Page 80 of Heart of the Wolf
“How do I fix it?” he asked, gingerly cradling her wrist.
Dried blood mixed with specks of dirt. The searing in her scalp subsided with the food and water, but the dull throb in her arm persisted. She would have forgotten about the cut on her face if Leif hadn’t reached for it. Grief and sadness shimmered in his solemn gaze.
Leif rarely showed such emotions.
Even with her.
But now that they were alone, he either didn’t want to or couldn’t hide his pain anymore.
While she could take care of it herself, she saw it in his troubled gaze. Leif needed to do it. The act would help to absolve some of the sorrow lining his mouth at his perceived failures.
“A bowl of fresh water, a clean tunic, and my salve on the shelf by the basin.”
Grimacing, Brielle used her uninjured arm to push herself further onto the bed, resting her back against the wall. A quick breath strained her chest as she ran her hand over her stomach, smiling when two small kicks greetedher. Slow footsteps thudded nearer, Leif placing a bowl of water, the salve, and tunics on a chest beside them.
The bed dipped under Leif’s weight as he positioned himself beside her, laying her bloodied arm over his lap. Teeth tore strips from the tunic, and water dripped from the fabric as Leif delicately cleaned the cut. The silk skimmed against her raised skin, and Leif took great care with each pass not to put undue pressure on her arm. He paused, rotating her wrist to inspect it again. Satisfied that it was clean enough, he dipped two fingers into the salve.
“Massage it into each cut,” she directed.
Two thick fingers worked the paste into her arm. A hiss of pain seethed through her teeth as her jaw clenched. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking pained and pausing his movements.
“Don’t be. It’s supposed to sting. It means it’s working,” she huffed in a watery chuckle.
While massaging in the salve, he peppered slow kisses over her face, murmuring words of adoration in her ear to encourage her. Again, he ripped more pieces from the tunic, wrapping it around the wound before securing it with a strip of leather over her arm.
“Will that be enough for it to heal?” he asked, his thumb feathering over her wrist.
“It will fade,” She ran a finger over the scar on his face. “But no, it won’t ever go away.”
“I am so sorry, hjartað mitt. Sorry, I wasn’t home to protect you. Sorry, you were harmed because of me.” He bracketed her face in his hands, his thumbs running repeatedly over the freckles on her cheeks. “What can I do?”
“Lay with me?”
Without another word, Leif slipped his feet beneath the furs. Large hands splayed along her ribs, positioning her until Brielle’s face rested above his heart. It was a little faster than usual, adrenaline still spiking in his chest. With one hand, he ran his fingers through her hair, brushing it back reverently while his lips rested on her forehead.
With the other, he rubbed her belly, and Runa settled by their feet, purring quietly.
“For a moment,” Brielle said, “I thought I might be destined for Helheim.”
She sucked in her bottom lip, choking back the surge of emotions, engulfing her so rapidly she could barely contain them. The weight of the day hit her all at once, and Brielle couldn’t squash down her fear any longer. There had been many moments when she thought Herja would send her and their baby to the afterlife.
Alone and without the man she loved.
A hum rumbled low in Leif’s chest, sending a soothing vibration to her fingertips. He was steady beneath her, his heart thumping rhythmically, bringing her erratic one in time with his.
“No, Brielle. Helheim is for the sick and old when they pass on. You, my little firebird, are a warrior and, as such, are destined for Valhalla.” A watery chuckle cracked her lips as she pressed a shaky kiss to the fresh scar near his heart. “However, I doubt either of us will spend much time there whenever that day comes.”
If not Helheim. If not Valhalla. What afterlife did Leif envision for them?
She blinked once and then a second time, struggling to decipher the meaning behind his words. Pressing her palms into the furs, Brielle hoisted herself until her chestnut eyes met his gray ones. He smiled, his fingers tracing the coils of her braids. A quiet, rolling laugh shook his muscled frame.
“Why do you laugh at me?” she asked, lines appearing between her pinched brows.
Leif pulled her face to his, cradling her cheeks and kissing her forehead. “Let me tell you a story that all the children in our village are told.”
“Leif, I’m not swayed by fairy tales.”
