Page 14 of Viking Beast
She knew it, too.
His enemy’s most prized possession at his mercy, becoming his willing thrall. He could destroy her in a single night if he wished or in a single hour. But there were sweeter paths to the end he sought.
If Svolvaen’s jarl looked down from Valhalla at this scene, what would he see? His beloved flogged and raped?
Nay.
There was a better way.
Piece by piece, he would reduce her, until she submitted to him as she never had to her husband. Fearing the worst treatment, she’d be grateful for what she received, and he would offer not just the torment of anticipated pain, but pleasure, too.
She was standing in the wedding dress donned for his enemy, waiting for him, Eldberg, to command her. Given time, he would make her yearn and plead. He would make her beg for him. He would make her betray what she thought she believed.
This would be his true vengeance.
* * *
The air was thick with the smell of roasting boar; a feast for the returning men—in reward for a mission well-accomplished. Eldberg let them see his prize, leading her by the rope Sweyn had tied around her neck, though he left her hands free.
She walked steadily behind him, her footing sure and her head high, though she cast down her eyes. A hush had fallen amidst the revelry, as they watched their jarl compel his acquisition to the far end of the longhouse. Sweyn watched closest of all.
The partition was but a curtain. She would be aware of that, knowing that those on the other side would be able to hear all that passed between them. Would she know also that his men would be imagining what he was doing to her?
A new woman was always of interest. A new thrall always a possibility, and a temptation. He would make it clear that she was his— that, for the time being, he forbade any to touch her. But she would not know it. Let her fear and feel his mercy at the same time.
Out of sight, the noise from the feasting continued—laughter and lewd comments beyond the divide that separated his chamber from the rest of the hall.
Eldberg meant to begin immediately. How she spent her first hours would set the tone for what was to come.
He might let her spend the night upon the floor, her ankles and wrists bound, the noose tight around her neck, attached to a hook on the wall. The thought of seeing her like that sent a jolt to his groin, but there were other ways to make her suffer—not like a dog beaten and chained.
When he requested that she remove her clothing, it was without argument. Eldberg took a bolt of jade silk from his trunk. It was among the finery he’d traded on his last trip to Hedeby. Silk he’d bought as a gift for Bretta, that she’d never had the chance to sew into a gown—kept in Sigrid’s chamber.
He gestured to Elswyth that she might lay her clothing over the trunk. He’d remove it later, so that she’d know she had nothing with which to cover herself. That privilege would have to be earned.
She brought her arms about her breasts, as if to comfort herself, but did nothing to cover between her legs. He made a point of looking at that part of her as he tore the silk into strips. The fibres gave way easily, ripping along the weft—his destruction of something that had been beautiful.
He motioned with his head again for her to lay upon the bed, to stretch out her arms and legs, to expose herself to him, so that nothing was hidden.
His palm met hers briefly as he tied his first knot. Her hands, small and graceful, clenched into fists. She watched wide-eyed, disbelieving then resigned as he tied her with the silk—each wrist, each ankle—then cast her gaze to the rafters.
How pale she was. Her hair clung damp to her skin—tendrils over each breast. Her nipples, large discs of pink, made his mouth dry. If he took the rosebuds between his teeth, tongued it and suckled, would she moan in the same way as Bretta had done? Would she push forward, needing him to take her softness deeper into his mouth, needing him to take possession of her?
No. He knew the answer to that.
As his captive, she could do nothing to prevent him from taking her body, but she could withhold her mind. For his revenge to be complete, he wanted that, too.
There were many ways in which he could subdue her but, for now, he’d give her something to think about.
“Look at me.” He leaned close enough that she would feel his breath on her face—close enough that his leather jerkin brushed her breast. She would be aware of his weight—would know that he could crush her simply by shifting his body over hers.
Still, she looked at the timbers, but he guided her chin downward, until she permitted their eyes to meet. He spoke softly, letting each word unfurl. “One day, soon, you’ll give me everything.”
Showing her the last strip of silk, he wrapped it around his knuckle, drawing it tight, then placed the width over her eyes.
She pressed her lips together, saying nothing as he secured it. Only when he brought his hands to rest on her ribcage did she respond with a shuddering breath. Her pulse quickened. She trembled.
What was she imagining?
