“Says the man who smells like arsehole,” Bodil answered, and a dozen voices chuckled. We were surrounded by Halsar’s warriors, I realized. It was their hands holding my legs in place, their bodies blocking the wind. Protecting me despite the fact it was supposed to be the other way around.
Sudden, irrational panic filled me that the gods would punish them for this. I was supposed to stand alone, to overcome my trials alone, to be alone.
Fear must have given breath to my thoughts, for everyone went silent, the only howl the wind, then an old warrior said, “The gods said nothing of the sort, girl. I was there when Saga spoke her foretelling, and I watched the gods themselves appear during your sacrifice at Fjalltindr. Nothing was said about you doing anything alone.”
I clenched my teeth, waiting to hear Snorri’s voice telling them that they were wrong, but if he was there, he was silent.
“You’ve never been alone,” Bjorn said, his voice so soft that no one but me would hear over the wind and my weeping. “I will be at your back until I cross the threshold to Valhalla, Born-in-Fire, whether you want me there or not.”
My chest tightened, and cloaked by darkness, I allowed myself to turn my face into his chest and give in to the pain. To sob and shriek as sensation burned its way back into my feet and hands, not because it was more than I could bear but because I needed to get the hurt out. Bjorn held me tight, stroking my hair, the certainty that he would not walk away crumbling all the walls I’d built around my heart until exhaustion drove me to sleep.
* * *
—
I woke, the pain of frostbite reminding me instantly where I was, which was fortunate, given I was surrounded by blackness.
And wrapped in someone’s arms.
I went rigid, awareness of all the places I was pressed against Bjorn slapping me into instant alertness. His arm cushioned my head, my cheek resting on his thick biceps and his other arm around my middle, gripping my hands in his larger one. My back was against his chest, my arse tight against the hard plane of his stomach, and my feet were caught between his calves. Though every inch of me hurt, I was blissfully warm beneath the thick fur.
Bjorn shifted. “You all right?”
“Yes.” My mouth was dry, and I swallowed, trying to clear the rasp. “Thank you.”
He didn’t answer, and for a moment I thought he’d fallen back asleep. Except there was a tension to him that suggested he was very much awake.
Move, I told myself. You’re warm now—sleep on your own.
Instead I held my breath, waiting for him to speak…to do something, though I wasn’t certain what.
A loud snort only inches from my face startled me and Bjorn gave a soft laugh. “Bodil snores.” I felt his arm straighten under my head, and Bodil muttered a curse and rolled noisily away from us, presumably to escape another shove. Blinking away the crust of tears on my lashes, I saw other furred shapes, barely visible in the darkness. Though that they were visible at all meant dawn was coming.
And with it, the first significant battle of my life.
I blew out a long breath, trepidation rising in my chest. In a few hours, we’d descend to attack Grindill, and so much depended on me. On my magic. If I failed, dozens would die. Men and women who’d risked Snorri’s wrath last night to help me would put their lives on the line with total faith that victory was my destiny, and the sudden weight of that burden would have staggered me if I’d been standing.
I, having barely escaped death last night, might die today.
The thought reminded me of the regret that had coursed through me when I’d believed my life was over. A few hours from now I might well be lying bleeding in the dirt and feeling the same regret, and I didn’t want that for myself.
I wanted more. Even if it was just for a moment, because no matter whether my life ended today or my fears of growing old alone and forgotten came to pass, I could cling to the moment like a candle in the darkest night.
Knowing I was treading on dangerous ground, I shifted backward, molding my body against Bjorn’s.
He’ll just think you’re cold, I told myself, even as the heat pooling in my core hoped he’d think something else.
I held my breath, waiting for him to react, anticipation making my pulse thrum.
“Cold, Freya?” There was not an ounce of concern in Bjorn’s voice, only amusement and the edge of something far less innocent than laughter.
It was that something else that made me bold. “No,” I breathed, shifting against him. “I’m not cold.”
“Hmm.” I felt the rumble of the acknowledgment more than I heard it, and I bit my lip, waiting for him to respond to what I’d done. But Bjorn only asked, “Do you need to piss?”
Indignation flooded me. “No!”
“Then why are you wriggling around? It makes it hard to sleep.”
Indignation turned to mortification but then I felt the vibration of his silent laughter, and a heartbeat later his thumb began stroking the back of my scarred hand in small circles, stoking the heat in my core higher. “Stop.”
His hand stilled. “Stop?”
“Talking.” I bit my lip. “Stop asking me questions, was what I meant.”
“Ah.”
He renewed the small circles, sending a shiver through me even as I realized my demand wasn’t fair. Bjorn had every right to be wary of me. I’d blown hot and I’d blown cold, ridden him like a creature possessed by lust, only to shout at him to stay away from me. He should want nothing to do with me, because I was entangled and inconstant, yet he remained at my back. “I might die today.”
Bjorn tensed, then he said softly, “Is that why you want me to stop asking questions? Because you fear death?”
The wind howled and Bodil’s snoring intensified. It was a miracle that all those around us didn’t rouse. Yet no one stirred, which meant I had no excuse not to answer. “I don’t fear it,” I whispered. “But last night I faced it with regrets, and I don’t want to do that again.”
Bjorn didn’t answer, and if not for the soft strokes of his thumb I might have thought I’d erred in confessing my heart. In truth, I didn’t know what I was asking from him, given we were surrounded. Given his father—my husband—must be very nearly in earshot from where we lay tangled in each other’s arms. But gods, I wanted.
Then Bjorn’s hand moved from mine to press between my breasts, over my heart, which skipped at the contact, then sped. “You will not die today, Born-in-Fire, because I will slaughter anyone who comes near you. That is a promise.” He was quiet for a long moment, then added, “Knowing that, do you still wish for me to stop asking questions?”
I drew in a shaky breath, his words making my skin burn hot and my pulse roar, because he was asking for a greater admission from me than I’d intended to give. It was easy to take risks when one faced death but far more difficult to take them when one faced life, and that was what he promised.
I wanted. But above all else, I wanted him.
Interweaving my fingers with his, I inhaled and then moved his palm to my breast. I felt a shudder run through him and I shifted my hips lower so my arse pressed not against his stomach, but against the thick ridge of his already hardened cock.
“Freya…”
“No more questions, Bjorn.”
He was silent for a long, painful moment, then his teeth caught at my earlobe, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through me even as it answered my request. I rolled my hips against him, a throbbing pulse forming between my thighs, needing his touch. Instead he curled his hand around my breast, toying with my nipple as it peaked beneath my borrowed tunic.