Page 62 of Heart of the Wolf
“I do not need more things.”
“Hush. I am not nearly finished spoiling you.”
It was pointless. She didn’t understand why she argued with him about it anymore. More out of habit than anythingby now. Almost daily, something arrived for her. Whether it was clothes, furs, or some bauble that held some sort of importance. Regardless, she learned weeks ago that this was one fight she would never win.
“Will you ever be finished?” she asked.
“No.”
Mischief glimmered in the recesses of his gaze. The bed moved as he shifted closer to her and extended his arm out. A broad grin split his face, his cheeks pushing against his eyes.
“For you. Freyja’s blessing. A token to grant love, fertility, and good fortune. You were meant to have this on our wedding day. But the babes were delayed.”
Tucked in his arms sat a tiny kitten, its fur a patchwork of umbers, creams, and russets. Claws poked out from its small, black paws as it stretched, a tiny mewling noise filling the room. The nausea forgotten, Brielle breathed a soft sound, scratching her nails along the cat’s back.
Every year, when the ground thawed, she begged her father for a pet. Dog or cat, it didn’t matter which. And every year, he swiftly dismissed her hopes. A weight hardened in her chest at the memory of her father, afraid the thought alone would summon a dark mist from the other side to drown her.
As if the little creature sensed her roaming thoughts, it padded out of Leif’s arms and into hers, purring against herchest. Sighing, Brielle held the bundle of fur out. Its brilliant amber eyes twinkled like liquid gold, blinking back at her. A giggle fell from her lips as she nuzzled the kitten.
“Do not spoil her. If she is too fat, the mice will laugh at her.”
Narrowed eyes challenged her, and she ignored them, settling the sweet creature in her lap. Leif’s chest heaved with a rough breath, but the faint smile on his lips gave him away.
“Don’t listen to him, Runa,” she fake-whispered, knowing Leif could hear her. “I will sneak you all the berries you want. And who cares if you’re not an expert mouser? Some of us are meant for different things.”
The kitten looked like a little whisper of hope. So, the name Runa felt fitting.
Leif rolled his eyes, and Brielle giggled, brushing the fur on Runa’s tiny cheek. Eventually, she fell back asleep. This time, with Leif curled against her back, and Runa burrowed under the blankets by their feet.
Throughout the night, Runa pounced at Leif, waking him with a start.
“Of course she hates me,” he mumbled sleepily into Brielle’s hair.
“She doesn’t hate you. She wants to play.”
“Before sunrise, we do not play.”
“Tell that to your scratched legs.”
“Odin’s mighty wolf, bested by a miniature kitty,” he said, kicking and losing the fight against Runa.
“Consider it practice for Ragnarök.”
Snorting, he pulled Brielle closer, mouthing at her pulse.
“When I feast in Valhalla, tell them I fought valiantly.” Runa pounced again, digging into his calves. “Damn beast,” he hissed, and Brielle laughed.
***
When another month passed, and Brielle did not improve, she suspected something was amiss. Over the years, Brielle had tended to many women with the same symptoms.
All of them with child.
For now, she planned to keep her suspicions to herself, not wanting to tell Leif until she was certain.
Her body ached, and she slept more than usual, retching every morning until her stomach stung. Most days, she was too tired to leave the longhouse. Sheets of snow and ice blanketed the earth, so many retreated into their homes, only leaving when necessary. So, no one noticed her absence.
In the corner of their home, Leif dug his dagger into a hunk of wood, shucking away chunks as he whittled. Runa purred in her lap, making a discontented noise when Brielle stopped rubbing along the ridges of her spine.
