Page 13 of Viking Beast
I’d withstood much—marriage to my pig-of-a-husband in Holtholm, submission, even at Eirik’s hands in the earliest days; torment in the long months of his absence when Gunnolf had become my lover. Couldn’t I bear this, too?
There was a dark glint in Eldberg’s eyes as he moved his hand lower, brushing the curls of my cleft. His finger parted me, and I flinched. Slowly, he pushed one finger inside.I turned, not wishing him to see my face, but he growled, commanding me by that feral sound to meet his eyes. They were filled with shadows.
Impaling, merciless, they contained something far more consuming than lust.
An emptiness.
His voice was a cruel whisper, even as he curled his finger inside my flesh. “Perhaps in the spring, I’ll take you to Kaupang or Hedeby and sell you in the slave market. Some rich old man would buy you and the child—or one of the higher-class brothels. I might find a trader from one of the eastern harems; they prize a pale complexion, and hair such as yours.”
I could not hold back a strangled cry.
He wouldn’t!
But of course, he would. What did he care?
Withdrawing his hands, he brought them to my cheeks, commanding me again to look into his eyes. “Or in payment for my murdered child, should I not kill this baby when it’s born?”
God help me, and Freya, too.
Could I live with myself if I became his willing whore? Whether I allowed it or not, he would take what he wanted. Wasn’t it better to accept what I couldn’t fight? To stay alive? If I pleased him, might I gain favour? Perhaps even my freedom?
The fight left me. For now, I would say whatever was necessary. I would do what he asked. I would endure.
“I swear on the life of the child I carry, I shall serve you. I will be your thrall and submit to whatever you command.” I made myself hold his steely gaze.
There was a last flash within his eyes before he smiled, and I felt a wave of sickness. I knew not to what I’d agreed.
7
Eldberg
August 1st, 960AD
“Be quick about it.” Eldberg threw her a cloth. She clutched the linen to her chest as she rubbed herself dry, attempting to cover her nakedness.
Rather late for that. She was trying not to cry.
He watched as she stepped out of the washing barrel. It almost made him bark with laughter—her pleading mercy on account of carrying a child. The fact had only stirred his rage from a deeper place.
Three months had passed, and the pain was forever etched on his soul. He felt it constantly. The darkness. The despair.
He lived for only one purpose now.
Revenge.
He’d torched Svolvaen and cursed them all to Hel as they’d screamed. He’d seen the men responsible for Bretta’s death pay for it with their lives. He’d stood victorious over his enemies. And still the venom flowed through his veins.
Elswyth was fastening the brooches at her shoulders, elegant fingers working the pin. That dress! So very like Bretta’s had been on the day they’d wedded.
Something about her made him uneasy. Was this Loki’s trick? Some would believe it was the work of the gods. Their humour could be crueler than any man’s.
Sweyn must have seen the likeness. It was why he’d taken her, surely. The same silken hair, falling thick over her shoulders, the same upward tilt of her eyes, the same indented curve to her upper lip. More than that, the way she moved her hands and tilted her head.
She was an echo of the wife lost to him. Coming upon her in the watch house, seeing her in that half-light, just for a moment, he’d thought it was Bretta found again, not dead at all.
The reality of it had brought a hammer blow—as if he’d not suffered enough of those. Not his wife, but that of his enemy, delivered into his hands.
Ah, yes. Odin had presented him with the opportunity for a different sort of revenge. The possibilities were almost overwhelming.
