Page 15 of Viking Beast
That he would fuck her?
In this position, lying open, she could be certain of it.
What if he told her something else?
That he would send his men; fingers greasy with meat, mouths eager upon her, raising up her hips to meet their thrusts—one by one, until he decided her punishment was enough.
Yes, she would believe it.
Her chest rose and fell, and she swallowed, worrying at her lips. She shifted, testing the bonds. They were not so firm that she couldn’t move. One foot flexed. She stretched her fingers, then curled them closed.
He told her nothing, knowing she would tell herself far more.
* * *
Eldberg had offered up daily sacrifices to the gods, and they’d looked favourably upon him. The scarring would remain, but he’d kept all the fingers on his left hand. The rest was superficial. Even where his hair and beard had been scorched, there was regrowth.
Still, the pain tested him—strange prickles where the tissue was knitting together; a sign of his healing. Only the eye on that side truly troubled him. The eyelashes were gone, replaced by blistered skin. Some vision remained but, with the eye half-closed, it was difficult to judge distance. When he grew tired, even his own hands refused to come into focus.
If the others knew, none had spoken of it, and if Sweyn or any other had thought to usurp him, they’d waited too long to act upon that ambition. Those closest to Eldberg served through fear but also respect. Who among them would dare claim themselves his rival, fit to take his place?
They hadn’t expected him to pick up his weapons. Not yet. Nor had they expected him to lead the attack on Svolvaen. He’d pushed himself to do both—to show them that he was tenacious, a man whose life-force burned stronger than the flames sent to consume him.
This evening, Eldberg was plagued with sparks of pain down his side. In answer, he drank more mead than sat well in his stomach and let the carousing continue longer than he’d intended.
Fiske and Hakon tried to draw him into conversation, avoiding any questions about the woman, though their curiosity was evident.
Sweyn said nothing, sitting apart, unable to hide his scowl.
Eldberg let it pass. The man was entitled to nurse his discontent—as long as he didn’t show outright disrespect.
It was a trial to sit so long, knowing she lay in his chamber, but the waiting would do his work for him. Only when most of the men had passed out on the long benches did he return.
The wick had burnt low, but the light was sufficient for him to see her slender body, pale as moonlight, stretched out on the sheepskins, occupying the bed he would have thrown himself into had he been alone.
Jerking at the sound of his footstep, she twisted against the restraining silk, straining to identify who was in the chamber.
He stood beside her, letting her feel his presence. She would know the smell of his body and the rhythm with which he breathed.
She raised her head, and he thought for a moment she would say something, but she lay back again.
His cock grew hard. His body remembered the satisfaction of entering a woman.
In the hours that had passed, he’d had time to plan. From the trunk, he drew out the smaller of the marble columns and the harness that went with it. The leather straps were stiff, being new. Another gift for Bretta—one she’d never seen. He rubbed his thumb over the stone.
A strange thing, he’d thought it, but the merchant who’d sold him the device assured him that the noblewomen of the southern Mediterranean all used them. There were five pieces of marble, each slightly wider and longer than the last, chiseled, then polished smooth. Only the final rod bore any resemblance to his own organ, but the trader had explained the thinking behind the progression.
Something about it had aroused him—the idea of watching Bretta touch the thing against that part of her that was designed for his pleasure. Watching her push the cold stone inside her warmth—moving it in and out and thinking all the while of what she really wanted instead.
That she’d desired him, Eldberg had never doubted. He’d served Beornwold for over ten years before the old man had settled the contract. In that time, Eldberg had watched Bretta grow from a child to a woman, and he’d seen how she admired him. Shyly at first, for she’d been innocent. Later, with an intensity that spoke of the passion she would bring to her husband’s bed.
He’d waited, taking no other in marriage, making himself indispensable to the old man. There was no one stronger, no one more formidable, no one better able to take command of Skálavík. Once Beornwold had realised that, the settlement had been straightforward.
And Bretta—so beautiful, so eager, and so in love—had been his.
Eldberg frowned. Always, it came back to this—what had been his, and what had been taken from him.
Moving to the bed, he brought his hand directly to her—his palm against soft curls, his fingers pressed to the opening of her sex.
