Page 24 of Ma Petite Mort

But someone’s watching.

And it’s not just a someone.

It’s him.

I tilt my head just enough to peek past his hip.

And there he is.

That man.

The one in the fur.

Black band. No mask. Still as death and twice as pretty.

Just standing there—watching.

Again.

My spine tingles. My stomach flips.

And I fucking purr around Bjorn’s cock.

When I finally pull off, my mouth wet, lips swollen, I lick the taste of him from my teeth like it’s bloodwine and grin like the damn lunatic I am.

“He was watching earlier too,” I murmur. “Didn’t blink when a man got his guts turned into garlands.”

Bjorn’s eyes narrow. Real slow.

“I saw him in the blood tent,” he growls. “Didn’t move. Thought he was a ghost.”

We lock eyes.

“You didn’t imagine him.”

He looks again, past me, over my shoulder.

Watching the stranger.

That unshakeable thing with a face carved out of old secrets and eyes like storm clouds ready to burst.

He’s not aroused.

Not scared.

Not even trying to hide how fascinated he is.

“He’s not afraid,” I whisper.

“No,” Bjorn agrees, voice dark with something that sounds suspiciously like awe. “He’s one of us.”

Then his fist tightens in my hair—hard—and he drags my mouth back to him like a god claiming tribute.

“Let him watch,” he snarls, voice low and brutal. “Make it fucking worth his while. Show him what a real Valkyrie looks like on her knees.”

I whimper. And gods, it’s not even for show.

“Say it,” he demands, voice jagged with lust and pride. “Say what you are.”