Page 8 of Heart of the Wolf

Chapter four

Brielle

Astrid and Leif exchanged words in such a flurry that Brielle couldn’t make out a single one of them. Their conversation ended when he kissed Astrid on the cheek. Then, the kind woman bid Brielle goodbye and left her alone with the hulking beast of a man.

With a breath, his shoulders relaxed under his leathers and furs.

A thick beard accentuated his angular jaw, and he raked a hand through it, eyes roaming over Brielle.

He was slow in his assessment, his gaze pausing on the constellation of freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose.

Satisfied with what he found there, he moved lower, sweeping over her breasts and waist, lingering on her hips.

Unsure of what was expected, she shuffled from side to side, looking away.

Astrid said she was important. The longer the silence between them stretched on, the faster her heart thrummed. It wasn’t with fear, but something else she couldn’t place. Each thump in her chest pounded harder than the last. She sucked in stuttered breaths, only making her uneasiness worse.

Shadows shifted in her vision, blocking out the flickering flames of the fire. A lump caught in her throat as she tried to clear it, tilting her head back to meet his gaze.

“Shhh,” he soothed, his voice hoarse from the brisk air. “Steady your wild heart. Come.” He extended a hand to her. “You must be hungry.”

Hungry? She’d eaten more food earlier than she’d tasted an entire week previously.

She would be fine for days if the situation required it.

Her eyes drifted to the hanging deer and the string of rabbits, her mouth watering as she licked her lips.

Food didn’t appear to be in short supply.

Perhaps she could eat whenever she desired.

The thought was almost too promising to dwell on.

Without overthinking it, Brielle rested her much smaller hand in his.

They were rough with calluses, the skin scratching against her own.

The hammering in her chest eased when the warmth of his fingers closed around hers, leading her inside.

They moved through a large ceremonial hall that she hadn’t seen earlier.

Axes and swords adorned the walls, flanked by vibrant tapestries that told tales of Odin and other gods Brielle did not recognize.

A cool sting itched in her palm as his hand left hers. Something splintered inside her at the loss, urging her to reclaim it. Before she could voice her absurd thoughts, his hand fell to the small of her back, guiding her into the room where she had awoken.

Some small sound of disappointment hummed in her throat. Leif smirked, his eyes twinkling like starlight glinting off a frozen pond.

He dropped to a knee by the hearth, veins flexing in his hands. Plucking logs from the tidy stack, he tossed them into the fire, blowing hot air into the embers. The flames roared, licking the stone before settling down once more.

A shiver tingled like cold water dripping over her body, making her shift. As if sensing her movements, Leif’s gaze snapped to her. The drawn lines around his mouth showed concern.

“Are you cold, hjartae mitt?”

In two long strides, he towered above her, so much taller than she remembered. Granted, they had never been this close to each other before. She misjudged just how tall the man was.

Scars peeked out from his tunic, disappearing beneath the lush material, hiding who knew what else.

Brielle blinked, almost forgetting he had asked her a question. Back home, her father chastised her for being too loud and for talking too much.

But now, in his presence, she was at a rare loss for words.

Instead, her hand drifted to his face, drawn there by some invisible tether. Her fingers traced the line of the faded, raised scar by his eye without touching it. It had been fresh ten years ago, and now he had grown around the wound.

Gently, he grasped her wrist. She squeaked, trying to yank it away but failing. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. Where his hand had been rough, his lips were smooth, whispering like crushed velvet against her skin.

Heat bloomed in her chest, spiderwebbing out until her entire body was ablaze with the sensation of his surprisingly tender lips touching her.

All logical thought disappeared, and her vision tunneled on him and only him. His mouth curved as his eyes sparkled at what she didn’t doubt was crimson flooding her cheeks. He lowered her hand, moving his up to undo the loose clasp of her cloak.

The tattered bundle of wool fell into his hand. The tip of his nose wrinkled as he rubbed the thin material between his fingers. Huffing, he tossed it across a bench, turning his attention back to her.

Callused fingers swept over her collarbone, ghosting down the lengths of her arms. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

A tingling warmth slid across her back as she stood between the hearth and the bed, mind lost to the wandering flames.

Embers sparked and sizzled into nothingness as Leif passed her a skin of water, which she took without thinking, downing it in three sips.

“Sit, Brielle,” he said, voice gruff and demanding.

Her breath hitched, a shiver crawling down her spine. Her name rolled off his tongue, sounding much sweeter than she had ever heard.

Sweet enough to be dangerous because that’s who he was. Someone who shouldn’t know her name. Someone she shouldn’t be so captivated by. She spun to face him, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“How do you know my name?”

“Astrid,” he grumbled, pushing her toward the wooden bench by the fire when she didn’t do as he said fast enough.

Annoyance colored his tone. Discarding the empty skin, Brielle settled into the plush furs that decorated the ornately carved wood seating.

The pads of her fingers skimmed the dense coat, twirling strands of fur before letting them fall.

A silhouette shifted in the corner of her eye as Leif stood behind her, either watching her or the fire.

She didn’t dare to look to find out which.

Thick fingers stroked through her hair. She coughed, embarrassed by the unruly nest he was examining.

In the best of times, her hair was dense and tangled, but given it was still damp when she left the house, the mountain breeze had knotted it into something feral.

Carefully, he separated the strands, moving a comb of antlers through it, softly working through the snarls until they fell free.

Panic and shame clawed in her chest as she squirmed, desperate to run away. She should have done more to fix it before she and Astrid returned or before they had left. Her father had repeatedly warned her she would never make a match if she didn’t tend to herself properly.

She made to get up, needing to put distance between them.

“No,” he rumbled in a low command as his hand wrapped around her shoulder. “Let me.” Warm breaths brushed her ear and cheek, making her body visibly relax. “Let me care for you,” he almost growled.

Everything about him, about this place; she couldn’t describe it, but it felt right.

Even the people accepted her presence in their village; besides the blacksmith, he appeared bothered.

No more than some people back home. Maybe the others were approving of her only because Astrid accompanied her. She was the wife of their jarl.

Slowly, Leif worked the comb through the knots in her hair, gliding the teeth through pieces until it passed smoothly through the ends that kissed the small of her back. She could scarcely remember when it had gotten so long. Unlike the other girls, she didn’t style or cut it prettily.

She didn’t have the time.

Taking care of herself often fell to the bottom of her never-ending list. Often, she forgot to eat or drink, sometimes forgoing it entirely.

“You are Konungr?” she asked in a murmur, hands cupped in her lap.

“Yes.”

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he parted her hair into two pieces and tossed some over her shoulder.

Her mouth turned dry as he began braiding a section.

Scarred, bloody hands marred with the marks of his battles, now delicately plaited her hair.

She picked at a thread on her dress, dragging the points of her teeth over the swell of her lip.

She didn’t know how to braid hair, never bothered to learn.

And here, a Konungr did it for her.

Like it was his greatest honor.

Scarlet flamed her cheeks as an unfamiliar feeling bloomed between her thighs. She squeezed them together to stave off whatever wanton thoughts chased her with each pass of Leif’s hands through her hair.

“What does úlfr mean? Both Astrid and Amund called you that.”

Grunting, Leif tied a leather strip around one braid. He tugged it, tightening it in place before he began working on the other.

“úlfr is wolf in your tongue,” he said, splitting the second strip of hair into three thick sections.

A hand splayed over her heart. She hadn’t imagined it, but the quiet confidence in his words only solidified what she already knew.

Those ashen eyes, flecked with silver, were mirrored in the great, white wolf from the cave.

According to her father, the stories of the Norsemen’s gods were fairy tales. But Leif was a living embodiment of said stories. Knowing what she knew of her God, she wondered if the wolf form was a punishment for something he had done to displease his gods.

“Is it a blessing or a curse?” she asked.

“A gift from Odin.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. The headiness of it lathed over her like warmed honey, consuming her in the fullness of his words. The flutter in her chest intensified.

One oversized hand feathered sweetly on the exposed skin of her clavicle before it closed around her throat.