Page 21 of Ma Petite Mort

To the left, two men in bear furs are spit-roasting a black-branded guest while feeding him pieces of raw liver from a silver platter. Every time he gags, the crowd claps.

“Gods, I love this tent,” I whisper, licking a drop of blood from the girl’s shoulder. “It’s where all the weirdos come to fuck.”

She nods, trembling.

I kiss her ear. “And bleed,” I add.

Then I slit a smile into her lower back, just because I can.

That’s when I feel it?—

Someone watching.

But not like the rest. Not moaning or drooling or panting.

Just... still.

My gaze flicks up?—

Bjorn.

That stare. That weight. That pull—like gravity just grew fangs and decided to bite.

He’s bare-chested, blood-slicked, every rune tattoo glowing like it’s carved from fire and shadow. His braids hang damp, clinging to his shoulders, and the way he moves?

Like a war drum with legs.

“Fuck,” I whisper, tongue flicking against my lip. “He looks like wrath wrapped in muscle and dipped in godhood.”

I feel his boots first. That slow, heavy thud of purpose—like the earth steps out of his way.

And then he’s on me.

No words.

Just a fist in my hair, yanking me back hard enough to make my whole spine sing.

I moan—loud, filthy, eager.

Because of course I do.

Because he’s here, and I belong under him like knives belong in ribs.

“You,” he growls, voice thick like smoke and thunder, “were perfect tonight.”

I giggle, breathless. “Aww, big guy—sweeping me off my blood-soaked feet?”

He leans in, mouth at my ear, voice like a prayer on fire.

“You looked like a goddess carved from chaos. My chaos. Mine to watch, and mine to fucking claim.”

I shudder, thighs clenching, blood pounding everywhere.

“And now?” he murmurs, dragging his nose down my cheek. “Now I’m going to remind every watching soul exactly who you kneel for.”

Oh, gods. Yes.

Yes, yes, yes.