Page 10 of Heart of the Wolf

Chapter five

Brielle

The scent of cedar and smoke enveloped the cabin. Smoldering logs in the hearth turned into a sputtering pile of ash.

Leif remained kneeling between Brielle’s legs, gently stroking the swells of her cheeks. The tips of his fingers traced the line of freckles there, drawing patterns on the skin like he was charting the stars.

Brielle didn’t know enough of the old gods to be sure if there was unbridled truth in Leif’s words.

What she did know, was how her heart beat to match his.

How time flowed slower in his presence.

How a lifetime flickered in his silver gaze.

With his eyes now searching hers, everything she once believed was forgotten. All that mattered was this moment. Was them. The ever-present feeling that she was destined for something more led her to this. To him, drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

Brielle never understood what attracted her to the Norse.

Until now.

Despite how her father attempted to snuff out her curiosity, it only grew with each passing breath. Leif said Freyja guided him to her. Had she done the same for Brielle? Had Freyja tried to lead her into Leif’s arms?

Brielle was only in the woods that day because winter came sooner than expected.

“How would I know if Freyja guided my feet?” she breathed, unable to hide the hopeful lilt in her voice.

Unease pitted in her stomach. It was a stupid question; something like that would be obvious.

One would know if a god was steering them.

The Christian God had never done such a thing for Brielle.

She questioned his existence many times, keeping that feeling to herself lest her father shame her.

Leif’s cheeks pushed up into his eyes with the breadth of his smile.

When he stood, he urged Brielle up with him.

The rough skin of his palms scratched against her silken face. Without realizing it, she leaned into his touch. Grinning, his eyes melted into shimmering pools of silver. The creases around his mouth went lax, his face gentle and his body rigid.

Trying to stay composed, his throat bobbed with a swallow.

“You found me, did you not?”

An indescribable feeling nudged her toward Leif. She couldn’t break the link between them even if she willed it.

Not that she did.

No other man had ever touched her so intimately or looked at her with such unguarded desire. It wasn’t the hungry, assuming gaze that drunken men in her village would level on her after a night of too much wine.

Leif stared at her like she was the reason for the sun and the sky.

Unfamiliar energy skittered down her spine, feathering a tension at the crux of her thighs that made her falter. All the fear and teachings of her youth be damned, Brielle wanted to give herself entirely to Leif. An eternity in Hell was worth it if it meant a night with his hands touching her.

Oh, how she wished she had listened more to the girls and their gossip about their wedding nights.

Brielle knew nothing of what to expect or what to do.

Would Leif be gentle and patient or demanding and coaxing? She would welcome the wolf or the man. Both. All. Any.

All it would take would be a light breeze to blow her off the cliff’s edge she teetered on, propelling her willingly into Leif’s powerful embrace. The anticipation of the wind blowing her over urged her to fill the silence that had gone on too long.

Leif seemed content to search her gaze for something she couldn’t understand.

“Astrid said you and Amund united the clans. How?”

Besides the farcical tales of her father, it was common knowledge that the surrounding clans frequently warred.

The infighting boded well for Brielle’s village, keeping the Danes occupied with each other instead of the English towns like her own. When they had united a few years ago, her father’s fear heightened to unnatural levels.

Leif stepped back, a playful look appearing in his eyes at the cute pout gracing her face when his hands fell.

His gaze never broke from hers as he silently removed his furs, draping them over a bench. Deft fingers undid the clasp on his leathers until only his undershirt remained. Leif tugged at the ties and peeled off his tunic, revealing a litany of scars decorating his chiseled body.

Blood rose in her cheeks. She stared, gawking like a lovestruck fool. Leif smirked, arching his brow, a silent challenge in his gaze. One that dared her not to look away. One that taunted her to drink her fill of him.

She stood tall, accepting his challenge with courage and discomfort. Like an artist, she traced over the marks on his chest.

Some of them were old, raised, and white like the one on his face, laced into the fabric of his chest like they had always been there. Some were fresher; the skin still taut as it healed, tinged with hues of yellow and purple.

Muscles rippled as his shoulders tensed. Leif set the line of his jaw, scrubbing a hand through his beard before speaking.

“With blood. We slaughtered any who stood against us. Their weapons marked me.” He ran the back of his hand over one long scar that bisected his torso, running from his collarbone to his hip. “But I stained the snow with their blood until none fought back.”

The duality in his words and his actions with her reminded her he was a warrior, a leader.

No one conquered lands through words alone.

The tenderness he showed was for her alone. She craved to lessen the space between them, to feel his hands on her again. To know that the hands on her were capable of such brutality, but with her, they were gentle. It made butterflies flutter in her belly.

“As the wolf or as a man?”

“Both,” he breathed, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I do not need my wolf to kill a man.”

She could spend hours memorizing his scars. His battles wove themselves into his skin, forming a tapestry. The stories of his life. She wanted to etch the patterns into the fiber of her being.

A shaky breath rolled over her parted lips as Leif moved closer, blocking the flames from the hearth until he was the only thing that filled her vision.

“Does it frighten you?”

“No,” she said.

The answer spilled out, an unwavering declaration.

Nothing about him scared her. It was in the depths of his eyes, the rhythm of his heart; Leif would protect her until his last breath. The truth of it echoed in the hum of her chest and in the ease of her breath.

Leif was a dangerous and unyielding force, but with her, he channeled that essence into being whatever she needed.

“Will you tell me the stories of your gods? Of your life here?”

Mischief sparked in his gaze.

“Will you eat more if I do?”

A smile pierced her cracked lips with a slight laugh as she dipped her chin—a Konungr who knew how to negotiate. Brielle wasn’t unhealthily thin and had eaten more than enough that morning, but fainting at his feet had apparently driven his need to keep her fed.

“Yes. I agree to your terms,” she snickered.

A low sound echoed deep in his throat, making her squeak. Leif slipped an arm under her legs and easily lifted her, cradling her petite frame against his bare chest. He deposited her on top of the thick furs of his bed. The firelight glinted in his eyes as he bent down until their gazes met.

“Wait here.”

The command rumbled through her like a summer’s storm.

Brielle scooted back on the fluffy mattress of feathers until her back collided with the wooden wall.

Leif moved to the hearth, feeding the flames before disappearing into a darkened room.

The pillows were as soft as the bed, and she moaned a little sigh at the feeling of them pressed against her back.

Thick blankets and furs lined the bed. Brielle carded her fingers in an exploratory trail through the bear skins.

No one had ever treated her to something so luxurious, such finery.

A king would have been waited on and tended to; at least, an English king would have. However, that didn’t appear to be Leif. He hunted his own food. He tended his own fire.

She assumed he also slayed and skinned the furs that covered his bed. If he had servants, she hadn’t seen them. Amidst all that, he braided her hair, taking care of her. Shadows shifted in the firelight when he returned with a plate overflowing with fruits and nuts.

Woolen breeches clung snugly to his toned thighs, the ties of the fabric hanging loose around his waist, teasing at the trail of blonde hair disappearing beneath the fabric.

He placed the plate on a table, kneeling on the edge and crawling beside her. She had expected the conversation to happen on the benches by the hearth, not in his bed. Her pulse thumped in her throat, almost painfully, with nervous anticipation.

Strong arms pulled her back until she was nestled between his outstretched legs. His palm rubbed a trail over her belly while his other hand swept her braids to the side. His cheek now pressed firmly against her own. A deep laugh vibrated through her.

To some, she assumed it was a terrifying sound. One that heralded destruction. However, when it was just them, it took on an entirely different tone, almost playful.

“You have nothing to fear in my arms, Brielle.” He plucked a slice of apple from the tray and brought it to her lips. “What do you wish to know? Ask, and I shall tell you.”

Tentatively, Brielle parted her lips and closed her mouth around the tart sweetness of the fruit. Her heart skittered against her ribs when her tongue brushed along his fingers.

Fruit was a rare treat at home. She often passed on it, allowing others to savor it instead. Another small moan shook her, one she didn’t try to hide as the juices slid down her throat.

He stiffened at the sound, something hard poking her back.

“What does hjartae mitt mean? Why do you keep calling me that?”

His hand continued its slow exploration of her stomach as the breath of his answer washed over her throat.

“It means my heart,” he said in a possessive timbre that made her squirm.