Page 75 of Heart of the Wolf
Chapter twenty
Brielle
What?! Brielle swallowed past the hard lump in her throat, trying to ease the harsh itch. Emotion choked off her words as she tried to speak. Something prickled behind her sternum, urging her to comfort Leif.
It burned in her chest. The echo of his pain as anger rolled violently off him. Slowly, her eyes blinked closed as she lifted her chin, breathing in a lungful of stale air.
For a moment, as brief as it may have been, she only focused on her love for Leif. A torrent of warm memories quieted her worries. The first time they cuddled in the cave when she met his wolf, every time he called her hjartað mitt, the tender way he cared for her—feeding her, braiding her hair, andpleasuring her.
Soon, she no longer registered the cold steel of the dagger anymore, only Leif.
The rapid patter of his paws subsided. Once the hurried rhythm of her heart calmed, Brielle fluttered her lashes open, smiling when his icy eyes blinked back at her.
Her wolf was as steady and sure as an ancient oak, his frame taut with command. A single intent blazed in the glare of his frozen irises.
“Herja,” Amund hissed, gripping an axe in each hand. His nostrils flared; his face relaxing when his attention whipped to Astrid. “My moon, are you hurt?”
“No, Amund,” Astrid said, her voice as breathy as the willow trees.
“Quiet,” Herja snapped, nudging Brielle’s chin back with her dagger. “Blood of my blood. Face me like a man, not a beast.”
A tiny tremor shook Herja’s voice even as she tried to hide it. A shuddering sigh escaped Brielle. The woman was terrified of Leif, especially his wolf. Pride swelled in Brielle, their baby kicking happily with the feeling.
With a growl, Leif shifted, taking the offered weapon from Amund, glaring at Herja.
“Hjartað mitt,” he said, the lines around his jaw softening. “Everything will be okay, I promise. Herja,” he snarled, his face hardening into stone once more as his gaze locked on the other woman.
His kin. His family. His mother’s sister had done this.
“I am here now. Do you have no honor? You didn’t dare to fight me? So, you did this?”
“Honor?” she spat. “What do you know of honor? You stripped the clans of ancient traditions. Weakened us. And if that wasn’t enough, you defiled our family’s blood with this filth.”
Herja buried her fingers in Brielle’s hair, yanking her head back until she hissed, pain prickling the base of her scalp.
The wolf raged, boiling over like a forgotten pot. Barely restrained fury darkened his eyes into obsidian steel as knuckles whitened around his axe. Despite that, Leif stayed rooted to the spot.
“Not only did you fuck this thing,” she scoffed, dragging her blade along Brielle’s exposed forearm. “You married it. You bred it. And now, this dirty half-breed will be your heir. You are not fit to rule the clans. Step aside.”
“Show the proper respect,” Amund shouted, lunging forward. Leif halted him with a stiff arm to the chest.
“Stand down,” Leif whispered, the command no less impactful. Amund bowed his head, his fiery gaze alighting on the mad woman. “And you are?” Leif bellowed, taking two deliberate steps forward. “Your own people do not believe in you. You had to manipulate some timid, little thrall to help you. A thrall that youshouldn’thave. Do youreally think the clans will bend to you? They respect strength. They respect the will of the gods. You have neither.”
“Odin,” she huffed, rolling her eyes and spitting at Brielle’s feet.
“You defy the will of the gods? Of Odin?” Amund said, blood coating the tips of his teeth as they buried in his lips. “Leif is Odin’s chosen. Forged by strength and blood. The clans will not yield to you.”
“Ah, but what if I were Loki’s chosen?”
A hollow, deadened laugh rattled the ceremonial weapons displayed on the walls. Amund tilted his head, his tongue smearing crimson across his terrifying smile.
“Crazy woman. Loki plays games, and you are nothing more than a pawn. He cannot give you strength or power. You will die because you believed false promises from a meddlesome god. He will laugh at your misfortune.”
Sweat trickled off Herja’s brow, mixing with the cold beads of it on Brielle’s forehead. She willed her heart to remain steady. Sharp steel slid over Brielle’s arm. Enough to prick the skin, making her want to pull away. It wasn’t painful, more bothersome. She refused to give Herja the satisfaction.
Rather than dwelling on the bite of the blade, her attention narrowed on Leif and the unspoken emotions stirring within him.
If anyone else gazed upon him, he appeared stoic and unflinching. The true image of a Konungr.
