Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2)

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  “’Bout time… though she’ll have to be more than pretty to keep his sword from finding other sheaths.”

  As they laughed again, the bile rose in my throat. I’d heard no more than I already knew: that I was but one of many lovers to have entertained Eirik for a short while, before his attention was drawn elsewhere. No doubt, he’d told Bodil he loved her, too… and all the others.

  It was impossible to escape the truth. No matter my anger and my faithless deceit, I loved Eirik.

  I lay awake that night and thought of the man who’d pleasured me in so many ways, pouring his desire into me. The bed was cold without him, despite the generously piled furs.

  Whose body was warming his as I lay alone? There would be some companion — some thrall to pleasure him, or more than one. Perhaps he was already wed and his new bride spooned beside him, tasting what I’d so lately enjoyed. Such thoughts were fruitless, but they returned time and again.

  The evening had not been a pleasant one; it seemed so long ago that we’d spent time in storytelling and song, the men bantering and the women teasing. Hardly possible that these walls had gathered Svolvaen’s people so recently in festivity, at Yuletide.

  Gunnolf’s mood had become ever sharper, finding fault with each dish served to him. Even his favoured men from the village — summoned to keep him company, to play dice and share their news — had been unable to lift his spirits. He’d sent them away, his words harsh where there was no need.

  Faline had dropped a dish of bread, for which Gunnolf had given her a clout, sending her to the floor. He raised her by the hair, saying she was a useless wanton — that he would cast her out and forbid any household to take her in, that he would tie her to a tree in the forest and let the boar and wolves find her.

  Her eyes had flashed in resentment but she’d kept her silence. She’d pinned her fortune to Gunnolf just as surely as I had to Eirik, and what awaited us now? She’d shed no tears at our Lady’s passing; perhaps, she’d thought Asta’s death would be her making. For all her wiles, Faline was no wiser than I, both now slaves to the whim of the Jarl.

  I dozed, at last, but was stirred by a creak and a sigh, a moan, long and low. From outside, I thought: some animal in pain, one of our livestock. The wall behind me adjoined the stable and there were two calves due to be delivered. The young lad who slept with them would call for help if it were needed. I strained my ear but there was no voice on the wind.

  And yet, something was amiss.

  Slipping on my cloak, I entered the main hall. The ceiling stretched above, a reaching chasm of darkness in which some bird or bat was trapped, flapping through the rafters. The embers glowed still in the firepit but cast no flame, no light to throw shadows in the gloom.

  I paused to listen, looking into the recesses of the room. To my left, Guðrún was snoring. All else was quiet but for one other sound: a soft panting. Outside, I was sure.

  I eased the door open, careful to avoid it creaking. The moon’s illumination seemed unnaturally bright after the darkness of the longhouse, enough to show me the slope of the hill and the outlines of houses further down.

  There was a screech from some night bird — an owl most likely — which drew my eyes to the edge of the forest. In the moonlight, it appeared closer, as if the trees had shuffled forward as we slept.

  But there was no creature, huddled and wounded, lingering beyond; nor some scavenger, sniffing for scraps. No sound from the stable.

  There was nothing but the breeze of the night hours, shivering the far-off trees. Nothing but my own breath, and the beating of my heart.

  21

  Faline filled the Jarl’s cup once more then withdrew to the corner of the room. Her cheek bore a bruise, her eye darkened above, the brow cut. I’d given it three stitches to close the gash, for which she’d grudgingly given her thanks.

  Gunnolf had been drinking since that morning. We knew how this fuelled his moods. He was as likely to become violent as melancholy. I watched from the alcove of the pantry, Sylvi and Guðrún beside me.

  He cupped the dice close, whispering to them before casting, but the outcome was the same as it had been on every throw.

  “To Hel’s realm with this!” He pushed back from the table. “There’s Loki’s trickery here, or one of you has replaced the dice.”

  “Peace, my Jarl,” soothed one of the karls. “’Tis but a friendly game. We may play some other if you prefer.”

  “Damn this foolishness and take up your weapons,” Gunnolf commanded, staggering some steps to grasp his double-handed axe from where it hung: a monster of a weapon, heavier than many could wield. “It’s been too long since we practised our skills. What manner of men are we if we forget how to fight?”

  “My Jarl, now is not the time,” urged another of the men. He rose warily from the table, his gaze upon the blade in Gunnolf’s hand. “We’re in our cups and may not judge as we should. We wouldn’t wish an injury on our brethren.”

  “A man should be always ready.” Gunnolf planted his feet and raised the weapon above his head. “I’m not my uncle. I’m not weak, like Hallgerd.”

  “Of course not, my Jarl,” answered one. “You’re the bravest and strongest of men. With pleasure, we’ll polish our swords on the morrow and join you outside, but not tonight.”

  Gunnolf swayed where he stood then roared in anger, swinging the axe in a great arc that threatened to meet with their heads. Stumbling under its weight, he brought the edge down, embedding it with a mighty thud in the age-stained table.

  All had risen, moving beyond the Jarl’s reach, looking wildly one to the other, as aghast as we women.

  “I see into your hearts.” Gunnolf spat the words, tugging fiercely on the weapon, cursing as he endeavoured to release it from the wood. “You’ve no stomach for battle. You’re as slippery as eels, making excuses for your fear!”

  Though he clearly spoke in drunkenness, the declaration was the greatest of insults. A man’s honour was everything; not to be challenged, not to be ridiculed.

  There was a grumbling of displeasure among the karls, but none raised his voice above the others, their eyes still upon the axe, which Gunnolf had now freed and was passing from one hand to the other, stepping towards the men who’d pledged their service to him.

  “When I call on you to attack Skálavík, which of you will take your sword and bathe it in enemy blood?” Gunnolf almost lost his footing as he raised the mighty weapon above his head, lurching into the midst of his karls. “When I put Eldberg’s head on a spike, what will you be doing?”

  The men scattered, some bounding for the door, others dodging the Jarl’s swinging axe, leaping across the table to escape his rash attack.

  “Run away, weasels,” he shouted after them. “Get out of my sight. You’re not fit to call yourselves men, let alone Vikings of Svolvaen!”

  As the last scurried for safety, he crashed the door closed with his shoulder and flung his axe across the floor. Finding his cup, he drained it dry.

  “More ale!” he shouted, but Faline did not step forward. Hidden far in the corner of the room, she shrank from him. I couldn’t blame her, for I wished only to do the same, to escape his notice. He was in no state for company, his behaviour shameful. Yet, some compulsion bid me do as he’d requested.

  “Are you the only one brave enough to face me?” Gunnolf’s eyes were steely.

  I said nothing, refusing to bow my head or look away. He was used to blind obedience but I resolved not to show meekness. He returned my unflinching stare, the silence a wall between us, tension heavy in the space dividing his body from mine. At last, he held out his cup, indicating for me to fill it, and I willed my hand not to shake, vowing not to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

  His draught was deep, the ale brimming the edges, running down his beard. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he grimaced, tossing the empty cup to the floor.

  “What is a man to do, Elswyth, when all about him are cowards?”

&nbs
p; “You’re tired, my Lord. Take the rest you need.”

  “Rest!” He flung back his head and gave a hollow laugh. “Sleep brings no rest.” A shadow crossed his face. “Better to stay awake and find diversion.”

  He shrugged off his jerkin and flopped back onto one of the deep benches, propping his head upon his arm, his eyes still upon me.

  “Do you wish diversion, Elswyth? Or do you prefer to sob to your pillow, thinking of the man who has left you?”

  He inclined his head, waiting for my answer, but I gave none.

  “You think you’re Eirik’s true love? That he’ll forsake his duty and return to marry you? Are you still eager for some sign?” His smile was crooked, lacking mirth. “Have you not noticed that he’s made no haste to return.”

  I twisted away, not wishing him to see the tears which had sprung, for he had hit his target, voicing what I was only too ready to believe. Anger flared in me, towards Eirik and Gunnolf, though I was most angry with myself. I’d been a fool to believe that Eirik could love me in the way I wished him to.

  The Jarl stroked his beard as he spoke and a new wickedness entered his eyes. “My brother and I always shared everything, Elsywth. Shall we not share you?”

  “I’ve already tasted that wine, my Lord, and found it lacking sweetness.” I lowered my eyes for, despite all, I felt the tug of my womb and cunt for him. The lust which had consumed me at Ostara had brought me shame and self-loathing, but I hadn’t forgotten the satisfaction of that terrible abandonment, however fleeting.

  “Sweetness isn’t what I’m offering.” Gunnolf’s mouth twitched in a disdainful leer.

  Under his scrutiny, the clothes peeled back from my body, the skin from my bones, showing all I wished to hide.

  “What is it you want?” My voice trembled.

  “I’ll show you.”

  He rose from the bench and held out his hand, pointing to the corner of the room and clicking his fingers, summoning not I but Faline.

  She came forward, knowing, I supposed, that to refuse would bring worse consequences.

  “An obedient creature, when she wants to be.” Gunnolf turned her face upwards, surveying the injuries of his making.

  He pinched her cheek roughly, then spun her round, pushing her to bend over the table, directing her to raise her skirts.

  He must have beaten her quite recently, for the welts were still livid across her buttocks — blue, without any hint of yellowing. He unclasped his belt and pulled the leather through, releasing it from his trousers. “But, sometimes, the pleasure is in defiance.” He looked back at me over his shoulder. “And struggle…”

  My mouth grew dry, watching him, waiting for him to raise the leather to her poor skin. There was no love lost between Faline and I, but I had no wish to see her suffer.

  “It’s shameful for a man to harm a woman, or for him to take her body when she has no desire.”

  “You think this one has no desire?” Gunnolf slapped Faline’s backside and I winced to see her flinch. “She likes to fight but she likes fucking even more… and she is made for fucking.” He lingered over the last word and pulled the belt tight between his hands but, instead of raising his arm to strike her with its edge, he pulled her hands awkwardly behind her back, wrapping the belt’s length around her wrists.

  He lowered his mouth to the bruise on her rounded cheek and bit the flesh savagely, evoking her sharp intake of breath.

  He kicked her legs wider, entering her with his fingers, then splaying her labia.

  “You see this; made for my pleasure?”

  It was not the first time I’d seen Faline’s cunt engorged, waiting for a man. The last time, it had been Eirik burying himself inside her, upon the banqueting table of my husband’s hall, cheered on by every Northman present. Faline had taken many that night, but her prize was Eirik — he the one she’d most desired.

  Gunnolf let his trousers drop, revealing a full erection from the dark bush of his groin, the head beaded with excitement. He took it in his hand, stroking the skin, a smile playing upon his lips.

  I expected him to jab inside, to take her brutally, forcing his penetration. Instead, he ran the slick head of his cock through Faline’s slit. He teased her with half-thrusts, rubbing against the tender nub of her cunt. She lifted her rump to encourage his entry.

  “Please…” I heard her whimper. “Please, my Lord.”

  He aligned himself, claiming with one smooth motion, pushing deep before easing back to enter again.

  Faline moaned in response, whispering again, as if to herself. “Please…”

  A heat had begun to burn me. The heat not just of anger but of desire, my own cunt filling with cream.

  “There’s more than one place to fuck a woman, of course.” Gunnolf’s voice was cold as he withdrew, slick with her juices, raising his cock to press against her anus. Faline gave a strangled cry but Gunnolf held her firm against the table. She squirmed only briefly before he pushed past her initial resistance.

  As his buttocks clenched and relaxed, she uttered low groans, as of a creature caught in a trap yet with no desire to escape. He kept his rhythm until the end, culminating in his last spurting.

  I hadn’t moved from where I stood. I’d waited, with the growing knowledge that, when he turned to me, I would submit.

  I’d pour out all my bitterness: at Eirik, and at Gunnolf too. I’d make Gunnolf roar, as his brother had done. Neither would be more or less than the other. Gunnolf was just a man; I’d use him to sate my need. Gunnolf wished a slave to command but I would command him, take him, own him!

  I desired a man inside me again, but also hungered to lose myself in the act. We’d consume each other, in wrath and fury, rather than love.

  He withdrew from Faline’s body, presenting a cock no longer fully rigid yet still emboldened.

  “You’re an animal,” I hissed, picking up the nearby jug of ale and casting the contents to drench his groin, knowing it would fire his passion all the more.

  In a single step he was upon me, his hands wrenching my shoulders, growling his ire and laughing low.

  “Exactly as you wish.”

  He yanked the front of my dress, breaking the clasps, then dragged down the shift beneath, tearing the clothes from me as I stood. I did nothing to defy him, my own hands helping until I was naked, revelling in his palms moving over my breasts, cupping my buttocks, squeezing my flesh. I cared not that Faline watched as I gave myself to him, nor that her eyes burned with displeasure.

  I clasped the great muscles of his arms, steadying myself against the roughness of his mouth, opening my legs even before he lay me upon the table. His piercing brought a moan of pleasure I couldn’t conceal, my cunt eager for his violence, my skin hungry for his raking teeth.

  He crushed me to his chest as he ejaculated, with a cry to match my own bursting wail. The sparks flared, broke and collided, dazzling me with their light and sending me, once more, tumbling into the abyss.

  22

  Gunnolf had become brutal, rough and ravenous. I knew his soul ached and there was no remedy, his anger another version of my own. We sated mutual grief and savage passion. Each bruise he gave me was a brand for my many sins, marking the slow death of my heart.

  His moods continued, volatile and violent. He lashed out before burying his head upon my lap. He told me of the first days of his wedded life, and before. His uncle had arranged the marriage. A contract of alliance, of course; not planned for love but for her rich dowry. Nevertheless, Gunnolf had marvelled at Asta’s loveliness, her composure, her grace. She’d been his prize.

  Now, he lamented all he should have said and done. “She carried my child but it was not enough to keep her in this life. Did she die, Elswyth, because I failed to show my love? Is it this she cannot forgive? Her beauty is buried and rotting; yet, she is beyond the door, beyond the curtain. She does not rest; nor will she allow me peace.”

  Mixing the sleeping draught he demanded, I said only that intended to soothe h
im. Even then, he tossed, restless, thrashing from haunted dreams.

  Fingers bone-white, eyes hollow and searching, I saw her too.

  Each moment of sleep took me to the forest, through which I ran, the trees leading me in circles, so that there was no escape. She was always there; now close at my shoulder, then behind. It was no longer her belly that she clutched but a bundle in her arms, which she thrust towards me. Within was the grey face of her swaddled baby, without breath or life. Her expression held the pain and reproach for which I blamed myself, and great sadness, too, for all that might have been and was lost.

  I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d never been asleep but had been looking through the darkness at her face.

  The rising sun brought the promise of summer and its warmth should have lifted my heart, as it did those of the children who ran outside, eager to make up for lost days.

  I’d done my part in helping Svolvaen recover from the pox, easing raging itches of the skin and debilitating fever, but I could scarce rejoice; Asta’s death, and my betrayal of her, remained a torment to me.

  I’d been remiss in many ways, seeking to avoid what was difficult. I’d retreated so far into remorse and self-pity that I hardly recognized myself. My body remained healthy, despite all that had happened around me, but I no longer believed in my purpose, nor my skills. I hadn’t saved Asta; nor had I found a cure for the disfiguring sores. My treatments were but a temporary salve.

  There was only one person I could turn to, though our friendship had foundered. We’d spoken but briefly since Ostara night. Astrid had confided in me during her anguish; I’d pulled away in mine.

  She looked tired, answering her door. Pursing her lips, she kept me on the threshold, inclining her head at last, shifting the wriggling baby from one hip to the other.

  “Take a seat, then.” She lowered the little one to the floor. “You know you’re welcome.”

  I deserved the sharpness in her tone. I’d neglected her, and Ylva.