Page 43 of Wulver's Flame
It was heavy, sad and lonely.
I didn’t understand it—not at first.
Was it his pain I was feeling?
Or the wolf’s?
The ache filled my chest, and for a moment, I hated them both for putting this inside me and for tying me to something so big that it hurt to feel it.
I turned over and buried my face in the furs.
“Stop,” I whispered.“Please stop.”
It stayed until I forced it out. Until I shoved it down like I had done with every hard thing before. I wrestled the pain into a corner and locked it there.
Only then did the restless sleep come.
???
It was in the light of the following morning sun when memories tumbled back—the mating. I would never have begged, never have bared myself like that—if not for his cursed bond. But my insides ached, and it wasn't from the harsh mating.
The door opened, and Vargr walked in. Silent and cold.
He dropped my bags on the bed, without a word or a look before he left.
I touched my chest, but there was only a feeling of numbness. I shook it off. He wasn't a man. I knew what lay beneath his surface.
The beast.
The thing that howled and clawed and came apart in front of me. That’s what I’d bitten. That’s what I’d let inside.
Not a man. Not my husband.
A monster in flesh.
I touched my belly, closing my eyes.
Shame and disgust curdled in my belly as I remembered his seed. There had been torrents of it. The thought of carrying a cursed child made my stomach twist—one more beast born to turn on my people.
Hot, bitter tears began to trickle down my cheeks.
What in the Gods name had my father done?
???
The days were slow, but without a chain around my neck, I began to explore the longhouse and help in the daily chores. It was better than torturing myself for something I could not change. Vargr remained cold and kept his distance.
Brynhild was the master cook in the house, and the storage room was a treasure trove. I couldn't deny that their storage chests and barrels were far superior to ours. I found the source of the honey, which was used to sweeten the food and make the mead. Brynhild raised an eyebrow when she caught my finger in the container.
“It is good that you are thehusfreyjaof the house. There is severe punishment for touching the honey,” she said with a cheeky smile.
Lady of the house.
A memory flooded through me.
Please come into my nest, husbondi.
He’d called me his she-wolf. His voice—rough, growling, reverent—echoed through my mind like kitchen smoke curling through the rafters. The hairs at the back of my neck rose.
