“Fuck,” I chuckle. I’ve never come so hard in my entire life. No other orgasm compares. This one tops all of them, and it is because of Thyra.
I should feel guilty for lusting after her. She is the second’s daughter, for crying out loud, but I don’t feel an ounce of it. I just want more. I want more of this adrenaline she feeds me every time she is around, every time I think of her. Just every fucking time.
Washing the come off my body, I lean back smiling. Fuck. I feel so good right now.
“Einarr!” Grim’s loud, and as of right now, annoying voice yells outside the door as he pounds it until it might fall over.
“Aye! What?” I hiss, but I don’t move from my position. I’m too sated to care.
“Dinner will be ready in ten. Your big arse better be down there.”
“I will be. Shite! Let me bathe in peace, you madman!” I shout.
He grunts something incomprehensible. And by the sound of it, he is walking down the steps, away from the bathroom door.
Thank the goddess.
I’m in no rush. There will be plenty of food. And I’m in no hurry to see Lord Troy. He will only glare at me, sneer, and threaten me like every other time. Maybe it’s time I fight him. Man to man. He needs to respect me, and he doesn’t. I wish to earn his daughter’s hand, but I cannot if he hates me so.
If he hates anyone, it should be himself for creating such a perfect creature. Those green eyes, that body, her luscious breasts…
Aye, my cock is perking up just from the thought.
“That’s enough out of you,” I grumble to myself. I stand, the rush of falling water hitting the basin fast as it drips off my body. I reach for another linen and dry myself off.
I get dressed, remembering I don’t have a shirt. I’ll have to ask Grim if I can borrow one of his. I braid my hair in the back until the ponytail reaches my midback. A quick comb through my beard with my fingers and I’m out the door.
And run into Lord Troy himself.
There goes my post-orgasm high.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going, Scotty,” he hisses, spewing his hatred.
“Ah, we are back to that, are we?” I hate that he calls me a Scotty. So much so, if he were anyone else, I would kill him. But I can’t. As long as Lady Thyra is near, I dare not raise a fist to her father.
“We never left it, boyo,” he sneers.
I curl my lip, keeping my mouth shut as much as I can, and make my way down the stairs. I’m not sure why Lord Troy has decided to hate me so much. Everything was fine before he saw me ogling his daughter. His true colors came out then. He likes Grim just fine, but I wonder if Grim had an interest in Lady Thyra, if his reaction would be the same.
As I make my way down the stairs, the smell of roast hits me in the face, and my stomach flips. I haven’t eaten since this morning.
“Do not sit next to me,” Lord Troy growls.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I bite my tongue. What I really want to say is, “I’ll just sit next to your daughter.” But when I take a left into the dining area and the long, oak table comes into view, I do not see Thyra.
My heart breaks a little. I very much wanted to see her again after our encounter. If I’m not mistaken, there is something between us. Something fired between our souls in the bathroom, and I wish to explore it.
I pull out a chair and sit. Queen Sassa is at the head of the table, and Grim sits on the other end. It shows their status. A bowl of roast with thick meat and plump potatoes and carrots sits in front of me. My mouth waters. A warm piece of bread is next to it on the plate with a melted piece of butter. It looks delicious.
“Where is Lady Thyra?” Grim asks.
None of us take a bite of our food until the queen does. Once she sips from her spoon, we dig in.
Lord Troy takes a messy gulp of water. The liquid runs down his beard from his mouth. He can have some manners while sitting with the Lord and Queen. “She has fallen ill. She will not be making it for dinner.”
My spoon hits my bowl as it falls from my fingers. It is because of me that she isn’t coming, but no one needs to know that.
“Oh, dear. I hope she is alright. I’ll make sure to bring her a bowl after we eat,” the Queen says, before blowing the broth on the spoon.
I clear my throat, knowing what I am about to say next is really going to piss Lord Troy off. “If you don’t mind. I would love to take the bowl to her.”
Grim nods, fighting a smile.
“That would be very kind of you,” Lady Sassa says.
Thyra’s father slams his fist on the table, and I haul another spoonful of stew in my mouth, to hide my salacious grin.
“I think it is best if I take the bowl,” he grunts.
“I think Warlord Einarr is more than capable of carrying a bowl,” Grim states before taking a few swallows of water.
“Indeed, but she is my daughter. I shall look after her.”
“Einarr is taking the bowl. That is the end of it. You will not defy my order,” Grim slams his fist on the table this time, louder and more powerful.
Lady Sassa jumps, becoming startled from the unexpected sound.
“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Grim tells her with a bashful grin.
My heart longs to do the same to Lady Thyra.
“It’s fine. I wasn’t frightened,” she says, her cheeks pink. Grim lets a low growl rumble his chest.
Rolling my eyes, I finish my bowl in a record amount of time, so I do not have to see them lust after each other. “I’ll take the bowl now.”
“The hell you will!” Lord Troy stands and swipes his bowl off the table, sending it flying against the wall.
Lady Sassa lets out a yelp, this time of fear, and Grim pushes his chair back. The legs scratch against the floor, and his fingers flex on the table as he stretches his palms out over the worn wood.
“You dare defy me?” he growls, his voice deep and threatening.
“I don’t want that Scotty near my daughter!” Troy shouts, clearly challenging Grim.
Grim takes the fork he was using and moves so fast that no one has time to blink before he sticks Troy’s hand with the fork, nailing him to the table. Troy shouts in agony, and Grim gets in his face, snarling.
“You dare call my brother that? I should kill you or cut your tongue out so you can no longer insult those around you. He is Viking. He may not have been born Viking, but he was raised Viking, and if I hear another word fall from your lips, the next thing I shall use against you is my sword.”
“Aye, Lord Grimkael,” Troy grunts. Grim yanks the fork from his hand.
“Take Lady Thyra the bowl, Einarr.”
I nod to him, and before I leave, I give a slight bow to our Queen. “Lady Sassa.”
She rolls her eyes at me, again. “We have been over this. Call me, Sassa. The formality unnerves me.”
I know. It is why I do it, but I dare not tell her that. I give her a smile and walk to the stove where the stew is and grab the handle of the ladle. I pour one scoop and scoff. Why, that isn’t enough to feed a bird. Instead, I fill the bowl to the rim. I have to make sure Thyra does not starve. She must never go hungry.
I carry the bowl out of the room and up the steps. I know Lord Troy means well, but when it comes to his daughter, he can be an utter fool.
I let out a breath when I leave the room, thankful to leave the tension in the room. After I make my way up the steps, I pause, clear my throat, and run a hand over my braid to make sure it is still intact. The Adam’s apple in the middle of my throat bobs as I swallow and take my first step toward the woman that I wish to make my destiny.
Thud. Thud. Thud. My boots echo until I am standing in front of her door.
Lifting my fist, I pound the thick wood. Bang, bang, bang.
“Who is there?” Her soft voice makes my heart skip a beat.
“Lady Thyra, it is I, Warlord Einarr. I bring stew. I hear you are unwell.”
Her feet patt
er against the floor as she comes closer to the door. “I’m not hungry. Thank you, Warlord.”
“Nonsense. You will starve. You must eat to get well. Open the door.” My plea sounds more like a demand. And I’m about to apologize, but the lock slides and the door cracks before I can.
She is going to allow me to feed her. A sense of pride overwhelms me. My chest puffs out. Perhaps she will let me spoon-feed her.
A man can dream.
Chapter Five
Thyra
I cannot believe he is here. I’m in my undergarments, for goddess sake!
“I need a few moments. I’m not decent,” I say.
The door vibrates when something hits the door. Einarr grunts, and for a split second, I wonder what that sound would feel like between my legs.
“Is everything alright?” I ask as I throw on my long bathrobe.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t sound fine, but I shall have to take his word for it. I tie a knot with the belt around my waist to keep myself covered. When I open the door, Einarr is right in front of me, eyes cast downward. His large, wide palms cup the bowl of stew. It smells divine.
“You didn’t have to bring me anything to eat. It is very kind of you.”
“A lady must never go hungry,” he explains in an even tone.
“I am far from hungry. I mean, look at me. I could probably skip a few meals,” I joke, waving my hands up and down my figure.
Einarr’s eyes wander over my body and back up until his gaze locks with me. “You’re perfect. You always need to eat. You’re beautiful. If it were up to me, I’d feed you every day, by hand.”
“Oh,” leaves my lips in one breath.
He barges in, pushing the door wide, and comes close to me, moving his body to the side, almost touching me. I wish he would. I wish his strong forearm would just brush up against mine. He sets the bowl on the table next to the bed.
“Come. Sit.” He points to the bed.
“Really, it’s fine. I don’t need—”
“—Sit,” he growls.
And I can’t help but listen. I rush toward my bed and sit, folding my hands in my lap.
“Open.”
I drop my jaw, and he scoops a piece of beef and potato on the spoon and places it in my mouth. I close my lips, and the beef broth bursts across my tongue. I can taste the flavors swirling around on my taste buds. The potato is soft, but not too soft. It’s perfect.
“Good. We have an entire bowl to finish.” He scoops another piece of meat, and this time, a carrot.
I hold my hand up to stop him. “I can feed myself.”
“I know,” he grunts, shoving the spoon back into my mouth.
I chew fast and swallow, wiping the bead of broth escaping my mouth. “Really, I can do it myself. I’m not some helpless woman.”
“I don’t think you are.”
I find my mouth full again, and at this point, I can’t tell if he is feeding me or shutting me up. Perhaps, a little bit a both.
“Warlord.”
“Call me Einarr.”
“Why are you feeding me?” I barely have time to ask before another spoonful is shoved in my mouth.
“I want to.”
I swallow the delicious food. “Why?”
“So I know you are fed. You need to eat.”
“I eat just enough,” I scoff.
“You weren’t going to eat tonight.” He scrapes the bowl for the last bit of stew.
“I am unwell.” I leave out that it is because of him that I can hardly sit down without the sensitivity between my legs throbbing.
“Because you need to eat. You eat. You sleep. You wake up better.” He shrugs.
“Oh, you are being such a typical man.”
“And you are being as stubborn as an ox, Lady Thyra.”
My mouth drops in a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to shove the last spoonful in my mouth. A part of me wants to spit it in his face, but I know it would be a waste of perfectly good food. So I swallow it.
“There. Was that so hard, Lady Thyra? You are fed now.”
“Do you feel better about yourself, Einarr?” I say, laying back against the headboard my father made for me.
He grabs the blanket from the bottom and pulls it to my chin. For a moment, I forget that I am ‘ill’ and get lost in his eyes. They are beautiful. Copper. They almost match his hair. A bead glimmers in the light that is attached to his beard. I’ve heard of these. I believe, if my memory serves me correctly, the first bead signifies the status of becoming a Warlord, and every other bead after that are battles won. It seems he has not had a battle yet with his new title.
Grim, on the other hand, he has what seems like hundreds.
Einarr is the first to look away, but foolishly or bravely, I place my palm on his cheek and turn his face back to me.
“Thank you for caring for me.” I run my fingers down the large scar on his face, and a puff of breath tickles my palm.
He grabs my wrist, but he doesn’t pull my hand away. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes close for a split second, sighing as if he has lacked touch. “I’m a monster,” Einarr says below his breath.
I shake my head, running my thumb over the scar on his top lip. “You’re beautiful.”
“I am everything but that. I’ve done horrendous things.”
“I don’t care. You are still beautiful. A warrior. A leader,” I say. “How did this happen?”
“Just another battle. He got me right before he fell to the ground. I’m just glad he didn’t get me eye.”
“Me too. You have such handsome eyes.”
“You must have no sight because the man in front of you is all beaten up and used, Lady Thyra.” He tries to pull away, but I keep him near me.
“You mustn’t speak that way about yourself. I see you, Einarr. I see you for who you are, not for what you are.”
“Then you are foolish,” he mutters. Einarr places my hand on the bed and bolts out of the bed. “I am a killer. It’s what I do. This scar is one of many. I’m a man you aren’t used to seeing. That is why you are so entranced.”
“No, Einarr. Please—”
“—Good day, Lady Thyra.” He opens the door and slams it shut, causing me to jump.
I’ve never had a man call me foolish before. I’ve never been close enough to one I am interested in to have a conversation with. I don’t understand what is going on. There is something going on between us. Why would he leave like that?
I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Of course he would not want me. He can probably have all the women in the world. It’s foolish of me to think otherwise, but something about Einarr just captivates me. My heart leaps for miles when he is near. He makes my heart skip a beat. His scars are far from ugly. I love the way they felt against my fingertips. The tough scruff of his beard tickled the inside of my palm. And the look on his face when I rubbed my fingers over his scar, he seemed… relaxed. The muscles in his face stopped straining, the scar was less stressed, and his lips appeared to be softer.
He is such a beautiful man, but he doesn’t see it. I need to make him see he is more than what he is, but I’m not sure how. He is a distant man. We only ran into each other today by luck. Granted, I saw more of him than I could ever imagined and I don’t feel guilty about it, not in the least.
He keeps himself isolated, but I want to bring him inside. I wish to show him how warm life can be when one isn’t alone.
A loud hacking noise from outside averts my thoughts. I roll out of bed, keeping my robe clamped together with my right hand, and look out the window.
There is Einarr. Shirtless in his glory. His shoulders muscles flex with every strike of the axe against the tree. His flesh is wet from the light rain falling outside, highlighting all the defined crevices of his sculpted body.
The crack of the tree falling is loud, and the sound carries up to my room. Once it hits the ground,
Einarr takes the heavy wood by the end and drags it further into the forest. What is he doing? What would someone need with all that wood?
Einarr comes out of the tree line, his unbraided hair wet from rain and sweat. His biceps bulge as he lays the axe behind his neck. His arms rest on either end of the dangerous weapon, and the motion stretches his torso. His abs become elongated instead of bulging. The dip in his hips become more pronounced.
My mouth waters.
My nipples become hard and achy.
My sensitivity becomes wet and slick with arousal.
As If he can feel me staring, he turns his head to my window. Our eyes lock, and my breath is stolen from the intensity in his eyes. He swings the axe back around, catching it in the other hand as if he has wielded the sharp blade his entire life.
And then he looks away, dropping his chin to chest, and his hair falls in his face, covering up his scar. So that’s why he always has his head down. He truly thinks so low of himself. That’s a pity because he is the most handsome man I have ever seen, scars and all. I only notice them because he makes certain to point them out, but they don’t bother me.
If anything, I find them attractive. It shows off hard work, fighting for his people, his country, his life. It shows courage and fearlessness. It is what every woman wishes for, but a lot of women wish for all that without the battle wounds, and that is just impossible. If a man comes back from battle with no scars or marks, did he really wield his blade? Or did he hide like a coward?
Einarr is far from a coward. I admire that about him. He takes on anything and everything.
I can almost hear his sigh from here as he yanks the axe from the tree and looks up at me again. His expression can only be explained as confusion. The middle of his brows is pinched as if he doesn’t understand why I am still looking at him.
Who is the fool now?
I give him a delicate wave, but he doesn’t give me one in return. He only continues to stare. I don’t know what comes over me, but with shaky hands, I untie my robe and let it fall around my feet.
The Viking's Wedding Page 4