Page 23 of Heart of the Wolf

Leif moved with chilling determination. Each swipe of his axe purposeful and controlled, matching the precise positioning of his feet.

Lacking Leif’s finesse, Styrr grew frustrated. Scarlet flushed his cheeks as sweat beaded off his brow. All the while, Leif had barely broken a sweat, a lazy, confident grin gracing his relaxed features.

Seeing an opening, Styrr attacked.

A snarl hissed through Leif’s clenched jaw when the points of Styrr’s spear slashed through his tunic.

Blood stained the silken top, and Brielle choked down a strangled cry.

Leif’s playfulness from earlier shifted into something predatory, and his advances turned deadly.

Brielle fixed her face, forcing it expressionless, aware of the attention focused on her.

Based on how slowly the wound bled, it was most likely superficial. People looked at her like a Dróttning; she had to be fearless, outwardly at least.

Some watched the fight and some watched Brielle, their curious gazes searching her for signs of distress. She projected herself as composed and unworried.

Even if she was anything but, on the inside.

Another restrained hiss fell from Leif’s cracked lips. A muscle in her jaw jumped when Styrr’s spear bit into Leif again, streaks of scarlet dripping down his forearm.

Leif ducked a haphazard swing, sending Styrr off balance as his spear failed to meet its target. In this split second, Leif pounced, homing in like a wolf with its prey cornered. Leif dragged his axe across Styrr’s shins, sending muddy streams of blood spilling onto the stone and snow.

A ghostly howl pierced the night, sending birds soaring into the darkness from their boughs. Styrr collapsed to his knees at Leif’s feet.

Pain laced his features, and he spat on the ground, sneering up at Leif, resigned to his fate. Finally allowing herself to breathe, Brielle clutched her chest with each icy exhale. She watched Leif’s lips move, unable to hear his words over the din of murmuring voices.

Amund’s mouth cracked with a broad grin, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. Strong fingers pulled an ornate dagger from Leif’s boot, and an eerie silence reclaimed the valley.

“May Valhalla welcome you,” Leif said. “And any others who challenge me.”

With regal confidence, he slit Styrr’s throat. The sneer on the man’s face fell as his body sputtered with its final, wet breath before crumpling to the ground in a pool of his own blood.

Whatever declaration Leif made caused the celebration to resume, both Styrr and his challenge forgotten.

Ale flowed freely, many chasing the drunkenness that had faded in the last hour. Leif passed Amund his bloodied axe, the two embracing in a one-armed hug. The grimace on Leif’s face did not go unnoticed as he moved. He tried to play off the pain with a smirk when he rejoined Brielle.

“You’re hurt,” she admonished, crooking her head to see the stains on his tunic.

“Just a scratch,” Leif huffed, unconcerned by the blood.

“You don’t need more scars,” she sighed, her fingers hovering over the wounds.

“But these ones are for you, hjartae mitt.” His mouth rested on her forehead. “I wear them proudly.”

“Home. Now,” she said, curling her slender fingers around his wrist. “So, I can tend to these so-called scratches.”

Amund bent at the waist, deep laughter rolling through him like a rippling tide. Even Astrid giggled beside them. “Go, úlfr,” Amund said. “She may add a scar or two of her own if you don’t.”

In a flash of blonde hair, Astrid nudged Amund in the ribs, making him choke on another laugh. “Leave them.”

Following the now well-known path to the door at the back of the longhouse, Brielle maneuvered a willing Leif into his private quarters. His mouth quirked, even as pain twisted in the creases around his eyes.

A dull ache hummed behind her temple, worsening when she tried to rub it away. Her hands found her hips, happy that neither of them would have to deal with Styrr again, but annoyed by Leif’s blatant disregard for his own well-being.

“Off.” She gestured to his chest. “The leathers and the tunic.”

She huffed, blowing a curl off her face. Leif prowled toward her, his deft fingers freeing the straps and ties of his leathers and tunic, a predatory gleam in his eye. Firelight flickered across his jaw as his tongue ran over the points of his teeth.

“If you want me naked, kona.” He whispered the endearment like a vow. “All you need do is ask. I will always give you what you want. What you need.”

Leathers thudded to the ground, Leif wincing as he worked the ties of his tunic loose. Her lips pressed into a thin line, crossing her arms over her chest, saying nothing as the cream-colored garment, now redder than rubies, pooled on the floor.

The gash by his ribs was deeper than she first thought, with more minor nicks marring his chest and back. Luckily, nothing appeared too worrisome or life-threatening as long as she cleaned them.

“What I need, Leif.” Her tongue clicked the inside of her cheek. “Is for you to go sit on the edge of the bed. I’ll be over in a minute. To take care of you,” she added, her mouth thinning when he waggled his brows. “You’re in pain. Will this happen again? Because of me.”

At her pinched expression, the lingering mirth fell from his face. Fingers sticky with blood closed around hers, rubbing her knuckles.

“They may, but they will never succeed,” Leif purred in a low, confident sound that made her knees buckle.

“Those unhappy with me have nothing to do with you. Styrr was only one of many who dislike how I lead. Many want their thralls, and were angry when I banished the practice. There are others. Kin even.” His face twisted before softening once more.

“There always will be. Power spurs envy. But you have nothing to fear.”

“Kin?”

“Sometimes those closest to us are the loudest.”

“Astrid wants to rule?” she asked, trying to lighten the conversation.

A low rumble hummed in Leif’s chest.

“Should she choose to, I’d be felled in an instant. Woman is unyielding. The only one who could best me, besides you.”

She flashed him a tight smile, unable to stop from prying deeper.

“Who?”

“Do not worry,” he murmured, running his fingers through her hair.

“Tell me.”

“Firebird,” he said, half chuckling, half sighing, knowing she wouldn’t stop until he answered her. “Two sisters of my mother. One lives a quiet life with her family, nestled in the woods. She is kind. One day, I’ll show you off to her.”

“And the other,” she needled.

“Is loud.”

“Loud how?”

“Loud like Styrr. Jealous of my mother. Of me. Of Astrid.”

“Why?”

“Cause her husband is slow and weak. Envious of my mother’s marriage to a future Konungr.”

“How long before she comes?”

“Nothing to fret,” he soothed, stroking the jut of her hip. “Family is always the loudest without acting. And if they did, her husband would likely trip on the way here, impaling himself on his spear by accident.”

Unease still prickled at her fingertips, but his reassurance made warmth pool in her belly.

She indicated the bed once more, half expecting him to push her, surprised when Leif relented, sitting on the bed without saying another word.

Brielle disappeared into an area near the washbasin, filling a bowl with clean water from a pail.

Leif grunted in the distance while she gathered bandages, cloth, and a salve.

Huffing with the effort, she yanked a chest closer to the bed, setting her supplies down, aware of him tracking her every movement. Brielle kneeled beside him on the bed, careful not to touch any of the wounds as she assessed them.

The one on his abdomen near his ribs was the worst. She dipped the cloth into the bowl of water, gingerly cleaning the dirty blood from the cut on his torso and forearm, resting her forehead against his.

A line of muscles on his stomach clenched at the next brush of her damp cloth, and she pulled back, murmuring a quiet apology. A palm caressed the column of her spine, sparks dancing in his wake.

“Never sorry,” he soothed, watching with rapt attention as she cared for him.

Tired lips brushed over her temple, his touches so at odds with the harshness of his body. Brielle worked in relative silence, relaxing once she wrapped the salve-covered cuts.

“Does this still sting?” she asked, her delicate fingers dusting over the spot by his ribs.

“No,” he said, his tone questioning. “You are quiet. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, her too-high voice giving her away. Ignoring him, she tended to the more minor marks on his back. She felt his eyes boring into her. “Truly. It’s just that this life is very different from the one I left. Not that I regret it,” she added when his brow arched.

“Not that different,” he huffed with a grunt as he shifted, favoring his uninjured side.

“Norse or English makes no difference. All men vie for power. At least here, they attack your front instead of your back. If someone wishes to rule the clans, we duel. Then it is done.” Leif cupped her chin.

“The English work in the shadows. They use gold and secrets to slaughter anyone who stands in their way. Too weak-willed to fight.”

Brielle didn’t doubt his words, having seen how the men of her village acted. Yet, it made her question Leif and his methods.

“Then why did you only spare my village from attack in exchange for supplies? Why not just take what you wanted?”

Leif ran his thumb over her mouth, still holding her jaw. “What?” He angled his body into hers. “Our people are capable. We did not need the meager supplies your village offered. I have zero interest in controlling it.”

Our. It was a gentle reminder that this place was as much hers as his now, regardless of whether they were wed.

“Then why?”