Page 40 of Her Rogue Viking
Five. Six. She was halfway there and still coping. Just.
Seven. She wailed into the gag and hopped from one foot to the other.
Eight. He walked around to stand before her and cupped her face in his hand. “Are you all right, Fiona?”
She nodded as his image blurred, obscured by her tears.
“Four more, then I will remove the gag if you promise to be quiet for me.” The corner of his lip lifted in a half smile. He stroked her wet cheek with his fingertips and lowered his forehead to rest it briefly against hers. “I did not kill your brother, I swear it. If you want, I could attempt to discover who did, but I would not take action against the man. It was a battle, my warriors knew their task and performed it well. I am sorry though, for the grief you have suffered.”
Fiona stared at him, amazed. He had actually apologised to her though she did not blame him, not really. Adair was a headstrong fool, ever one to act without thinking. Their father had taken issue with him often enough on the matter. Adair had no need to confront a mob of Viking raiders armed with just a shovel. Pennglas was hopelessly overwhelmed, they had no choice but to capitulate and the villagers who did had been spared. Adair need not have died.
Ulfric cupped her chin in his palm. He had more to say to her, it seemed. “The words you heard… they were for Brynhild’s benefit, not yours. You are more to me, much more than just a wench to fuck. You always were.”
She blinked, not comprehending. The gag prevented her from seeking more explanation from him but he seemed to know anyway.
“I hoped to divert her attention from you by seeking to convince her that you were of no consequence and not worth her trouble. It is clear I failed to convince my sister, though you tookmy words to heart and for that I am sorry. I apologise for hurting you.”
With that he kissed her forehead and proceeded to hurt her some more.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. He paused again, as though gathering his strength for one final assault on her senses.
Twelve. He landed the final stroke across the backs of her thighs and Fiona jumped on the spot, howling against the confines of the gag.
Ulfric came to stand before her again and took his time putting his belt back on. He buckled it around his waist then stood, his arms folded as he considered her quivering form.
Would he release her now? He had not said so, only that he would remove the gag. He stepped forward and did exactly that. She drew in a welcome deep breath through her mouth, then wetted her dry lips with her tongue.
Ulfric saw, and at once produced a mug of ale, which he held to her lips. She sipped, grateful for his consideration.
“Enough?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He set the mug down. “I would know your thoughts, now, on the prospect of escape. Do you properly understand the dangers inherent in such a path?”
“I do. I will not speak of it again.”
“I expect you will not, since you are no fool. But will you think of it?”
“I… I will try not to, Ulfric.”
He considered that for a few moments, then nodded. “Fair enough. And now, do you understand why I spoke as I did to Brynhild?”
“I… yes, I think I do.”
“Taranc was right. You should have spoken to me of it if it bothered you so.”
“I could not.”
He frowned. “Ah, but you could.”
She shook her head, vehement now. “I could not. In all the time I have been here, you have been happy enough to take a switch to me because of something I said rather than something I did. I could not talk to you. I dared not.”
“That will change. And, we shall talk now, little Celt, for we have much to discuss.”
“Will you untie me? My shoulders…”
“No, not yet. Before I do that, I promised you a lesson in being owned.”
