Page 1 of Heart of the Wolf
PROLOGUE
Brielle
Shadows shifted within the forest, making the looming figures morph into demons shrouded in mist.
She should run.
Hide.
Anything.
Instead, a risky infatuation with anything remotely dangerous rooted her to the spot.
Whether it was with animals in the forest or, in this case, people.
Toy swords fell to the ground with dull thuds. The whispered shouts of mothers scooping up their small children carried along the stingingbreeze. Even the ambient skittering of creatures in the leaf litter quieted, leaving only foreboding silence in its wake.
The final few leaves of autumn clung to the barren trees, their gnarled branches twisting toward the sky. A dewy frost glazed over the valley, covering everything in a glinting sheen of silver.
She heard them before she saw them. Heavy footsteps echoed across the earth, icy grass crunching beneath leather boots.
Chestnut curls spilled over her torso. The unruly nest of hair nearly engulfed her tiny frame. Fingers played with the hem of her dress as she stood on tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the silhouetted mass closing in.
A massive hand closed around her upper arm, making her squeak.
“Go inside,” her father hissed.
After her mother died, whatever kindness remained in him vanished, straddling the line between cruel and indifferent with his daughter. Everyone respected him as the head of their tiny village, not daring to question how he handled his affairs at home.
Brielle did her best to keep her distance, spending much of her time with an aging medicine woman who treated her more like a daughter than her father had. Every year, he grew more frustrated at her increasing curiosity with theheathens.
Now that they were here, he wanted her gone.
Most would say it was out of concern, wanting to keep his daughter safe. As young as she was, Brielle still sensed something more to it.
“Okay,” she breathed, darting into a nearby cabin at his command.
Once her father turned around, she snuck outside, hiding behind a tall, weathered oak. The bark was rough against her smooth hands. Her father stood straight-backed and indifferent in front of the church, puffing out his chest to appear more imposing than he was. Brielle never thought of her father as short, but he certainly appeared that way when compared to the approaching men.
An attaché of Norsemen moved along the dirt path, their broad frames casting long shadows along the well-worn street.
Peeking out from behind the thick tree trunk, Brielle stared, her large doe eyes affixed on the man at the head of the group.
Every year before the first snow, the Norse came. And every year, she watched them. Getting a little more bold with how close she dared to get.
No one spoke except for the man with skin as pale as ice, his eyes grayer than stormy seas. His thick Norse accent only endeared him to her as he exchanged terse words withher father, a bow strung along his back, catching the high noon sun.
Long silver braids framed his face, a fresh scar bisecting his right eye. Despite the marks of war on his body, he was young, perhaps only five to ten years older than her.
Yet, he carried himself with the confidence of a warrior. A leader. His men deferred to him, respected him. After a dismissive wave of his hand, he dipped his chin. Two towering men moved, lifting the overflowing cache beside her father before disappearing into the crowd behind the fearsome man at the forefront.
Norse clans surrounded them, and they would leave them unharmed if they continued to provide supplies. Every year, her father stressed to her the importance of gathering goods to give to the jarl. Even if it left their people woefully unprepared for the cold season.
Food was scarce, and healing supplies were limited. Enough to survive, barely, but not enough to thrive. In the end, as long as they were safe from their conquests, that was all that mattered.
It was the one thing her father promised her: that the clans would never attack if they stayed in the jarl’s favor.
Careful not to make noise, Brielle shifted closer, trying to hear what the Norseman said to her father. A vein ticked in her father’s jaw before the jarl spun, dismissing his men and following in their wake.
