Page 58 of Wulver's Flame
Vargr kicked the dagger away from him before sliding his sword into the scabbard. He lunged for me and yanked my head back. His lips—
“Who made all this mess?” Brynhild screeched.
I grinned and pushed Vargr’s chest until he reluctantly released me.
???
The day had taken its toll on me, and I was asleep on my feet. My bitter anger toward my da diminished, but it was not forgotten.
My sweet Naillan, so vibrant and inquisitive throughout his visit, grew quiet as they prepared to leave. He clung to me, arms tight around my waist, while I bent to whisper soft comforts into his ear.
Much to my surprise, Vargr offered to take him in—to raise him among his warriors, to teach him the ways of his people. But my da was stubborn, and Vargr had threatened Dunraith. As for Fergus, my da had slapped him across his sore head and apologised to Vargr.
“My sweet, you look tired. Let’s get you to bed,” Vargr murmured, wrapping his body around my back and sniffing my hair.
“No cock trickery,” I mumbled, stifling a yawn.
He chuckled low in my ear.“I’ll wait until the sun is rising.”
???
The days were as calm as the violent nights. Since my da’s visit, a quiet understanding had taken root between us. No words were spoken, but there was a gentleness in the way he touched my back as he passed, or how he kept the hearth warm before I rose.
It wasn’t until a full moon had waxed and waned without a drop of blood that the truth settled in my belly like a stone. What had once been feared had now come to pass. I was with child.
“What’s ailing you?” Brynhild asked, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Nothing,” I said, offering a faint smile.“Just missing home.”
“You are probably missing smashing heads,” she snorted.“Did you see what that oaf Bjorn did? His axe landed in the garden and ruined my best crop.”
She carried on talking as we washed the silverweed, her voice a steady hum that anchored me in the present, even as my thoughts drifted to what grew, quiet and unseen, inside me.
I thought of my mother—how fragile she was when Naillan was born. Would this child be a beast? Would it tear me apart from the inside? Would I die like she did, blood-soaked and broken in the birthing bed?
There were too many questions and no answers.
Vargr would be happy about that, I was sure. But—
“I’m here to whisk my husfreyja away,” Vargr said, stepping into the kitchen.
Brynhild giggled and shoved me toward him.
I dried my hands on the rag and tossed it at her head. She caught it in one hand, shaking her head.
“I’ll need to keep both eyes on you, mistress.”
When Vargr led me towards the bedchamber, I tried to resist, but I felt a different kind of excitement from the bond. He opened the door and nudged me inside.
“It occurred to me that I did not honour you when you came to my home,” he murmured, leading me to the bed.
I gasped at the rolls of silk and linen. There were yarns of dyed wool, ready to be woven, and despite myself, I smiled at the bone-hilted small dagger with jewels embedded within the wire craftsmanship.
“Are you not afraid that I shall succumb to temptation and slice you open as you sleep?” I asked, wryly picking up the dagger to pull it out of the sheath.
“You can try,” he said with a shrug.
My smile widened as I admired the blade. Although the dagger was smaller than my other two, it was much sharper.
