Eyebrows rose on all within earshot, several chuckling as though I were nothing more than a silly girl who’d had too much to drink and would regret it tomorrow. I refused to acknowledge that they might be right.
“There is nothing to discuss.” Bjorn smirked at the redhead, and I curbed the urge to bounce my cup off the side of his head. “You’ll learn soon enough, but my father is remarkably adept at twisting stories and myths so that they support his way of thinking. If a bird shits on his head, he’ll find a story to spin to make it seem a message from Odin himself. But sometimes, Freya, it’s just shit.”
As he said the last, he turned away from the redhead. His gaze latched on my balled-up fists. “Why are you wearing gloves in this heat?”
“Because of what lies beneath,” I snapped, feeling the attention of those around us. From their frowns, several appeared not to take kindly to Bjorn’s words about his father, though I doubted he cared. “You saw the scars. The tattoos. The gods clearly believe I needed a reminder that actions have consequences but that doesn’t mean I need to stare at the consequences all night.”
Bjorn’s eyes lifted from my hands to meet my stare. “I thought you had no regrets.”
“I don’t.” And I didn’t.
He rested his elbows on the table. “Then why are you hiding your hand?”
I blinked, struggling for words because my hand wasn’t what I’d come here to talk about. “Because it’s ugly. That’s why. No one wants to look at it, least of all me!”
Bjorn leaned across the table, mouth next to my ear. “Nothing about you is ugly, Freya, least of all the scars you earned defending your honor and family,” he said. “And those tattoos are a sign you have the blood of a goddess in your veins. You should wear them with pride, not hide them as though they were a brand of shame.”
“This isn’t what I came to talk about.” My pulse was roaring. “How I look is not of any importance.”
Bjorn drained his cup, setting it on the table with a thud. “Then take them off. Take them off and we’ll discuss whatever it is you wish to discuss.”
I swallowed hard, feeling Ylva’s eyes burning into me. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” He leaned across the table again. “Take them off, Freya, or I’ll start to wonder if you have regrets. And if you have regrets, I might start to feel differently about you.”
I twitched, the admission that he thought much of anything of me somehow startling. “I care little about what you, or anyone else, think of me.”
“Prove it.”
His voice was full of challenge, and the challenge called to my soul. Made me want to rise to it. I was no coward, and even if proving so meant doing something stupid, I fully intended to do it. “Fine.”
Jerking off the gloves, I tossed them into the fire, the white wool turning to ash. Then I turned and rested my elbows on the table, fingers interlocked, and stared him down. Never mind that my heart was galloping. “Satisfied?”
His expression changed, but not to disgust. Instead, devilish delight made his eyes sparkle, the slow smile that formed on his lips making my heart skitter. “Not yet.”
In a flash of motion, he leapt on top of the table, reaching down for me.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, but Bjorn didn’t grace me with an answer, only closed his hands over my wrists and lifted me as though I weighed no more than a child.
“Lift your cups,” he roared. “Drink in honor of Freya the shield maiden, child of Hlin and lady of Halsar! Skol!”
He pulled my right hand into the air as everyone in the hall roared “Skol,” hammering their fists on tables and their feet on the floor. Then they lifted their cups and drank. Someone pushed a cup into my hand as my gaze met Ylva’s. The true lady of Halsar was not cheering. Yet though her eyes were cold as frost, she lifted her cup to her lips and drank.
As did I. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of mead, some escaping to pour down my chin, then slammed my cup down on the table next to my feet. Only then did I realize that Bjorn still gripped my wrist, for he drew me back up and said, “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”
I hesitated, and he tilted his head. “No one can hear you over the noise.”
That was definitely true, for men and women still toasted, cups clacking together and mead spilling everywhere. But that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. My tongue felt thick; nonetheless I forced myself to ask, “Do you believe what your father said is true? About you? And me? That you’re destined to keep me safe.”