Page 56 of Heart of the Wolf
“I will never let you forget,” he murmured, brushing her braids to one side and kissing her pulse point.
“I love you,” she said, swaying with the horse’s movements.
“And I you, hjartað mitt. I have loved you for a thousand lifetimes, and will love you for a thousand more.”
She leaned further into him, letting his words flourish, weaving together the unfinished pieces of her soul.
The trees thinned, and the path opened into something Brielle immediately remembered. Part of her believed this moment would feel like returning home, but this place didn’t hold that for her anymore.
In fact, she doubted whether it ever had.
Fate always intended for her to be with Leif and the Norse.
They were her people.
And that was her home.
Their horse brought up the rear, keeping their presence hidden. At the head of a small group of men in the center of town, she made out the straggly, bearded face of her father.
A chorus of boots crunched in the snow as their attaché dismounted their steeds gracefully. Liv’s red hair blew in the wind, her spear as tall as she was at her side. Winking, Amund patted his mare’s neck, passing it an apple as he moved toward her father. The others followed him with their weapons held tightly in their hands.
“Are you ready?” Leif asked.
“Yes,” she said, channeling the confidence that Leif empowered her with.
Snow and twigs cracked under Leif’s weight as he stepped down from the horse. Distracted by Amund and the others, no one had seen them yet. Large palms bracketed her hips as he carefully helped Brielle to the ground. Leif schooled his features into something cold and indifferent before placing his hand on her lower back, guiding her forward.
Brielle did her best to do the same, relaxing her body and raising her chin. Wild curls billowed mostly free behind her in the wind while two braids framed her face.
At their approach, the others parted for them, opening a way for Leif and Brielle to move to the front.
That was when she heard him, her father, speaking contritely—weakly—to Amund.
It was like Leif had said. He wasn’t a leader. Too occupied with the jarl, her father didn’t notice them as they came to stand beside Amund. He looked as he always had; a mask of superiority settled over the carefully crafted submissive tone he always used during his dealings with the Norse.
Leif clapped Amund on the shoulder. And that was when she saw it—the moment her father’s gaze drifted from Amund to Leif and, subsequently, Brielle.
The ground dropped out from under her feet, leaving her unsteady. A crease formed between his brows, his nose scrunched up as if there was something foul-smelling on his upper lip. Nothing prepared her for the utter look of disgust on her father’s face when he saw her.
She’d expected shock. Maybe relief or joy.
But no, her stomach curdled at the realization that her father held so little love for her that seeing her with the Norsemen was enough to sicken him.
Amund narrowed his dark eyes at the man who had sired her, his hand drifting to the hilt of his axe.
“Consider yourself honored,” Amund said in a low staccato. Everyone who knew him heard the undercurrent of threat in his words. “The Konungr has come.”
Something flickered in her father’s gaze; fear poorly concealed in the shadow of his mask.
“He was kind enough even to grace you with the presence of his beautiful bride,” Amund added with a saccharine smile.
A murmur of whispers broke out among the men who stood beside her father. Their eyes widened at Amund’s comment, their words obscured by their hands as they all tossed worrying glances at her father.
Repulsion twisted into a seething rage as scarlet crept up his neck above his tunic, flaming his cheeks and ears with it.
Whether it was bold or stupid, her father stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
Feet shuffled, closing in around her and Leif. The warriors with them made to grab their blades when Leif raised a hand in a silent command. Anger simmered in Liv as she restrained herself, ready to attack the moment Leif allowed it.
