Page 17 of Claimed By the Viking

Stupid! That’s what he was! Thinking he could do this without being able to see! He was worse than useless. A danger to himself. A danger to others even. There was nothing for it but to keep him locked away where he could do no harm.

He took a juddering breath.

What sort of life was that?

He’d been right to make the pact with Signy. Give her what she needed, then end this foolishness. She’d promised to help with that, and he had to believe she’d keep her word.

Except that, I don’t need to wait nor be beholden to another. The blade is sharp. I’ve only to slice my wrists or plunge it to my throat.

Can I do it?

He let his hands travel, seeking out the knife he’d thrown upon the table, and his fingers met the slickness of blood. There was more than he’d anticipated, draining from where he’d half-severed the rabbit’s head, pooling upon the wood.

I think to empty my own lifeblood, just the same? I’d let her return to that? Defiling her home with my selfish, reckless end?

With a groan, he covered his face with his hands, dragging them upward to tear at his hair.

There would be no such escape.

He was trapped like this until she released him.

Throwing back his head, he howled his despair.

A wail that was echoed by the woman who appeared at the door.

CHAPTER 7

Soothing him with gentle words,Signy eased Viggo out of his clothes. Mutely, he accepted her help, stepping into the wooden tub she’d filled. The water she’d left heating was sufficient, though he sat with his knees near touching his chin—far too tall to occupy the vessel comfortably.

Thank the gods, he was unharmed but for a nasty slice on the middle joint of his foremost knuckle. This she’d doused with water before binding with a strip of linen.

All that blood!

Though the scarlet streaking his face and hair was only partly his own. The rest was from the rabbit she’d been given.

What had possessed him to skin the thing and begin cutting it up? Wielding the sharpest of her knives! He might have truly…

She shook away that thought.

He was safe with her there, and the bewildered, half-frantic state she’d found him in had ebbed away. His eyes, though unseeing, were usually so expressive, lit from within by stark and turbulent passions; now, they were dull, and this new passivity worried her. ‘Twas as if a flame had been extinguished, rendering him uncaring of his body or surroundings.

Had he given up? Naught mattered to him anymore—not even her own presence?

The witnessing of it stabbed at her heart.

Without protest, he tipped back his head as she scooped water to wash his hair, lathering with honey soap. Tenderly, she pushed the damp locks behind his ears and from his forehead, lingering at his nape to rub the tension there. The tendons of his neck were tight, but she worked on them, pushing with her fingertips.

The room was near dark, with only the firelight revealing to her the planes of his back. The crackle of the flames and their warmth was comforting.

At last, he uttered a long sigh. “Why are you doing this?”

She paused, unsure whether he was objecting to the way she was touching him. “I can stop… if you wish it.”

“Nay. ‘Tis… pleasurable. I ask only… why you bother.” He took another, deep-rendered breath, letting it go in a long exhalation.

She lowered her hands to his shoulders, smoothing outward, feeling the muscles bunch and flex as she continued her kneading. Gradually, he began to relax.

“You’re in need of kindness. Why shouldn’t I give my care?”

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