Page 9 of Heart of the Wolf
Based on the little she knew of this man, it did not bode well for her. Jumping to her feet, she reached for her blade. Blood rushed in her ears as she narrowed her eyes in warning.
She had no illusions that she was intimidating. The only thing tinier than her was the weapon in her hand. Calling it a sword was generous, as it was closer to a dagger. A rusty, ill-maintained one at that.
A smirk cracked the jarl’s serious expression. It lacked the usual malice she’d seen on men’s faces. Instead, it was whimsical, curious even.
Tendons pulsed as he crossed his thick forearms over his chest, amused by her. An axe hung on his hip, with a bow strewn along his back. He reached for neither. A large hand scrubbed over his jaw as he snorted a laugh, making Brielle furrow her brow and tighten her grip on the hilt ofher sword, the leather fibers working their way into her nail bed.
Was he mad?
If so, that only made him more dangerous. Should she scream? Would that make it worse?
She was not a tiny child playing war and didn’t appreciate being treated as one.
“Úlfr was right about his little firebird,” he chuckled, raising his hands in supplication. “I know you,” he said, arching a brow and taking one measured step closer.
Brielle matched his movements, moving until her back hit the wall.
“The one who watches from a distance. But not with the same disgust as your kinsmen.” His eyes narrowed into thin, assessing slits, like a predator sizing up its prey. “No, you… You are a curious little bird.”
He moved closer again, keeping his hands out when Brielle raised her sword.
“I will not harm you, little one. I value life,” he laughed, a low, throaty sound. “And it would be stolen from me should I touch you.”
Eyes drifted to the nearly empty plate of food and the drained skin of water, beaming back at her. Still holding the blade, her shoulder slumped, allowing it to dangle loosely at her side.
“Who are you?”
“Amund.” He lowered his hands. “Jarl of these lands. I can have more food and water brought for you. You certainly need it. You’re far too bony.”
Before Brielle could respond, another figure moved into the room. A short, petite woman with long, flowing blonde hair that shimmered like the sun twinkling on fresh snow sidled beside Amund. Beautiful blue eyes sparkled as she looked up at the jarl.
Rugged hands cupped her perfect porcelain face. Next to him, she looked so tiny, his giant hands covering her entire face. Where she was delicate and unblemished, he was scarred and callused. A subtle sigh passed her lips as she melted into his touch, exchanging quiet words in Norse.
Amund fused his lips to the woman’s, undeterred by Brielle’s presence. The kiss was demanding, yet the way he held her was surprisingly gentle. Every interaction she had observed with the man in her village led her to believe he was an unyielding figure.
While she didn’t doubt that he was unrelenting and brutal, as evidenced by the marks on his body, to see him tempered by another stirred something deep inside her.
It solidified her belief that they were not heathens, as her father had told her. They breathed and loved as much as anyone.
Perhaps even more.
Amund ended the kiss but kept his lips pressed to hers, smiling against the woman’s mouth. Undoubtedly, his back would ache later from how long he was bent over to meet her lips.
“This is my Astrid,” he said, the backs of his fingers stroking the column of her throat. “She will help you today until Úlfr returns.”
A heat grew in her chest, spreading out to her limbs, twisting into an inferno. Hope alighted that this Úlfr may be the Dane from her childhood, from her dreams. A tangle of emotions fluttered in her chest like the wings of a caged hummingbird. She shook her head, afraid to believe it was real.
That he may be real.
“Is Úlfr the man who brought me here?” she asked, her voice small.
“Yes. He is hunting. Be back before nightfall.”
Sucking in a breath, Brielle steadied herself. She clutched a spot between her breasts. Every moment in her life had brought her to this point, the sureness of it calming her twitching fingers.
An arm wrapped around Astrid’s waist as Amund pressed another fierce kiss to her lips in parting. The man vanished through the door, leaving Brielle with what she presumed was his wife. Scents of jasmine and chamomile followed Astrid as she moved about the home.
Awkwardly, Brielle placed her sword back against the bench. Astrid stared for a moment, her face relaxed and welcoming. A discerning gaze swept over Brielle. Tapping her chin, Astrid paused at her hips before nodding. Unease slithered through Brielle’s limbs, feeling as though she was just assessed like a prized mare for auction.
