It was strange that this simple touch seemed such an intimate gesture.
And yet.
She was suddenly reminded of the urge to grab him, the one she’d gotten in the grove. It was startling how much had changed between them since that conversation—and how little.
Then he pulled his hand away, and she suddenly remembered: He hated her. And rightly so.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About last night. I had thought during the wedding ceremony that something had changed between us. And when you were so cold to me for the rest of the day, and then got angry with me for sticking up for you, I was bitter.”
Eirik, still slouched against the door with his arms folded, looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not used to showing affection, and people aren’t used to seeing it from me. I was afraid that if I doted on you, my father and stepmother would think it so out of character as to prove I’m being bewitched. Better not to let them see that you mean anything to me.”
Gunnhild stared at him. He’d wanted to show her affection? He’d wanted to dote on her? But he was worried that his parents would think it suspicious to see him happy?
He frowned at the puzzled look on her face. “Is that so surprising?”
“Yes, it is. It’s just—I don’t know.” She flailed her hands. “Gods. You can be so frustrating.”
Eirik stepped away from the door and stood up straighter. “Well, you’re more frustrating by far. The first time I saw you, I thought to myself, That is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And then you opened your mouth.”
Beautiful? This was too much to untangle. She had to leave, and leave now. But something kept her feet rooted to the spot. “And yet you treated me as though I were some wild animal looking to murder you and your men in cold blood.”
“It was a difficult summer. I was on edge. I was paranoid.”
“Well, that hardly excuses your behavior.”
“As you say. As to the rest—we’re married. You’re not leaving.”
“And you would stop me?”
He held up his left hand to show her the scar across his palm. “We swore an oath, remember? So what if you can’t prophesize? You created the bindrune—”
“Which you have yet to test. For all you know I’ve failed at that, too,” she said bitterly. If Thorbjorg had realized that Eirik’s men were no longer susceptible to her mind magic, she hadn’t given any indication over the course of the festival. Not that Gunnhild would’ve expected her to.
“On the contrary, I have every confidence.” He cast his eyes to the ceiling again. “And I—I don’t wish for you to go.”
Gunnhild felt as though the ground had rocked beneath her feet.
“You don’t . . . what? But last night—” She gestured to the wine-stained tapestry. “I thought— Things between us have been bad, Eirik. Why would you possibly want me to stay?”
He met her eyes at last and moved toward her. “Ever since we met, my every waking thought has been of you, for better or worse,” he said quietly. “I won’t pretend I never despised you. I truly did, at first. But you have challenged me. You have complicated me. And I think, eventually, I’ll be better for it—and better to you, if you’d only grant me the same courtesy.”
This rendered her momentarily speechless. He was so near to her now that she could reach out and touch him, but he came no closer.
“I can’t forget the reason I loathed you before we even met,” she said, slowly. “The things you’ve done—”
“Can’t be taken back. I can’t change who I am, Gunnhild. I can’t change what I do, what I was made to be. I’m good at one thing and one thing only. And that’s violence. My brother called me our father’s attack dog, and I fear it’s not far from the truth. I don’t know that I can ever be more. But maybe—together—we can.”
Gunnhild was completely at a loss.
She could go back to the wilderness. Complete her training and take Heid’s name. Live a long, happy, unremarkable life. Leave Oddny and Signy to their fates and hope their luck would be better in her absence. Forsake both oaths she’d sworn. Walk away.
Or she could choose this. Choose them. Choose him.
But what held her back was the understanding that if she chose him now, she might do so again and again until eventually there would be no question and no choice at all.
Until it would always be him.
That, she realized, was love. A different kind of love than she felt for her sworn sisters and for Heid. A love like fire, warm and bright and destructive all at once. And she wasn’t certain she should kindle this feeling, for she didn’t have to be a seeress to know that one day the resulting blaze might very well consume all else.
Eirik seemed unsettled by her long silence. “That is—if you choose to remain here. But if you truly wish to leave, then I won’t make you stay.”
Before she could stop herself, she reached forward and pushed his hair behind his ear. He inhaled sharply, and at first he twitched away as though the brush of her fingers repulsed him, frightened him even—but as she let her hand linger on the side of his face, she felt his resistance cave, felt him begin to lean into her hand. As though he’d been longing for a gentle touch, her touch, but was terrified of the feelings it might evoke in him.
Their oath had been the strike of flint against a fire steel, the spark. And she had decided that she would fan the flames.
“What are you doing?” he managed.
“Making my choice,” she said, and kissed him.
When their lips met, the feeling that surged through her was unlike anything she’d ever felt—it was certainty, as though a piece of her had finally slid into place, two ends of a tether tied together, the last stitch in the tapestry of their interwoven fates.
He returned the kiss hesitantly, as if in disbelief, before reaching down to hold her closer, moving his hands from her waist down to her hips as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and suddenly his hands were on her thighs and he turned her, lifted her, crushed her against the wall. She gasped, both in surprise and at the feeling of the length of his body pressed against hers, and at the fierce hunger that flared in her as a result. She clung to him, fisting her hands in his hair as their mouths met again, as he braced her with a knee and started bunching up her dress and—
Fast, too fast. Gunnhild needed to get her bearings. She needed to stay in control, like she’d been during the sacrifice, when he’d been so enthralled by her that he couldn’t bear to look away. And sex was just another ritual, wasn’t it?
Gunnhild abruptly tore her mouth away from his and Eirik stilled, looking at her, his face flushed, a question in his eyes. She slid from his grip and planted both feet on the floor, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and guided him backward. When she pushed him to sit down on the box chair, the pile of fabric she’d stacked on the seat toppled and sent the cats bolting under the bed, though the bearskin remained in place on the chair’s back. Eirik didn’t resist, hands clasped on the arms of the chair, eyes wide and hungry.
He did not move as she hiked up her dress, climbed onto the chair, and straddled him, nor did he resist when she pulled his tunic over his head. Ran her fingertips over the battle scars that crisscrossed the slightly darker hair on his chest and belly, up to the snarling wolf tattoos near his collarbones, which were also slashed with long-healed injuries; at her touch, his breathing became heavier, quicker, and he grabbed her hips again and held her closer.