Page 28 of Blood of Wolves

She was overcome, suddenly, by the wretched urge to cry.

“It’s all right,” Bjorn murmured, a low rumble that vibrated through her shoulder where it was pressed to his chest.

Butnothingwas all right. Vicious enemies in the harbor, ones she wished would attack already, and spare them all this hatefulwaiting. Rune was healing, but not well, and Tessa was feeling like she needed to step up and learn tofight, the sweet fool. Erik and Leif and most of their Great Northern Phalanx were out there in the wilds of the Waste somewhere, unreachable, possibly dead. Nothing was all right, and Revna was so tired, and her leg hurt so badly, and Bjorn was being so gentle with her. Was calling herlove.

She sniffed, closed her eyes, and fought the tears back; willed them away. When she opened her eyes, they had reached the door of the apartments, and the guards posted there had already swept it open. She groaned quietly, though both men stared resolutely forward, and didn’t gawk at the sight of her being carried. Still. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this – to see her weak. Not on the eve of war.

The common room was blessedly empty, the fire burned down to low flickers. That was where Bjorn carried her, and where he set her down carefully in one of the overstuffed chairs there, touch gentle as if she were made of glass.

“Wait here,” he said, and touched her knee, a brief warm press, before he straightened and walked toward the sideboard.

“Where would I go?” she muttered, without much heat, as she watched him pour a generous cup of wine.

He shrugged, and turned around, crossed back to her, footfalls light for such a large man. It was the warrior in him, she supposed; just like the delicacy he showed when he touched her, he had immense control over all his movements. It was infuriatingly attractive, most of the time – now it just left her hollow, rattled, and wanting.

Her eyes were still hazy with unshed tears. She dashed the last of them away with a knuckle before she accepted the cup he offered with a murmured thanks. Didn’t try to pretend that their fingers touching on the cool pewter was any sort of accident.

Hold firm? Or capitulate?

As if that mattered in the least right now.

She took a sip of wine – several sips. She perhaps drained half the cup in one go, gasping a little, after. Her leghurt.

“How bad’s the cramp?” Bjorn asked.

“Getting better,” she lied, because her brother wasn’t the stubbornest idiot in the family, apparently.

“Uh-huh.” He sank down to his haunches on the rug before her.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.

He cupped the back of her knee with one hand, and gripped the heel of her boot with the other, slowly drawing it off. “If you won’t go soak it, you have to at least massage the knots out,” he reasoned, voice even, calm – low and dark as velvet. He wasn’t unaffected, though; she could see the pulse beating fast on the side of his throat, the vein throwing shadows in the dance of dim firelight.

“I – I can do it myself,” she tried to argue, voice already weak.

“No,” he said, simply – wet his lips, took a breath – but then didn’t say anything else, only that.No. And then both his hands were on her leg, the heat of them bleeding through the fabric of her stocking and leggings.

Revna didn’t breathe while he stroked her calf, exploratory sweeps of his palms. Then he shifted higher. The sight of his hands above her knee, pushing up the hem of her tunic so he could touch her thigh was…indescribable. Her mind, buzzing up ‘til now with a plethora of worries, went blank, like a slate wiped clean of chalk with a sudden swipe. She could only watch, as his hands grippedall the way aroundher thigh, and he lifted it from the chair far enough to slip his fingers beneath, and dig into the worst of the cramp.

Pain flashed bright, all the way up her hip and down to her toes, and she couldn’t hold back a gasp. She pitched forward, an automatic reaction, and it put their heads much, much too close together. She couldn’t do anything about it, though; she bit her lip, tried to hold herself together.

“There it is,” he murmured, and his fingertips dug into the offending muscle.

The pain was sharp and ugly at first, as he palpated the knots and set to working them loose. Revna closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and allowed herself to shake. Listened to the slow, steady in-and-out of his breathing, and the soft sounds of his callused fingertips against the fabric of her leggings. Up close like this, hovering above his shoulder, she could smell the oil he used on his hair, a dark cedar note, and the softer, muskier scent of the oil he used to keep his sleeveless leather coat supple. Beneath that, fresh sweat, and cold skin. He smelled like a man – but not like her brother, nor her sons. His touch didn’t feel like theirs, either, though there was nothing truly untoward about the way he expertly and methodically massaged her cramp away.

Slowly, the pain faded.

Revna let out a deep breath, at last; felt it stir the hair that had come loose of her braids to frame her face. Bjorn’s hands continued their ministrations, and it felt good, now, the way he smoothed and kneaded the muscle, thigh now warm beneath his touch.

She didn’t ever want him to stop. But. Needs must.

She opened her eyes – and found that she had all but pressed her face into the thick fur ruff of his coat. When she exhaled, shaky with surprise, her breath ruffled the fur – and raised goosebumps on the side of his neck.

It struck her, with a clenching in her stomach, that if they both turned their heads toward one another, it wouldn’t take any effort to bridge the final gap and kiss.

She sat up straight instead.

But Bjorn didn’t stop. His hands kept shifting and sliding along her thigh, thumbs no longer digging in to search for knots, just…stroking her.

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