Page 18 of Heart of the Wolf
Unfamiliar energy skittered down her spine, feathering a tension at the crux of her thighs that made her falter. All the fear and teachings of her youth be damned, Brielle wanted to give herself entirely to Leif. An eternity in Hell was worth it if it meant a night with his hands touching her.
Oh, how she wished she had listened more to the girls and their gossip about their wedding nights.
Brielle knew nothing of what to expect or what to do.
Would Leif be gentle and patient or demanding and coaxing? She would welcome the wolf or the man. Both. All. Any.
All it would take would be a light breeze to blow her off the cliff’s edge she teetered on, propelling her willingly into Leif’s powerful embrace. The anticipation of the wind blowing her over urged her to fill the silence that had gone on too long.
Leif seemed content to search her gaze for something she couldn’t understand.
“Astrid said you and Amund united the clans. How?”
Besides the farcical tales of her father, it was common knowledge that the surrounding clans frequently warred.
The infighting boded well for Brielle’s village, keeping the Danes occupied with each other instead of the English towns like her own. When they had united a few years ago, her father’s fear heightened to unnatural levels.
Leif stepped back, a playful look appearing in his eyes at the cute pout gracing her face when his hands fell.
His gaze never broke from hers as he silently removed his furs, draping them over a bench. Deft fingers undid the clasp on his leathers until only his undershirt remained. Leif tugged at the ties and peeled off his tunic, revealing a litany of scars decorating his chiseled body.
Blood rose in her cheeks. She stared, gawking like a lovestruck fool. Leif smirked, arching his brow, a silent challenge in his gaze. One that dared her not to look away. One that taunted her to drink her fill of him.
She stood tall, accepting his challenge with courage and discomfort. Like an artist, she traced over the marks on his chest.
Some of them were old, raised, and white like the one on his face, laced into the fabric of his chest like they had always been there. Some were fresher; the skin still taut as it healed, tinged with hues of yellow and purple.
Muscles rippled as his shoulders tensed. Leif set the line of his jaw, scrubbing a hand through his beard before speaking.
“With blood. We slaughtered any who stood against us. Their weapons marked me.” He ran the back of his hand over one long scar that bisected his torso, running from his collarbone to his hip. “But I stained the snow with their blood until none fought back.”
The duality in his words and his actions with her reminded her he was a warrior, a leader.
No one conquered lands through words alone.
The tenderness he showed was for her alone. She craved to lessen the space between them, to feel his hands on her again. To know that the hands on her were capable of such brutality, but with her, they were gentle. It made butterflies flutter in her belly.
“As the wolf or as a man?”
“Both,” he breathed, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I do not need my wolf to kill a man.”
She could spend hours memorizing his scars. His battles wove themselves into his skin, forming a tapestry. The stories of his life. She wanted to etch the patterns into the fiber of her being.
A shaky breath rolled over her parted lips as Leif moved closer, blocking the flames from the hearth until he was the only thing that filled her vision.
“Does it frighten you?”
“No,” she said.
The answer spilled out, an unwavering declaration.
Nothing about him scared her. It was in the depths of his eyes, the rhythm of his heart; Leif would protect her until his last breath. The truth of it echoed in the hum of her chest and in the ease of her breath.
Leif was a dangerous and unyielding force, but with her, he channeled that essence into being whatever she needed.
“Will you tell me the stories of your gods? Of your life here?”
Mischief sparked in his gaze.
