Page 14 of Heart of the Wolf
All logical thought disappeared, and her vision tunneled on him and only him. His mouth curved as his eyes sparkled at what she didn’t doubt was crimson flooding her cheeks. He lowered her hand, moving his up to undo the loose clasp of her cloak.
The tattered bundle of wool fell into his hand. The tip of his nose wrinkled as he rubbed the thin material betweenhis fingers. Huffing, he tossed it across a bench, turning his attention back to her.
Callused fingers swept over her collarbone, ghosting down the lengths of her arms. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. A tingling warmth slid across her back as she stood between the hearth and the bed, mind lost to the wandering flames. Embers sparked and sizzled into nothingness as Leif passed her a skin of water, which she took without thinking, downing it in three sips.
“Sit, Brielle,” he said, voice gruff and demanding.
Her breath hitched, a shiver crawling down her spine. Her name rolled off his tongue, sounding much sweeter than she had ever heard.
Sweet enough to be dangerous because that’s who he was. Someone who shouldn’t know her name. Someone she shouldn’t be so captivated by. She spun to face him, mouth pressed into a thin line.
“How do you know my name?”
“Astrid,” he grumbled, pushing her toward the wooden bench by the fire when she didn’t do as he said fast enough.
Annoyance colored his tone. Discarding the empty skin, Brielle settled into the plush furs that decorated the ornately carved wood seating. The pads of her fingers skimmed the dense coat, twirling strands of fur before letting them fall. A silhouette shifted in the corner of her eye as Leif stood behind her, either watching her or the fire.
She didn’t dare to look to find out which.
Thick fingers stroked through her hair. She coughed, embarrassed by the unruly nest he was examining.
In the best of times, her hair was dense and tangled, but given it was still damp when she left the house, the mountain breeze had knotted it into something feral.
Carefully, he separated the strands, moving a comb of antlers through it, softly working through the snarls until they fell free.
Panic and shame clawed in her chest as she squirmed, desperate to run away. She should have done more to fix it before she and Astrid returned or before they had left. Her father had repeatedly warned her she would never make a match if she didn’t tend to herself properly.
She made to get up, needing to put distance between them.
“No,” he rumbled in a low command as his hand wrapped around her shoulder. “Let me.” Warm breaths brushed her ear and cheek, making her body visibly relax. “Let me care for you,” he almost growled.
Everything about him, about this place; she couldn’t describe it, but it felt right. Even the people accepted her presence in their village; besides the blacksmith, he appeared bothered. No more than some people back home. Maybe the others were approving of her only because Astrid accompanied her. She was the wife of their jarl.
Slowly, Leif worked the comb through the knots in her hair, gliding the teeth through pieces until it passed smoothly through the ends that kissed the small of her back. She could scarcely remember when it had gotten so long. Unlike the other girls, she didn’t style or cut it prettily.
She didn’t have the time.
Taking care of herself often fell to the bottom of her never-ending list. Often, she forgot to eat or drink, sometimes forgoing it entirely.
“You are Konungr?” she asked in a murmur, hands cupped in her lap.
“Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he parted her hair into two pieces and tossed some over her shoulder. Her mouth turned dry as he began braiding a section. Scarred, bloody hands marred with the marks of his battles, now delicately plaited her hair. She picked at a thread on her dress, dragging the points of her teeth over the swell of her lip. She didn’t know how to braid hair, never bothered to learn.
And here, a Konungr did it for her.
Like it was his greatest honor.
Scarlet flamed her cheeks as an unfamiliar feeling bloomed between her thighs. She squeezed them together to stave off whatever wanton thoughts chased her with each pass of Leif’s hands through her hair.
“What does Úlfr mean? Both Astrid and Amund called you that.”
Grunting, Leif tied a leather strip around one braid. He tugged it, tightening it in place before he began working on the other.
“Úlfr is wolf in your tongue,” he said, splitting the second strip of hair into three thick sections.
A hand splayed over her heart. She hadn’t imagined it, but the quiet confidence in his words only solidified what she already knew.
