Page 2 of Wulver’s Flame (Knotty #2)

Vargr

Two winters passed for Skoll to mark his territory.

The Alpha within me needed to carve out our place on the island.

We chose the highest peak, R?ni, the stony slope with a cliff that reminded me of the fjords from my home.

My skill as a warrior and Skoll’s aptitude in night-watching terror created a stronghold that would never be challenged. No one would dare.

My laws were obeyed by my men and thralls alike. The longhouse I built was equal to my father’s. Nothing less would do. With my home in place, Skoll became uneasy—a strange occurrence for him since he was content with our territory.

We often ran for hours. He craved freedom, and during this time, we connected long enough for me to reach him and understand him. I could not repeat the carnage we had previously caused. Hjaltland was now our home.

And his restlessness was not a good omen.

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We lay in the midday heat after cooling off in the rock pool. While I planned the next trade gathering with the islanders, Skoll’s head snapped up, and his body followed. He lunged across the pool, darted beneath the waterfall, and raced toward something.

No more killing.

I raged, ready to push through and force him to retreat.

Then the aroma hit me. From the tips of our ears to our tail, our body lit up like a raging long-fire in the dead of winter.

I pushed him faster to reach the scent of wildflowers blooming in spring, and a sweetness unlike any other.

Skoll opened his mouth to taste her, but she was still too far away.

By Freyja’s will, we had found our mate—another like me on this land.

How could this be?

Was she outlawed?

Disgraced and thrown from her pack?

The scent became more prominent. Wildflowers, when Harpa blessed us. A touch of salty smoke that made my mouth water. Destruction. The kind that left soil fertile and wombs full. She would be a strong breeder. A daughter of Freyja, even if she didn’t know it.

The sweetness of honey came last, making Skoll growl.

The decadent scent of our mate’s honeypot.

Her hot, slick core—full of sweetness and soon to trigger our rut.

Ours. Mate. Take. Now. brEED PUP. PUP. brEED MATE.

He was losing his mind, and I began to talk to him.

You will injure or kill her if you take her like this. Even with rapid healing, she will not be receptive if you attack.

I urged him.

No. My mate. Skoll snarled, raising his head. His teeth snapped in the air.

MINE.

He didn’t care whose land we raced through. People screamed and fled. To them, we must have looked like a charging bear, our bulk and glowing eyes terrifying enough to freeze blood. We crossed the fields faster than anyone could follow.

Then Skoll stopped.

So abruptly, our paws clung to the woodland floor, and our body slid sideways.

Again and again, he sniffed—frozen. Inhaling our mate’s scent. Locked in place, battling restraint. Now that she was close, he didn’t want to harm her.

Creep forward. I hear voices. She is with mortal females, I said, remaining calm, for both our sakes.

It was slow to happen, but the truth struck like an icicle shard to my chest.

There was no other wolf.

The four maidens were mortals.

This was my eternal punishment for failing to control my beast.

Skoll paused at my pain.

I focused through his eyes.

Flames danced around her. Vibrant red curls, calling to me. She tossed a clump of dirt at another maiden, ducking and running as she was chased. Her cloak slipped, and our mouth dropped open.

Soft. Curved. White flesh.

As pure as first snowfall.

Her bosom shook.

A scream of laughter echoed in my ears. Skoll raised his head above the branch that blocked our view. He poked his muzzle through the leaves.

Freckles. Too many to count.

Where else would they be?

Scilla verna blue eyes. Brighter than the flower. Brighter than the moon.

And her spirit?

She stopped running, bared her teeth, and growled at her opponent until the maiden yelped and ran. She returned to the clearing, victorious.

“Am Liùsaidh Flamehair Nic Dhomhnaill, and the chieftain’s daughter never retreats!” She shouted, lifting her skirts to hunt her prey.

Daughter of Donald.

She is mortal, Skoll, I said, ignoring his growl and added. But she is ours.

I would take what I was given. There was a reason we were called to her, why she smelled like our mate. We searched for our mate at home and never found her.

Why this mortal?

We stayed hidden, watching the maidens forage.

Ruaidrí Donald, chieftain of Dunraith, would either welcome my proposal or die. If I had to slaughter every last one of them to claim Liùsaidh, so be it.

Mating and bonding with a human was impossible. She would perish before she could take my knot. But surely the Goddess Freyja had a plan.

Liùsaidh’s scent was unmistakably mine.

OURS. Skoll snapped.

Ours.

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Upon returning home, I gathered my men. Armed and ready, we prepared for our journey to Dunraith. They would see us coming, but none would dare to stand in our way. Ponies hauled our surplus weaponry as we set off to negotiate a treaty.

The terms were simple.

Unity through handfasting and blood or death.

The choice was theirs.