Page 28 of Clash of Storms
The second he set it aside and tugged his apron off, Ólafur opened his arms for an enormous hug she willingly stepped into. Burying her face against his barrel chest, she let out a huge breath, feeling the weight of the day's events wash through her. She'd needed this so badly. To be held, comforted. She was drekling. Not a warrior. Not a princess. Other people fled the court, but Malin had never, ever expected her life to be so irrevocably changed.
"What's this?" he asked gruffly. "What is wrong?"
It all spilled from her lips.
"Are you certain there is no other option?" Ólafur growled, when she had finished. "Sirius's heart is as black as his name. Of course he wants the princess back. She's his key to power, and he'll say anything he can to trick you into giving her up. He hasn't hurt you, has he?"
Malin shook her head. "No, he's—" She didn't know how to put it. While Sirius's constant presence in her life bothered her to some extent, she'd never gotten the feeling he meant her harm.
He'd stopped his brother from striking her across the face the first night they ever met.
And there'd been no reason—none—to spare her life after the queen threw it away like a scrap of refuse, good only for the knowledge she might carry.
Except for the odd games they'd liked to play over the years.
"He's not like that," she said, and realized she meant it. "He's the most terrifyingdrekiI know, but I don't believe he means me harm."
"Don't let him fool you. He's a monster. The Blackfrost isZilittuto his core. He spent years in Norway with his father's family, waging war on other courts and raining hell down upon those who dared confront them. He's a warmonger, Malin. The queen's twisted weapon and Prince Rurik's enemy. Sweet Goddess, I remember those dark days following the king's death. Whendrekidared suggest the queen had a hand in it, they disappeared. Some said the Blackfrost made them vanish. And with him kneeling like a savage pet on a leash at the queen's side, no one dared dispute her claim Rurik was behind his father's death."
A pet? If there was one thing she was certain of, she didn't think Sirius was fond of the queen at all. No, he alone dared defy Queen Amadea, his voice a silky suggestion of menace when he faced the queen. Tension existed there, if Malin wasn't mistaken, and even the queen stepped lightly around him.
"Perhaps he served her once, but now? I don't know what to think," Malin said. "I don't trust him. I cannot. But for now it serves my princess's purposes to travel with him."
Ólafur frowned down at her. "You could stay with my family—"
"No." She'd already brought too much danger to her father and sister's door. She wouldnotbring other innocents into this mess. "Thank you for the offer, but I think it wiser to stay with Sirius for now." His father and aunt wouldn't killhim, after all. "I just wanted to know if you could get a letter to my father, so he doesn't worry?"
"Of course."
Gesturing her into the house that was attached to the forge, he found her paper and ink. Malin bit her lip as she struggled to compose the letter. What could she say? She had to be careful, for if it was intercepted it needed to remain innocuous. And the queen and her brother would think she was dead at Sirius's hands. She didn't dare let them know otherwise.
Malin dashed out a quick note, signing it under her mother's name.
She had to hope it was enough to stop Sigurd from making any rash decisions.
6
Sirius returned before midnight, slipping inside the room and easing the door shut. He set the candle the innkeeper had given him on the table and crossed to the bed.
Malin curled beneath the blankets, her knees tucked up near her chest as if she'd been cold. The coppery mass of her hair lay spread across the pillow, and the slope of the sheet revealed one bare shoulder. He swallowed hard before seeing the thin strap of her chemise. Thank the Goddess, for he didn't know how he could have handled it if she was naked. It was difficult enough restraining hisdreki'smating instincts as it was, with the threat against her life sending all his overprotective impulses surging through him like a storm.
"Malin?" he whispered.
Nothing.
Steeling himself, he reached out and pressed his hand to her arm. "You need to wake."
Malin's lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks, and slowly those luminous eyes blinked open. She froze the second she realized where she was and who was leaning over her.
"Were you having sweet dreams?" he purred, to try and assuage the flash of nerves he saw. "Were they about me?"
Instantly, the tension left her. "Heavens, no. What time is it?" she murmured groggily. "What are you doing?"
"It's time to leave."
He dragged her wool gown from where she'd folded it at the foot of the bed and handed it to her, before studiously turning around and ostensibly checking his bags. After a long moment of hesitation, fabric began to rustle behind him, which was a new kind of torture.
By the time she'd dressed, he was packed. "I've gathered my horse from the stables in town, and leased a packhorse. We'll slip out under the cover of dark so no one sees you're with me."
