but she doubted his reckless base nature differed. She was no lovesick young girl this time. She was a woman with a duty to her people, and she needed a man of honor and worth to help her lead clan Isaksson.
The wolf walked along the riverbank, away from the swimmers.
Rúna followed, edging through the trees silently, before leaping down onto the bank beside him.
He stiffened, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword, and then relaxing when he turned to face her.
She crossed her arms over her chest and ignored the shiver of pleasure that crept up her spine when his eyes dropped to where the fabric pulled tight across the swell of her breasts. "The women await you downstream."
He shrugged. "Let them wait. I want none but you."
She rolled her eyes. "Am I supposed to believe that pile of stinking horseshit? You want to be Jarl, like all the other suitors. Soon enough you would drink too much ale and fall between somebody's thighs. "
He shook his head. "Mayhap before, but no longer."
She scoffed and shook her head. "Before what?"
"It matters not. All I want is you."
She studied him. He was avoiding her question. "You abandoned me long ago, Wolf," she said, and feigned indifference, hoping that her eyes would not betray the truth.
"Calling me Wolf will not stop your feelings for me."
"I feel naught," she lied. Despite his betrayal, her body ached for him as much now as it had four years ago. Her heart thundered in her chest as the air between them thickened.
"Then say my name," he dared her.
"That man is dead to me, Wolf."
His eyebrow twitched, but he maintained his composure and cleared his throat. "Leaving you was a mistake," he said, his voice husky.
She swallowed hard, almost choking on her desire to believe him. She could feel the truth in his words and see the regret in his eyes. Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe. He did not get to do this to her, not again. How dare he come back here all regretful? He had no right, not after what he had done.
"And what of my clansmen, Wolf? Did you abandon them too?"
His body tensed as he recoiled at her accusation.
She smiled triumphantly. At last, a crack in that shield of restraint and control that he wore like a warrior going into battle.
"Nei. They died, every single one of them."
"And yet you live. Did you even fight for them?"
He spat a curse at her and glared. "You speak of things you know nothing about, Rúna."
She ignored the fact that he'd reprimanded her like a disobedient child. She'd found a weakness she could exploit. She paused for a moment, taking in the rage that lit his gaze. Clearly the fate of his men disturbed him. Should she attack until he retreated? Já. She needed him gone—she would show no mercy.
"Tell me then, how did my clansmen die?"
The light in his eyes dimmed and he looked through her, out over the flowing waters of the river and off into the distance.
"Was there a battle?"
"The trials of battle were for babes compared to what we faced," he replied.
"The raid then—"
"There was no raid," he interrupted.
No battle. No raid. It made no sense. What else could have befallen them and caused so many deaths? "What happened to you?"
"We went ashore to get water and supplies so we could continue our journey. We came across a small village that agreed to give us shelter for the night and sell us supplies. That night we feasted on fresh meat and mulled wine. We were ravenous after so long at sea." He shook his head and sighed before continuing. "None of us realized that the wine was drugged. We woke the next morning as captives."
"You were a thrall?" She struggled to keep her cold pretence. Her father's thralls were treated kindly, but she knew it was not so elsewhere. "Were you captive all those years?"
"Já." His voice was a shaky whisper.
"And my men?"
He nodded, his eyes filled with despair. "They all succumbed to fevers brought on by the bloodletting."
Bloodletting?
A soft gasp escaped her. "Nei." She stumbled back, shocked at the thought of so many brought down in the summoning of favour with the gods. Bloodletting was a ritual reserved for the temple at Uppsala every ninth spring. Who would dare violate their laws so?
"Who did this?"
"A small clan ruled by a seer. They had lost many warriors and needed children. The seer used the blood to call on the gods to provide male babes."
She felt the blood drain from her face. That was not the earthly magic of the seers that surrendered to the will of the gods—it was the evil dark magic of madness and desperation.
His eyes were shadowed by guilt. "Your kin fought to the end, but there was naught I could do. I could not save them."
Rúna swallowed the lump in her throat. Her heart bled for all of those men who had not died the honorable death that would gain them entry to Valhalla. Her hand fell to her sword, her fingers flexing over the hilt with deadly intent.
"I will see the earth stained with blood for the suffering of those lost."
Laughter drifted on the breeze, the joyful sound doing naught to quell her dark thoughts of vengeance.
"It is done. I killed the seer."
The pain in his voice hit her like a blade to the chest, sinking deep into her heart where it took root and reawakened the long-severed connection between them.
"You avenged them." She whispered the words, ashamed at the undeserved accusations she had thrown at him earlier. In that moment, filled with gratitude that he had honored her clansmen, she recognized the boy she'd once loved, now a man, yet just as willing to bare himself for her. He had changed—one could not endure such horrors and remain unaffected.
He pinned her with an agonized stare. "I did." His voice cracked as though the weight of speaking was unbearable, and then his mouth slammed shut.
She knew he would speak no more. Gone was the talkative boy of his youth—this wolf was a stranger. A stranger that she begrudgingly admitted had the heart of a warrior to overcome such horror.
"I am sorry that you and your men suffered, but it changes naught." His dreadful revelations had weakened her anger, and when he spoke of avenging the dead, she'd felt his unguarded anguish, but she could not let sympathy weaken her stance against him. She hardened her heart and continued. "I'll not give you pity."
He reared back, his shock evident on his handsome features. "I do not want it."
"Good." She was grateful he had told her the fate of her clansmen, but she could not wed a man she did not trust.
He looked down at her with undisguised longing, and his voice was husky as he spoke. "I want you."
Her stomach somersaulted at his declaration, but she shook her head. "At least you did not lose all honor," she said, then buried the yearning in her heart beneath the layered scars of his betrayal and walked away.
Chapter Seven
Rúna
As the sun descended over the mountains late the next afternoon, Rúna curled her toes into the damp sand. Yet again, the wolf was her opponent in the final contest to win the second challenge. The wolf had proven he was more than just a capable warrior when he had outwitted the other suitors in the Hnefatafl board game tournament to match her scores. He was smart and strong—winning would require a new strategy.
She looked to where he stood, farther along the beach surrounded by his brother's warriors. As his dark blue eyes fixed on her, she knew she was entering dangerous territory.
His long hair flowing over his shoulders took her breath away. He looked every bit like the conquering Viking warrior as he walked toward her. She shivered and turned away. She couldn't let him get to her.
"Rúna, Jorvan." Her father pointed to the small boat bobbing in the calm waters of the bay. "The second challenge is a race to collect a ribbon from that ship and tie it around an apple tree in the garden."
She cursed under her breath. She was a good swimmer, but the wolf would be faster and he could outrun her with ease. She'd need to beat him back to the beach to have any hope of besting him. She stripped down to her undergarments and walked down
to the water, contemplating her options.
"Rúna." The wolf stopped beside her and his eyes drifted down over the hardened peaks of her nipples beneath her undershirt, then looked up at her knowingly.
"Never." She hissed and shoved him in the shoulder.
He barely wavered.
Her eyes fell on the thatch of hair and thick staff hanging between his legs. By the gods, he was larger than she remembered. Why was he without pants but still wearing the shirt that would hamper his strokes?
"It is all yours, firefly."
She tore her gaze from his manhood and rolled her eyes. "Do not insult me by pretending you are here for anything more than my Jarldom."
"Your anger is justified, Rúna. It was wrong to leave you as I did, but I do not want your Jarldom. I want you."
Blasted man! Nothing she said riled him anymore.
Her father walked over. "Victory to the best Viking," he said, as the long mournful drone of the horn floated on the dusk breeze, signalling the start of the race.
The crowd jostled and shouted encouragement as they ran into the shallows, eager to see who reached the boat first before retreating to the orchard as the Jarl had ordered.
Rúna dove beneath the surface. She kicked hard and focused on slow steady breathing. She would best him. She had to.
His clean smooth strokes soon cut through the water beside her.
For a while, she matched his pace, but then she began to tire and he pulled away. She had to do something, now. She glanced up at the small bobbing boat. She couldn't let him get there first. She had to slow him down. She had to win—she could not marry him. She would do anything to avoid that fate. She reached out, grabbed his right ankle, and yanked on it.
His strokes faltered, and he paused to look back at her.
Now was her chance. She powered forward, pushing her arms and legs until they burned from the exertion. She was almost there. She could see Ásta leaning over the side of the boat with the ribbons dangling from her outstretched hand. Just a bit farther.
His body glided alongside hers as she reached the boat.