Page 12 of Heart of the Wolf

Chapter six

Brielle

In the morning, Brielle mewled a hushed sound. She stretched, aware of the sturdy arms anchoring her to a chiseled chest. A deep voice rumbled in her ear, blowing aside wayward curls. He nuzzled her cheek, the coarse hair of his beard tickling her.

“Too early, hjartae mitt,” he groaned, tightening his hold around her. “Go back to sleep.”

The sun had already crept above the mountains.

Back home, she rose when it was still dark out.

It could hardly be called early. If anything, it was late.

Before she could chastise him, she paused.

What was she to do? She wasn’t at home. There were no children with scraped knees to tend to or overzealous men with tiny cuts, screaming like a woman in childbirth.

There were no supplies to sort, no bandages to make, and no herbs to grind into salves.

She shifted higher, resting her back against the wall. Absentmindedly, she toyed with the threads of fur pooling around her hips.

The world spun on, the sun eclipsing the moon once more. It had been two days since she left her village. Yet, somehow, it felt as though it had been a lifetime ago; that place and those people so foreign to her now.

Enough time had passed for people to notice she was missing. Did her father secure a group of men to search for her? Or would he thank God for relieving him of one more burden? What if she couldn’t stay here? A familiar, niggling sadness twinged in her chest.

Was it such an awful thing to want her father’s love?

“Your mind is loud. What ails you?” he asked.

With another disgruntled noise, Leif sat up. His thumb stroked the crease between her brows, leaning forward to peck the tip of her nose. The tender act was so at odds with his roughened exterior, all sharp edges and jagged scars. Brielle shook her head, not bothering to make sense of it.

There was none to be had.

“How long will I stay here?” she asked, wincing at the neediness of the question.

Brielle didn’t do well sitting with the unknown. She craved certainty, something that she often had to do without. But Leif had been a constant since her mother died. Even when she believed he was only a spirit visiting her from the other side.

He always came. He would always be honest with her, telling her the truth, no matter how much it hurt her.

At least if he told her to leave now, she could fortify her heart to her reality sooner. A massive hand closed around her chin, cradling her.

“Forever. You belong here with me, with us.” His face contorted into an emotionless mask, his gaze cool and distant as he steeled himself for his next words. “But you are no prisoner here. If you wish to leave, that is your choice. No one will stop you.”

People said many things about her. They called her odd yet clever, noting her brilliance for mending others a close second. If she listened to that part of her mind, she would leave and return to the world she had always known.

But as clever as she was, she was ready to throw all logical thought aside.

In truth, nothing about her and Leif was rational. Everything involving him overruled reasonable thought. For nearly a decade, her heart—or maybe Freyja—guided her steps. It would not bode well to change course now. Especially when being in Leif’s presence calmed a lifetime of loneliness.

His heart sang to hers.

If she left, part of her soul would be lost.

“What do I do here?”

“Whatever you wish,” he said, trailing feather light kisses over her freckles. “Tell me, and it is yours.”

“Will you teach me?” she asked, eyeing her pitiful sword in the corner.

Women in his clan fought. She had seen them. Still, she couldn’t stop the way her heart plummeted into her stomach, fearing she would be met with the same anger the last time she asked a man to show her how to use a sword.

At first, he didn’t react, his face remaining indifferent.

“Where did you get it? It is small and not suited to you.”

“I stole it. From a traveling merchant, when my father refused to get me one.”

His lips twitched, his chest puffing out with pride. Whatever reaction she was suspecting, it wasn’t that. It made her stomach flutter and her thighs clench.

“What a smart girl,” he murmured, slipping out of bed.

The muscles in his back rippled as he shimmied into his tunic, the silk whispering over his pale torso. Brielle watched, greedily taking her fill of his toned body.

“I will teach you,” he nodded. He kneeled on the pile of feathers and furs, leaning in until their mouths were a breath apart. “Take a bath. The basin should be fresh. While you are cleaning, I will have food and clothes brought for you. Meet me outside when you’re ready.”

“All right. Yes,” she breathed, unable to tell him no.

The words barely left her lips before he claimed them. His mouth was firm against hers, his fingers angling her jaw slightly to give him better access.

She moaned, a pretty, sleepy sound, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. The remnants of tart wine and sweet fruit lingered on his tongue. He licked deeper into her mouth, taking more and more until she was pliant and flushed in his hold.

Crimson stained her chest and cheeks as heat pooled low in her belly. The spot between her thighs started to ache, an unfamiliar throb making her hips cant into nothingness. She grew dizzy with the intensity as he ended their kiss, nudging the hinge of her jaw with his nose.

“Pretty girl.”

Without another word, he vanished, leaving her dazed and breathless.

Once the heat receded from her cheeks, she padded to the far side of the cabin to find still-warm water in the bronze tub.

It wasn’t until she removed her dress that she realized how wet she was at the crux of her thighs.

She flushed again, sinking into the water.

She washed quickly, water dripping off her skin. Grabbing the wool cloth from nearby, she dried herself, walking out into the main room.

Someone had stoked the fire, and the air was pleasantly warm on her naked skin. Laid out on the bed were an array of clothes. Her eyes widened, ignoring the overflowing tray of nuts, apples, and meats.

Afraid she might ruin the garments, she trailed the material with only her fingertips. There was a stack of tunic dresses made of the richest wool she had ever felt. Beside them were even finer apron dresses dyed in shades of crimson and indigo with subtle patterns woven into the material.

A new cloak, lined with tawny furs so thick that she doubted any breeze could penetrate it, waited for her. Next to that sat a bowl filled with glass beads, golden brooches, and other decorative pieces that she had no business having.

Brielle stared, her chest tight. When Leif said he would have clothes brought, she didn’t imagine this. These were garments fit for a… she paused, not allowing the thought to solidify into something she wasn’t ready to face.

Behind the cloak sat two pairs of leg wraps that she overlooked. They were like the ones she saw the women wearing who fought with Amund.

Like most women, she had only ever worn dresses. If Leif was going to train her, wraps would be the more sensible option. The wool cloth covering her shoulders fell, and she slipped the leg wraps into place, securing the ties around her hips.

Once fully clothed, she drained the skin of water before eating the plate of food. With her sad excuse for a sword in hand, she made her way outside.

Sunlight gleamed off his porcelain face, and she licked away a speck of drool from her lips. Leif sat sprawled out on a log, the picture of brutal elegance, effortlessly maneuvering his blade beneath the hide of a rabbit.

Upon seeing her, he smiled, storing his dagger in his boot, and laying the rabbit by the fire to cure. She nibbled her lip; the sword held awkwardly in front of her. His axe swung on his hip as he moved, his towering form blocking the sun.

“You smell like flowers,” he murmured, his scarred fingers easily guiding her mouth to his like they had been together for years. “Did you like the clothes?” he asked, scanning her for signs of unhappiness.

“Like?” she choked. “These are... they are... I have never worn anything this nice.”

He nodded, looking at the blade in her hands with narrowed eyes.

Slowly, he reached out for it, arching his brow.

She dipped her chin, handing it to him. The hilt balanced in his outstretched hand.

A scowl settled across his features as he huffed, shaking his head.

Moving behind her, he lowered her old sword to the ground and returned with a different weapon.

Its blade glittered like fresh ice as the polished steel caught the sunlight.

Leif watched her, resting the sword on his palms and presenting it to her.

Fresh leather wrapped around the handle, imbued with amber stones.

Her fingers brushed over the gems, moving lower to trace the runes carved in the material.

Tears shone in her eyes when she looked up, daring to meet his gaze. It was warm, soothing a long-forgotten part of her that ached for acceptance.

“What do these mean?” she asked, pointing to the runes.

“This one is protection.” He pointed, trailing his thumb reverently across the intricate markings. “And that one is for strength. And those are balance and partnership. This last one, justice and victory.” His strong fingers showed her each in turn, eyes flicking up to watch her as he went.

The tears fell unbidden, streaking her pink cheeks.

She covered her face, unable to look at him as too many emotions weighed on her.

It was as though he had chosen each rune to instill value in something crafted especially for her.

Two warm, callused hands followed the dips of her waist, far too gentle for how rough they were.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, flicking away the tears with his thumb. “Would you prefer a spear?”