Page 29 of Ma Petite Mort
Not out of fear.
Out of awe.
Lux—standing beside Indie in the blood-slick crowd—leans forward, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his painted mouth as he watches.
Indie’s still perched against him, one hand wrapped in his shirt, her other dragging crimson lines down her own thigh. Neither of them blink. Neither of them breathe.
They’re watching a god at work.
“Well fuck,” he says, voice full of awe and delight. “The sagas didn’t do the Vikings justice.”
Giselle moans behind him. Indie grinds her hips down into Lux’s lap with a slow roll, eyes never leaving me.
I wipe my blade clean on the corpse’s thigh, then raise it overhead.
“Flesh for favor,” I chant.
“Blood for balance,” the crowd repeats.
“Death for the gods.”
And they roar.
Because tonight, the gods don’t just feast.
They take names.
And I give them one more.
That’s when I feel it—eyes, steady and sharp, digging into me like the tip of a blessed blade. I turn and find him again. The man in the fur. Still. Silent. Pale hands clasped in front of him like he’s at a funeral, not a blood ritual. There’s no mask on his face, no tremble in his body.
Just that stare. Focused. Knowing.
Like he’s not watching a performance—he’s witnessing something sacred. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. Just meets my gaze and mouths a single word, “Beautiful.” And gods help me, I believe him. Because this isn’t death. Not really. This is worship. This is offering. And the way he watches… it’s not lust. It’s reverence. Like he’s one of us. Maybe even more than the others. But if he came here with no intention to bleed—then why come at all? Why stand at the edge of the altar like he’s waiting to be summoned? I don’t know who he is. Not yet. But I see the truth in his eyes.
He respects the gods. Honors the blood. And that makes him dangerous.
Maybe even… divine.
chapter seven
giselle
The gods are fed.
The altar still drips.
And me?
I’m feral with it.
Every scream from earlier still echoes in my bones. Every drop of blood still sings across my skin. But what’s worse—what’s driving me rabid—is him. Bjorn. Standing there with his axe still wet, his braids matted with sweat and sin, his chest rising like he’s just torn through a battlefield of sinners.
I want him.
Not later. Not slow.
Now.
