Bjorn’s hand curved against the small of my back, and I found myself deeply aware of each flex of his fingers, for they sent spikes of sensation deep into my core. There was comfort in his touch, a safety that I’d never felt with a man before, and my sluggish mind slowly turned over why that might be, given I hardly knew him, before landing on the reason.
It was because there was no demand in his touch.
No sense that he intended to take anything from me or to use me the way so many others had. A touch entirely without agenda beyond chasing away the cold. Tension seeped from my body, and I relaxed against him, focusing on the steady beat of his heart. Slowly, my shivers eased, my pulse no longer a frantic beast running out of control. The numbness retreated from my limbs, sensation returning to my fingers, and I felt the hard muscle of his back beneath my grip.
I had no right to do so for many reasons, but, of their own accord, my fingers trailed over the burn scar running over his shoulder blade. Bjorn shivered and drew in a deep breath, the movement causing his stubbled cheek to brush the sensitive skin of mine. An ache formed between my thighs, and I became excruciatingly aware that my bottom, clad only in soaked linen undergarments, was pressed against him in a most intimate way.
My imagination drifted, painting an alternate world where it had been Bjorn I was wed to today. Where it was Bjorn’s bedchamber I’d walked into. Where it was Bjorn who’d satisfy the lust in me that I’d always kept buried.
You hardly know him, I chided myself, but my body clearly thought it knew him well enough, for liquid heat formed between my legs. I shifted so that I could look at him, my eyes fixing on his full mouth. It was nearly always smirking, but not now. Instead, his lips were parted, his breathing as rapid as my own.
“Freya…”
I shivered at the sound of my name on his lips, his voice deep and rasping. But then, beyond, I heard the shouts of men and women, my name repeated over and over. They were searching for me, and if anyone found us like this, especially after what I’d negotiated with Ylva…
Gods, but I was an idiot.
Pushing away from him, I climbed to my feet, hoping he didn’t notice that my legs could barely hold me upright. “They’re looking for me.”
Bjorn didn’t answer, only rose with enviable grace, water dripping down his muscular torso to mix with blood that still oozed from the wound along his ribs. Without another word, he strode down the beach to where the warriors searched. I followed him, but slowly, allowing the distance between us to grow. It was a distance I needed to maintain, because clearly being close to Bjorn caused me to lose my head. I couldn’t afford that, and neither could my family.
My skin grew colder as Bjorn drew away from me until he was nothing more than a dark shadow in the distance. If only the same could be said of the ember of want that burned in my heart.
Part of me had feared that Snorri would be furious that I’d disobeyed him. Instead, he was elated that it had been me who’d set fire to the ships, seeing it as proof of the veracity of the seer’s foretelling. That Bjorn had been as much behind the fires as I went in one of Snorri’s ears and out the other, and I was half tempted to tell him that I’d be a corpse floating on the fjord if not for his son.
But Ylva’s eyes dissected me with every word, so I bit my tongue, knowing that if she suspected anything lay between me and Bjorn she’d make both of us pay, one way or another. Better to say nothing, which was easy, given that it was no moment for celebration. Victorious or not, buildings in Halsar still burned, dozens of corpses cooled on the ground, and many more screamed and cried from injuries.
At least a dozen men were brought to the great hall with injuries so catastrophic, it seemed a miracle they were still breathing, and if not for Liv’s magic, they’d have gone to Valhalla before dawn lit the sky.
But not even the healer could do anything for the dead.
Eighteen lives lost, I’d heard the servants whisper as I did what I could to help those not mortally injured, cleansing wounds and wrapping them tight with bandages. Most of them were warriors, but not all. A fact I had to face as I joined the procession down to the beach the following morning. Four pyres sat unlit, and as I set my eyes on the faces of the deceased, my chest tightened so painfully I could hardly breathe. Gnut’s men hadn’t just slaughtered those who’d opposed them, they’d slaughtered those they’d found sleeping in their beds. The very old. And the very young.
Logically, I knew the death toll would’ve been much higher if I hadn’t given the early warning, yet it still felt like a failure. Hlin had granted me magic so that I might provide protection, and while my actions had helped end the battle, it had been too late for many. And I hated that. Hated that these people had died because men like Gnut and Snorri valued my life—or death—more than anything else.