Page 4 of Wulver’s Flame (Knotty #2)
Vargr
Her linen dress was edged with delicate embroidery, and a crimson cloak draped over her shoulders, fastened with bronze pins. Wildflowers laced her hair, but her curls refused to obey. Skoll snarled inside me, impatient for her eyes—for our bride, but she didn't look at a single soul.
As the seeress bound our hands with the woven cord, her fingers went limp and slipped from mine.
I bared my teeth.
Patience thinning, I seized her sleeve, anchoring her beside me. Her scent curled around me like smoke and sap—sweet, defiant, dangerous. The urge to finish the rite and drag her away was nearly unbearable.
She would be mine in name. In bond. In flesh.
I raised my voice to the stones, loud enough for her Gods and mine.
“By Odin’s sword and the blood of my line,
I bind myself to this woman.
I offer her my strength, my shield, and my name.
She will walk under my protection—
beside me in battle, and beneath me in bed.
May the gods strike me down if I falter in this oath.”
A cheer erupted from my men. Then silence fell, thick and waiting.
Her bound arm trembled.
Liùsaidh lifted her chin, jaw tight enough to crack stone. Her voice didn’t rise—it cut.
“By the stones of my land and the blood of my kin,
I vow to honour this handfasting in name alone.
I give what I must for the safety of Dunraith.
Let no God mistake this for love.”
A stunned murmur rippled through the crowd, but she kept her gaze fixed past my shoulder, as if I were beneath her notice.
Skoll growled beneath my skin, furious.
I smiled.
I picked up the blade and dragged it across my palm. Blood dripped down the stone. When I passed the knife to my fire-fuelled bride, my cock twitched at the sight of her slicing her skin without flinching. Her blood spilled with mine.
My knot throbbed. The swelling had begun.
The sword exchange followed, but by then, I couldn’t tear my eyes off her.
I owned her fire.
Her heat.
Her blood.
She was ours.
Our mate.
?
?
?
We waited as her kin gathered to say their farewells.
Her father pulled her into a final embrace, muttering hushed words against her hair, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t lift her arms. Didn’t blink.
She stood limp and stoic, carved from stone.
Until her young brother ran into her arms.
Then she broke.
She crouched low and crushed him to her bosom, fingers buried in his hair, whispering something I couldn’t hear.
Mate. Breed. Pup.
Skoll hummed with contentment. Our mate was coming home.
We need her heat first, I reminded him, watching her cradle the boy’s head.
It didn’t stop the image from blooming—her body round with our young, voice soft as she soothed their cries.
By Freyja’s teeth, she was born to raise our pups.
?
?
?
She was silent as I led her into the longhouse. Not a word as I showed her everything, from the latrine trench to the bedchamber.
She eyed the bed like it was laced with wolfsbane.
“You speak my tongue like a Viking, Liùsaidh,” I murmured, circling her like prey.
She’d sat before me the entire ride back, stiff as carved wood. Each jolt of my horse had pressed her against my cock, and her scent—sweet, defiant, ripe—drove us to madness.
The pain had been exquisite.
“One should know their enemy,” she sniffed, stepping away.
“Why don’t you remove your cloak? The fire will keep you warm. There are furs on the bed.”
“I’d rather bed a thorn-bush than lie with you,” she snapped.
I moved fast, but not before I caught the glint of silver. I seized her wrist and squeezed until the blade clattered to the floor.
I inhaled deeply.
Hemlock.
“Not even a clean blade,” I said coldly. “A poisoned one.”
I shoved her onto the bed, not hard, not gentle. Her eyes spat fire and brimstone at me. I stooped to retrieve her dagger. It wouldn’t have killed me.
She didn’t move. Didn’t fight. Just stared, lips pressed tight in that flame-stoked defiance.
I crossed to my chest, opened it, and laid her blade inside.
Then I lifted out the chains.