Bound by the Viking, Part 3: Consumed (3 page)
When his hand came cracking down on her bare bottom, tears stung her eyes, but she refused to scream.
He’s trying to get inside of me. Trying to bury himself in my heart. My deepest thoughts. My will…
She would not let him in, even though she let his manhood inside of her, so readily, not long before. Lust, after all, was not love. She still was herself, even though lust overcame her for the space of a moment. Love, though… obedience, even in her secret thoughts…
that
was danger.
That was violence of another kind.
His hand came down again, and she winced as his rough palm stung her pale flesh.
“So brave, little one,” he said.
He chuckled low, rubbing her backside, soothing away the pain, the sting, before hitting her again.
Crack
.
She jumped, her back arching, her face dangling against his leg, helpless, as the sensation overwhelmed her.
Crack
.
The sound of his palm meeting her backside reminded her of thunder in summertime. Of the ocean waves pounding the rocky cliffs, near her village.
Crack.
Of the leather tome in the old priest’s cottage, dropping to the packed, dirt floor.
Crack
.
Of wood splitting, as the invader’s boots broke through the door…
After she lost count of the blows, and pain turned traitorously into pleasure, she pictured tears falling, behind her eyes—hidden, and just for her—as a fog rolled over her mind.
The door opened with a bang, shattering my memories.
“Up, thrall!”
The chief strode in, followed by two struggling serving women, grumbling, as they carried in a half barrel, followed by two more, carrying pales of steaming water, their cheeks red from the effort.
“The day is a short one, seeing as tomorrow, we are to wed. Waste no time, little one. You must take care to shine like the dawn, tomorrow—be cleansed and readied. These here will take care of your needs, as well as see you clothed, while I attend to the contract.”
The women heaved the half-barrel into the middle of the room, before the fire and stood back as the others filled it, strong shoulders and arms flexing beneath their tunics. Aislin’s bound arms itched beneath the gazes of the women, but she straightened her spine, wearing her nudity like a queen, although her head spun at the chief’s words.
“The contract… Master?”
“Yes, yes. The bride price, and other details. The marriage contract.”
He took out his dirk, and examined it in the firelight, before sheathing it once more, and buckling it to his belt.
“This will have to do,” he said, under his breath. “Take good care of her,” he boomed, turning to the women. “Today she is a slave, but come Freya’s Day, she will be my bride, and your mistress.”
His eyes burned as he looked at each of them in turn, halting them in their tracks with his gaze.
Each of them startled, before dipping low into a curtsy.
“Yes, Chief Alrik.”
“Yes, of course…”
He slammed the door behind him, and there was a feeling of tension releasing, like a collective sigh. One of the ones who carried the barrel shook her head as she walked to the bed, trying her best not to meet Aislin’s eyes. She untied her with deft hands, and Aislin wondered how many times she’d done something similar.
The woman led her to the bath, and Aislin tried not to grimace, as she lowered herself down into the scalding water. As the woman scrubbed her, the coarse brush hairs stinging and biting, she turned her thoughts again to the fleet of boats waiting, just beyond this prison, surrounding the icy bay.
She would endure.
She would do what she had to, until she could get to the water, and if the gods were with her, back to her emerald isle.
***
Aislin tugged on the folds of her wedding garb, draped and pinned with the brooch Alrik held up before the fire, that first night. The brooch bearing her family’s crest, behind a silver sword—her father’s kilt pin. The linen was finer than anything she’d worn as a thrall, and her hair was intricately braided atop her head, shining like copper in the lamplight of the chamber, where she waited.
She’d always imagined she’d be anxious on her wedding day—wondering what the touch of her lover would be like, praying she’d make a good wife—but now, she felt more like she was going to face battle than join her life together with a man’s.
Her hands shook, as she brushed a stray hair from her face, and looked up at the doorway, waiting for her doom to arrive. Waiting for her life, as she knew it, to end.
There was no escape. Not today.
Her shoes were thin slippers, made for looks, instead of keeping the chill of the snow away; her gown thin and flowing. Even the fur she wore about her shoulders was but a short cape, and would offer no protection in the night, from the harshness of these lands.
And, what’s more, she was never alone. A serving girl handed her a cup full of mead, and gestured for her to drink--to steel her nerves, she supposed. She obliged, the sweet alcohol shockingly cold on her tongue.
Voices carried through the door from the main hall, and she sat up, straining to hear.
“-is fair enough, Denholm, especially since you must stand in for her kin. The gold now, and the title to the land, after.”
“Excellent, Alrik. I knew you’d agree to the terms, once you saw the coat of arms. You were most wise to hold onto this one.”
The clatter of a tray banging to the ground drowned out the next comment, followed by peals of laughter.
“-binds you to the clan. I can guarantee that holds true on their soil.”
“Then, so be it. You may hold me to my word, once you make good on yours. Once we are established, my men are yours for raids on the south of the isle. You’re going to be a very rich man, Denholm.”
“Both of us shall be, my friend. Both of us shall be.”
There was laughter, and a sound like a hand clapping down hard on a shoulder, then the sound of groaning wood, as the door inched inward.
“Prepare the bride.”
Alrik’s command was heard, but not seen, and the door shut behind him. The serving woman scurried around the room, tucking dried flowers in her hair, straightening her tunic, and pinching her cheeks painfully, so they glowed pink and bright.
At the last moment, she took out a key, and unlocked a small trunk in the corner. Aislin gasped, as the woman remove a blade—Alrik’s dirk, in its carved leather sheath. When the woman buckled it around her waist, she straightened up, her eyes staring into the distance, mind reeling at the touch of the steel hilt against her bare forearm.
They gave me a blade…
The door swung wide, and rough hands ushered her through the hall, blazing with firelight, the smell of meat cooking on the spits filling her nose, and out, through the doors into the chill air and bright sunlight, reflecting on the snow. Bark and branches were strewn on top of packed snow to make a semi-dry path, out to a field behind the long hall. There, a group was gathered in a semi-circle, facing a massive, bare tree, it’s branches stabbing the air.
Beyond the clearing, the forest closed in, ringing the village, the darkness of the trees ominous, even at mid day.
Alrik
stood beneath the tree, his hair shining like spun gold, looking fierce and resplendent in wolf fur and fine leather, his tunic held with golden brooches, his sword on his hip. A man stood by him, some kind of holy man, and a few steps away, Denholm, smiling at her like a cat with a rat in its jaws.
The dirk moved rhythmically at her side, tapping her with each step, as if it were speaking to her, whispering dark words that tasted like blood in her mind.
She stepped forward, through the crowd, and walked to her master’s… her
captor’s
… side. He grinned, his eyes clear and cold.
“We’ll begin with the ceremonial exchange of swords,” he said, leaning down close. “That is why you carry my dirk at your side, since we do not have your father’s.”
Since you shattered my father’s, when he fought your men for his life,
she thought.
Since you burned my home, and plundered what we once held dear, slaying my kin and robbing my people.
The dirk at her side leaned on her, embraced her. Dared her to touch it—caress it.
Her hand trembled, and she flexed her fingers, hovering over the leather. She wondered if she could reach Alrik’s throat with the blade, before the swords his men held fell, tearing her life away.
Is this my day to die?
Am I ready to die, if I can, in one moment, avenge my father, my mother, my sister…?
She could almost see Brenna’s face before her, her eyes wide and afraid, calling out to her, silently. Begging her to give the dirk a human sheath, to let it drink its fill of the chief’s lifeblood, to let it run over her own flesh
, until it stained the snow the color of revenge.
Brenna
…
Suddenly, her vision cleared, and she swallowed a gasp, her heart racing
, as she stared into the shadows beyond the wedding tree. Eyes sparkled in a shaft of dappled sunlight, a dirty face peeking out of the underbrush, in the shadows of the forest. Lips moved soundlessly, white fingers reached out, then pulled back.
Aislin
, those lips mouthed.
Aislin!
Somehow, impossibly, her sister was in those woods, between those trees, hiding, but still risking her life to catch a glimpse of her—to let her know she was alive, at least for now.
She was really there, finally, after so much searching--just out of reach, beyond the man who held her captive.
Had she escaped from another village?
Brenna’s dirty face and matted hair disappeared again, down into the darkness between the trunks, branches, and twisting brambles.
Aislin took a shuddering breath, and forced her
self to look away, to train her eyes away from the place where Brenna was, where she hid herself. Her fingers moved away from the dirk, as her eyes met Alrik’s, her gaze cold and steady.
She realized the
holy man had been speaking, and now, he gestured for the chief to give her his blade. She took it, and offered her own, feeling the eyes of the men on her as Alrik fastened the dirk to his waist, and clasped her hand in his over the hilt of his sword, stabbing the ground.
“Will you bind yourself to me, as my wife,” he asked.
A smile curled the edge of her lips, as she stared into the icy depths of his eyes, so handsome, even now. Even now, as her heart pounded in her chest, the beat rolling through her, like drums beneath the moonlight.
She would live.
This was not her day to die, after all, and the dirk would remain thirsty, waiting for its day to drink.
Brenna was
alive
…
“Yes, Master,” she said.
The Viking chief smiled, his teeth glinting like steel.
***
To Be Continued…
The next part of the sizzling erotic mini-series,
Bound by the Viking
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About the Author
Delilah Fawkes is the bestselling erotic romance author of "The Billionaire's Beck and Call" series, selling over a quarter million e-books under her own publishing company, Under the Covers Publishing, Inc.
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