Page 8 of Wulver’s Flame (Knotty #2)

Vargr

My control was ready to snap like a dried twig. By Freyja’s tears, it was torture to watch her eat. Liùsaidh’s body was reacting. My seed had rooted itself deep—she didn’t know it yet. Confusion twisted across her brow, and anger danced in her eyes, but the scent didn’t lie.

Honey.

Sweetness thick in the air from her honeypot.

I licked my lips, remembering the taste.

She bloomed for me in sleep.

She’d do it again. Awake.

The chains would remain.

If I removed them, she’d run.

Skoll growled, eager for the chase.

Let her run, he urged with his excitement bubbling beneath my skin.

But I shook him off. Not yet.

I waved the scribe away.

Work could wait.

Skoll needed a run before his mind descended into chaos.

Loki help him.

I’d let my pretty mate simmer a little longer. Let her stew in sweet confusion, in want she didn’t yet understand.

Soon.

She’d beg for me to take her pain away. Beg for my knot—the only thing to relieve her heat. Beg for my bite.

?

?

?

The sun shone brighter. The land, more beautiful.

Skoll’s happiness lit our heart up.

He pawed at the blue wildflowers—the same shade as Liùsaidh’s eyes.

Mate, he growled.

Almost…bashful.

You want me to pick flowers for her?

She tried to stab me with a hemlock-laced dagger, no less. I teased.

MATE! he snapped, full of force.

I’ll pick them once we’re back. I’m not walking home bare-arsed.

He settled, content.

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?

She sat on the bed full of fury. Her eyes flicked to the clay vase brimming with wildflowers. The fury did not lessen.

“He wanted me to give them to you,” I said, setting the vase on the wooden chest.

“Who?” she snapped, her glare sharp enough to flay skin.

“Skoll. My wolf. Your mate.”

Her gaze darted behind me, like she half-expected a beast to step from the shadows.

Skoll’s nervous energy buzzed beneath my skin. It made me itch.

“Where is he?”

“Inside me,” I said.

She shook her head. “This isn’t natural. I was betrothed to Fergus before—”

Skoll erupted. Fury ignited like dry kindling, and his growl rumbled through my chest—long, low, and vicious.

“If you want him to live,” I said, voice like ice. “Never speak that name again. Skoll won’t hesitate to tear him apart. And I won’t stop him.”

The thought of another man wanting our mate made my fingers twitch with the urge to hunt. To rip out his throat and string the remains of his carcass up as a warning.

Her fire dimmed. Wariness flickered in her eyes, replacing the defiance.

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

My gaze dropped to her lips. Soft. Pink. Parted. Just like her cunt had been last night.

She needed my seed in both holes—needed her heat to come before I lost every thread of restraint.

Skoll didn’t help. He prowled just under my skin, snarling for release.

I tossed a dress at her.

“Put this on,” I said, voice like gravel, “if you want a reprieve from the bedchamber.”

I sat on the chest, unwavering. To watch her wrestle with the pelt and put the dress on without losing her modesty.

My sweet, innocent mate didn’t know that herbs and potions worked both ways. She would have a very deep slumber tonight.

?

?

?

While she foraged, her tongue lashed me in her native tongue.

“Destroying ma medicine. Oafish brute. A wolf?” she scoffed. “More like a mangy mutt.”

Skoll didn’t care about her words. She was fed, watered and seeing her outside made him happy.

She walked to another spot, bending over to run her hand through the long grass. Her arse was in the air.

Mounting position.

I pushed myself off the tree and stalked behind her. When I reached her, I gripped her hips.

She shrieked, and I held her tighter.

Her basket fell. She jerked upright.

“Are you teasing me?” I murmured, grinding myself against her perfect mounds of hot flesh.

Her neck was free of the collar. I rubbed my face and beard against her neck.

“Ya hairy bull’s arse. Get aff me,” she snarled, trying to stomp on my foot.

“I love it when you curse at me in your tongue. It makes me harder,” I whispered.

She froze.

Didn’t say a word.

My fingers slid up her waist, toward the swell of her breasts.

“By Odin’s blood. You’re the most beautiful mate we could have asked for. One day, you will beg me to fill you up. Stuff my knot into that tight little honeypot. You will beg me to breed you.”

Her body trembled, and her breath came in short, sharp bursts.

Skoll was in Valhalla as we inhaled her reluctant sweetness arising.

“We can smell your need, villikona mín,” I said softly, calling her my wild woman because everything about her drove us wild.

I brushed my fingers over her nipples, groaning when I felt the peaks stiffen through the thin linen dress.

“Your body knows what it wants, your thinking is slow,” I growled, gripping her nipples, rolling and tugging those tight little peaks.

She moaned.

Long. Low. And devastating.

Skoll wanted to howl from the cliff tops.

“I will be waiting, Liùsaidh. Waiting for you to submit to your husbondi,” I said, gently kissing her neck before releasing her. Man of the house.

She didn’t curse again. Not once. Just walked in silence, barely breathing.

We felt the war inside her. But the scent didn’t lie—it burned.

The ember was lit in our flame-haired maiden.