Page 7 of Wulver's Flame

She crouched low and crushed him to her bosom, fingers buried in his hair, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

Mate. Breed. Pup.

Sköll 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.

Chapter 4

Liùsaidh

He pulled something heavy out of the wooden chest. It rattled. Perhaps a weapon for retaliation. I sat up, ready to stand and fight with my bare hands.

In the name of Taranis, the God of Thunder, strike this evil beast down.

The swine held chains in his hands.

“A gift for my bride,” he said with a cold smile.

I stared at him. Properly. His blue eyes were icier than the winter sea. Wicked. Evil. His dark hair was braided as was his beard, but I could see the wheat colour through it. The colours of my enemy.