Page 6 of Heart of the Wolf

Chapter three

Brielle

Brielle awoke to a crackling noise that sounded like a log catching fire. With her eyes still closed, fingertips brushed over her heated skin, and she realized she hadn’t died.

Everything blurred together. She did not know how long she had been out for. The last thing she remembered must have been a dream. There was a giant white wolf that saved her and then spent the night curled up with her in a cave after she healed its leg.

That meant her Dane had also been a dream. As he always was. How could something she never had hurt so badly? Even the memory of a man she never spoke to made tears glimmer in the corners of her eyes.

The pad of her thumb skittered along the raised, cracked skin of her lips. Dried blood coated them, and she licked it away, bringing her knees to her chest.

Wherever she was, it was comfortable. The bed was much softer than anything she had slept in before, lined with thick furs and lustrous silk sheets. She’d only touched silk once before, much less owned any.

A sharp breath hissed through her teeth, and she lifted the furs, relieved to see she was still in her woolen shift. Beside her, the remnants of her cloak and bodice sat strewn over a bench, and within reach, lay her sword propped against the bed.

This wasn’t like any cabin back home.

A dozen tapestries hung along the walls, with a large, roaring hearth at its center. A handful of pelts were displayed proudly alongside the tapestries, flanked by ornate ceremonial weapons. At least, she assumed they were decorative based on how the unblemished steel gleamed in the firelight.

Surprisingly, it was large, wherever she was, with what looked to be other rooms out of sight.

Back home, Brielle’s lodgings were quaint. Practical. She required little. It had a stiff bed, a rickety bench, and one chest that held all her belongings, which wasn’t much. A small fire pit sat in the middle to keep her warm.

In contrast, this place was grand. The sudden sting in her head shook her free from her reminiscing, reminding her how she had gotten here.

On the other side of the bed sat a skin of water and a plate of apples, parsnips, and hazelnuts.

She drained the water and picked over the food, staving off the pain in her belly and head. Fingers snagged on the knotted, messy coils of hair as she ran a hand through it, fighting a hopeless battle.

“Of course,” she mumbled, plucking a twig from her curls and tossing it aside.

It was impossible to manage in the best of times. Now it was unruly, caked with mud, twigs, and blood. She was every bit the unkempt girl her father always accused her of being.

Someone had stoked the fire, brought her food, and stripped her down to her shift. Her head fell to her knees as her thoughts ran wild.

Those ash eyes twinkled in her memory. They swirled like calm waters, pierced by silver storm clouds.

Where was the man who carried her here? His eyes called to her. While pressed against his chest, her heart beat in tandem with his. Steady and sure like the seas.

Wood groaned in the distance, drawing her gaze to the source. A broad-chested man filled the space, blocking the sun with his imposing figure. Bright jade eyes glared at her, his olive skin framed with dark mahogany braids.

It was the jarl who came to her village for the past few years.

Sweat gathered on her brow, and Brielle scurried back on the bed, eyes darting around until they landed on her sword.

She was alone.

Based on the little she knew of this man, it did not bode well for her. Jumping to her feet, she reached for her blade. Blood rushed in her ears as she narrowed her eyes in warning.

She had no illusions that she was intimidating. The only thing tinier than her was the weapon in her hand. Calling it a sword was generous, as it was closer to a dagger. A rusty, ill-maintained one at that.

A smirk cracked the jarl’s serious expression. It lacked the usual malice she’d seen on men’s faces. Instead, it was whimsical, curious even.

Tendons pulsed as he crossed his thick forearms over his chest, amused by her.

An axe hung on his hip, with a bow strewn along his back.

He reached for neither. A large hand scrubbed over his jaw as he snorted a laugh, making Brielle furrow her brow and tighten her grip on the hilt of her sword, the leather fibers working their way into her nail bed.

Was he mad?

If so, that only made him more dangerous. Should she scream? Would that make it worse?

She was not a tiny child playing war and didn’t appreciate being treated as one.

“úlfr was right about his little firebird,” he chuckled, raising his hands in supplication. “I know you,” he said, arching a brow and taking one measured step closer.

Brielle matched his movements, moving until her back hit the wall.

“The one who watches from a distance. But not with the same disgust as your kinsmen.” His eyes narrowed into thin, assessing slits, like a predator sizing up its prey. “No, you… You are a curious little bird.”

He moved closer again, keeping his hands out when Brielle raised her sword.

“I will not harm you, little one. I value life,” he laughed, a low, throaty sound. “And it would be stolen from me should I touch you.”

Eyes drifted to the nearly empty plate of food and the drained skin of water, beaming back at her. Still holding the blade, her shoulder slumped, allowing it to dangle loosely at her side.

“Who are you?”

“Amund.” He lowered his hands. “Jarl of these lands. I can have more food and water brought for you. You certainly need it. You’re far too bony.”

Before Brielle could respond, another figure moved into the room. A short, petite woman with long, flowing blonde hair that shimmered like the sun twinkling on fresh snow sidled beside Amund. Beautiful blue eyes sparkled as she looked up at the jarl.

Rugged hands cupped her perfect porcelain face. Next to him, she looked so tiny, his giant hands covering her entire face. Where she was delicate and unblemished, he was scarred and callused. A subtle sigh passed her lips as she melted into his touch, exchanging quiet words in Norse.

Amund fused his lips to the woman’s, undeterred by Brielle’s presence. The kiss was demanding, yet the way he held her was surprisingly gentle. Every interaction she had observed with the man in her village led her to believe he was an unyielding figure.

While she didn’t doubt that he was unrelenting and brutal, as evidenced by the marks on his body, to see him tempered by another stirred something deep inside her.

It solidified her belief that they were not heathens, as her father had told her. They breathed and loved as much as anyone.

Perhaps even more.

Amund ended the kiss but kept his lips pressed to hers, smiling against the woman’s mouth. Undoubtedly, his back would ache later from how long he was bent over to meet her lips.

“This is my Astrid,” he said, the backs of his fingers stroking the column of her throat. “She will help you today until úlfr returns.”

A heat grew in her chest, spreading out to her limbs, twisting into an inferno. Hope alighted that this úlfr may be the Dane from her childhood, from her dreams. A tangle of emotions fluttered in her chest like the wings of a caged hummingbird. She shook her head, afraid to believe it was real.

That he may be real.

“Is úlfr the man who brought me here?” she asked, her voice small.

“Yes. He is hunting. Be back before nightfall.”

Sucking in a breath, Brielle steadied herself. She clutched a spot between her breasts. Every moment in her life had brought her to this point, the sureness of it calming her twitching fingers.

An arm wrapped around Astrid’s waist as Amund pressed another fierce kiss to her lips in parting. The man vanished through the door, leaving Brielle with what she presumed was his wife. Scents of jasmine and chamomile followed Astrid as she moved about the home.

Awkwardly, Brielle placed her sword back against the bench.

Astrid stared for a moment, her face relaxed and welcoming.

A discerning gaze swept over Brielle. Tapping her chin, Astrid paused at her hips before nodding.

Unease slithered through Brielle’s limbs, feeling as though she was just assessed like a prized mare for auction.

Saying nothing, Astrid disappeared into a far room, only to reappear a moment later to find Brielle standing in the same spot she had left her.

“Come.” Astrid wrapped slender fingers around Brielle’s wrist, tugging her along. “A bath. Then, more water and food. You’ll feel better.”

Dirt was caked into her nails and hair. Brielle could do with washing away the grime from the previous day.

Not only the physical dirt, but she could still smell the latent stench of the men who attacked her on her skin.

She followed Astrid into the interior room, dimly lit by a sliver of sunlight peeking in through a small gap in the wall.

A basin filled with steaming water sat in the center.

“What is your name?” Astrid asked, her accent thick as she struggled to form the words.

“Brielle.”

Without acknowledging her answer, Astrid tugged at her shift. Brielle squeaked and danced away, forcing the garment back down. No one had ever been so bold. Blush colored the tops of her cheeks. No one had seen her bare, save for her mother when she was a babe.

“There is no shame,” Astrid said, waving away her insecurities. “Our gods do not disgrace us for our beauty. Women are a gift. Blessed creatures that should not be ashamed of their bodies or desires. Freyja knows this. Be proud of it.”

That contradicted what Brielle had been taught. Ever since she was young, Brielle’s father had instilled in her the importance of modesty. Granted, she had never mastered it. Brielle wasn’t ashamed of her body. However, she didn’t flaunt it.

Astrid waited patiently, her fingers laced across her waist.

Not wanting to sit in the stalemate any longer, Brielle nodded, giving the woman permission.