Page 70 of A Curse Carved in Bone
“Don’t!” he shouted, then pressed the heels of his hands to his face. “Do not say it, Freya. Do not let this nightmare be what gives me absolution from your anger. Pity is not the same thing as forgiveness, and right now, I do not want either.”
I slowly lowered my hand to my side, my heart understanding what a terrible taste receiving forgiveness in this moment would be. Every part of me wanted to press my forehead to the ground and weep, for I had never felt more defeated, outwitted, and hopeless in all my life. But I refused to do that. Refused to let Harald win while I still drew breath. “If you wish my forgiveness, Bjorn, then find us a way out of this predicament rather than sitting on your arse feeling sorry for yourself.”
His gaze shot to mine, the outrage in his eyes infinitely better than the glassy stare from a heartbeat before. “I have destroyed everything that matters to me and everything that should have mattered to me. How else should I feel?”
Climbing to my feet, I straightened my clothing while assessing our surroundings. “As though you should do something about it.”
“What should I do?” His axe appeared in his hand, and he flung it.Flames flew end over end, but rather than rebounding off the barrier, it flew through to strike a distant tree. “There is nothing I can do!”
“I think that is not the case.” I stared at the smoldering bark of the tree. “Your tantrum has yielded results.”
Bjorn glared at me. “It was not a tantrum. Children throw tantrums.”
“So do men.” I crossed my arms. “But I will forgive your outburst, for you have unwittingly found us a solution.”
“You drive me to madness, woman.”
Shrugging, I said, “With any luck, that will be the case for many years to come. Now hit that tree again and let it burn. It won’t be long until a fisherman sees the signal, investigates, then wipes away the runes binding us. Then we will be free to chase Harald down for vengeance.” Glancing sideways at him, I added, “Unless you can’t hit the tree again. It is quite a distance away.”
“I hit it once, didn’tI?”
“The tree merely had the misfortune of being in the way of your tantrum. I don’t think you can do it on purpose.”
He huffed out an irritated breath, axe appearing in his hand. Staring at the tree, he took two quick steps and then threw. The axe flipped end over end, a blur of crimson fire.
And streaked right past the tree to smash against a boulder with a bang.
I laughed and slapped my knee. “Missed.”
“Born-in-Fire, for someone whose longevity depends very much on my ability to hit that tree, you seem oddly delighted by my failure.”
“You are possessed of too much arrogance and it is unattractive,” I replied. “Failure gives you some small measure of humility, which is more appealing. If I am to spend my final hours stuck on a barren island, I would rather it be with a handsome man.”
“I see.” Shaking his head, Bjorn lifted his axe, which had reappeared in his hand. Exhaling slowly, he took quick steps and threw it again.
And missed again.
Casting a sideways glance at him, I whistled between my teeth and then winked.
“You are the most irritating woman to ever breathe,” he growled, then hurled the axe yet again, flames crackling as it soared through the air.
To embed with athunkin the tree’s trunk.
Neither of us spoke, and for my part it was because I was holding my breath, but then Tyr’s fire ignited the tree. Crimson flame turned to the oranges and yellows and blues of natural fire, and it spread upward until the entire tree was engulfed.
“Well done,” I breathed. “But don’t let it go to your head or it will be like a bucket of ice water on the flames of my desire for you.”
Bjorn laughed softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
We stood in silence, watching the tree burn down to ash.
But no one came.
“I’ll hit another,” Bjorn muttered, pacing the perimeter of the square until he decided on a tree a similar distance away.
I said nothing as he took aim. The wind had risen and I was painfully cold, my clothes intended for fighting, not spending hours on an island so small it didn’t deserve a name. Bjorn mercifully hit the tree on the first try, the wood igniting, but when he looked at me, he frowned.
“Take off your mail,” he said. “It’s only making you colder.”
