Page 7 of Heart of the Wolf

Tiny fingers unlaced the ties of Astrid’s bodice as she dropped it to the ground, stripping herself of her cloak and dress.

Brielle sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t look away, thinking it would be rude to appear affronted by her host’s sudden nakedness. Peaked rosy buds pebbled in the cool air, her movements revealing a thatch of kempt hair at the crux of her thighs.

Brielle refocused on the bath in the background, feeling she had succeeded in not appearing rude.

“See,” she said, gesturing to Brielle. “Now you. Before the water goes cold.”

Not keen to stand naked on display for longer than necessary, Brielle shuffled out of her dress and slipped into the bath before Astrid had time to comment on her breasts or other features. Creases formed around Astrid’s eyes as she smiled, nodding before redressing.

“While you wash, I’ll get more food.”

The woman vanished in a blur of blonde hair, leaving Brielle alone and confused. On the edge of the basin hung a piece of cloth that Brielle grabbed, soaking it with soap and scrubbing away any reminder of the ordeal from her body.

With each stroke of the fabric, more air filled her lungs. Leaning back, she dipped her hair into the water, watching as dried blood and dirt mixed into the now murky liquid.

Content that she had gotten most of the blood out, she slipped from the bath. Water dripped from her hair as she squeezed the excess out before redressing. Moving into the main room, she stoked the fire with fresh logs from a nearby pile, letting the heat from the flames help dry her.

Astrid returned with a bowl of stew and fruit, passing Brielle another skin of water.

“Drink,” she huffed. “If úlfr returns and finds you underfed, he will be displeased.”

Displeased with whom, she wondered. Not that she needed to be told.

Brielle dug into the stew, releasing a quiet moan when the fresh beef hit her mouth.

The tart tang of apples hit her tongue as she plucked pieces from the plate, licking the juice off her lips.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten something so hearty.

Rations were tight back home. Brielle spared what she could, giving her portions to children and the elderly.

“Thank you,” Brielle offered, draining the skin of water.

“Yes. You are most important,” Astrid grinned, and Brielle balked, taken aback. “Once you are finished, grab your cloak, and I will show you the village.”

Brielle chewed on her lip, finishing the last bite of stew before standing and fetching her tattered cloak.

Astrid’s words lingered.

Despite being the only healer in her village, she never described herself as important. Perhaps it was a language barrier between Norse and English. Astrid must have misunderstood the meaning of the word important.

Fiddling with the finicky fastening of her cloak, Brielle followed Astrid outside.

Bright beams of sun poked through the dense clouds. Brielle flicked up the hood on her cloak, hiding her hair from the people milling about. She stood out with her untamed curls, and all she wanted was to blend in.

Astrid threaded an arm through Brielle’s as if they had known each other their entire lives. Grinning, Astrid steered her through the labyrinthine pathways splintering off from the massive building in the heart of the village.

Children laughed and ran between the houses. Eyes followed her everywhere they went, but their wary gazes faltered when Astrid greeted them.

Some smiled and welcomed her, unbothered by a foreigner in their midst. Others were cautious, dipping their chins before returning to their business without a word.

A woman with flaming hair stared at her, fingers closed around a spear as she bent over to murmur to the man beside her.

When he dipped his chin in acknowledgment, a jagged scar shone on his forehead.

Astrid conversed with them in furious Norse, reminding Brielle of the gossipy old woman who lived next door to her back home.

As they continued to speak, Brielle recognized the redhead as one of the warriors who came to her village with Amund. The weight of their gazes made her shuffle, kicking rocks with her feet.

“Hello,” the redhead forced out, struggling with the words. “Liv.” She tapped her chest. “Andri.” She slapped the man across the back of his head, and he grunted, rubbing the spot. “Husband,” she said, a wide grin splitting her lips.

The man snorted and scratched his beard before mumbling something in Liv’s ear that made her flush and swat at his chest. The tension in Brielle’s belly uncoiled, making an unsure smile appear.

Brielle murmured to Astrid. “How do I say hello in your tongue?”

They were trying; she wanted to do the same.

“Heill,” Astrid said. “It is our greeting.”

Turning her attention to Liv, Brielle smiled, “Heill. Brielle.” She patted the spot where her heart was.

Jeweled eyes widened under Liv’s amused smile. Roughly grabbing Brielle, Liv squeezed her into a tight embrace, making it hard for her to breathe. Only once the shock of what was happening wore off did Brielle return the hug, swathing her much smaller arms around Liv’s sculpted shoulders.

Her husband, Andri, whispered something in her ear that made her release Brielle instantly.

Brielle shared a conspiratorial look with Andri, offering a silent thank you. He dipped his chin, a half-smirk painted on his lips.

Without a word, Andri picked up Liv, tossing her over his shoulder. She shrieked, pounding on his back playfully. The two of them disappeared into their home. Something between mirth and mortification mingled in Brielle’s chest as Astrid led her deeper into the village.

A vibrant, palpable energy hummed everywhere as children played and people bartered.

Grim sadness rooted itself in her chest, Brielle grieving something she never had. She admired how passionate these people were, so different from the cold indifference of her own back home.

They laughed, spoke, and touched openly, without reservation.

Astrid was patient, taking the time to describe the various buildings, pillars, and people.

Every corner and nook brimmed with life. People exchanged food for furs and mead for weapons. They didn’t look defeated and listless. They didn’t hiss in pain. They didn’t starve themselves.

The people here were thriving.

She toyed with the frayed threads on her hood.

“Is úlfr,” Brielle focused on pronouncing it just as the jarl had. “The King? Konungr?”

Warmth settled into Astrid’s features, making her appear motherly. “Close. úlfr is our Konungr,” she praised, impressed with Brielle’s attempt to learn their words. “King is an English phrase. No such thing exists here. Konungr is the head of our clans. Our leader.”

“úlfr is his name?”

“No. Sorry,” Astrid paused, brow pinched. “I don’t know what úlfr translates to in your tongue. But Konungr is Leif Sigurearson. He has been such since his father went to Valhalla.”

So, Leif was the man who brought her here after she collapsed in the forest. The Dane from her dreams. From her childhood. He hadn’t died. He stopped coming to the village after his father passed, and he became their Konungr.

“And the jarl, Amund, is second in line behind Leif? Your husband?”

“Yes. They are like brothers. United the clans. There is peace in our lands for the first time in centuries.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Brielle asked.

“Because you are important.”

“Astrid,” Brielle said, tucking loose strands of hair back into her hood. “I think you confused this word with another. What do you mean by important?”

Abruptly, Astrid stopped. Brielle ran into her, almost tumbling to the ground. For a tiny thing, Astrid was quite sturdy. Wind blew her lush, blonde plaits to the side as Astrid pushed Brielle’s hood back until her curls billowed freely behind her.

“That is not my conversation to have with you,” she said, her tone light and as sweet as honey. “This is pretty.” Her hands carded through Brielle’s hair, pulling a coiled curl and watching it spring back in fascination.

The flickering desire she had to return home smoldered out like a dying flame. It may have been a foreign place with foreign words and foreign people, but the warmth from Astrid’s words fanned the curiosity she had always held for the Norse.

No one back home called her hair pretty.

It was something to be tamed and controlled so her father could arrange a marriage for her.

No one back home considered her essential.

She was a tool, a means to an end. No one at home smiled at her as she walked through the village.

No one here knew her, yet she received more kindness than she could recall in recent memory.

“Do many people here speak my language?”

Astrid hummed and started walking again. “Leif and Amund are the only ones confident in all the words. I’m close. A few others know some here and there, but most, no.”

They weaved through the bustling streets, littered with people. A man with a scowl and a thick beard worked steel into a blade, conversing gruffly with another man whose fiery hair was tamed into loose braids decorated with glass beads.

Once their gazes fell on Astrid, both nodded in greeting.

As Astrid spoke to the men, Brielle shifted from foot to foot, running her fingers self-consciously through her hair, and wanting the ground to devour her.

The only words she understood were úlfr and her name.

Both sets of eyes widened briefly before hardening back into a neutral expression.

Two tiny hands bracketed Brielle’s arms, thrusting her to the forefront. Astrid was unrelenting, refusing to let Brielle disappear into the darkness like she preferred.

“Ivarr.” She pointed to the red-haired man, who nodded. “And this is Styrr.”

The blacksmith clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, ignoring Brielle and turning his attention back to Ivarr.

Brielle tried to pull her hood up, wanting the security it brought back.

She needed to hide, feeling unwelcome for the first time.

Astrid stilled her hands, glowering at the blacksmith, who shrugged.

After tossing the man a final glare, Astrid maneuvered her among the thatched roofs and buzzing crowds. A little boy with long blonde hair chased after a young girl whose giggles sang over the treetops, making Brielle chuckle.

Thick specks of snow fell from the dense gray clouds. Astrid tilted her head back, smiling as fresh flakes melted on her cheeks.

“Winter is my favorite,” she said. “Don’t you love it?”

Nothing compared to the beauty of winter, to new snow blanketing rooftops. Brielle admired how the sun would sparkle on fresh snow, looking like a million tiny, glittering gems. Or how sheets of white would cover the barren trees, turning the forests into twinkling tunnels.

No wonder it was Astrid’s favorite; she was winter personified—all pale skin, crystalline eyes, and brilliant blonde hair sparkling like sun-dappled snow.

Perhaps Brielle could share that sentiment with her if every memory of winter wasn’t plagued with hunger and discourse.

Every cold season for as long as she could remember, she had minimal food, with the bulk of their supplies going to the Norsemen.

Most nights, Brielle went to bed with pangs in her stomach from the lack of food.

She would gladly choose that over the risk of their village’s destruction, the slaughter of her people, or even worse, their capture.

Brielle limited her rations without complaint, taking just enough to survive the snowy months.

However, if enslaved people were among the Norsemen here, Brielle couldn’t quickly tell who they were.

Everyone wore similar vestments, none appearing above or below the other.

Someone might have hidden them, believing them unfit to be seen among the villagers.

The metallic tang of blood flittered on her tongue after biting down harshly on her bottom lip.

“You look tired,” Astrid murmured. “You’re still recovering. Home, I think.”

Blue eyes blinked at her, shining like stars. Creases grew between Brielle’s brows as she followed Astrid silently back to the large building in the center of all the activity.

Home, as she had called it. Leif’s home, not hers. It was a slip of the tongue. Astrid had not understood what her tone implied.

The cloudy haze of dusk claimed the sky, and night approached. Brielle vaguely remembered the path they had trodden, her feet moving of their own accord until her tired stare landed on a roaring fire.

A blaze flickered steadily outside the longhouse. Two deer hung from the rafters. Blood drained from their bodies, dripping into a bucket on the frozen ground.

A prominent figure sat sprawled around the fire, his long legs stretched out, his head tilted.

Moonlit-streaked braids framed his face.

Lines etched his brow as he focused on the string of rabbits on a log before him.

The man skimmed his hunting knife below the hides.

Thick, pale fingers worked to tear skin from bone with an elegance she hadn’t expected.

He dried the skins and furs out by the flames before butchering the meat and stowing it in a snow chest by the door.

The man turned, a muscle in his jaw jumping when he saw Brielle and Astrid. Silver flecks shone in his gray eyes like snow speckled by morning light. His glacial gaze melted slightly in the swirling flames of the fire.

Brielle fought the urge to conceal herself from the intense look piercing her like the tip of a dagger. That icy stare was all too familiar and echoed in her mind.

He was the man who had carried her from the woods.

Her Dane.

The man who haunted her dreams.

Konungr.

úlfr.

Leif.