I flick my tongue along his tip, slow and teasing, like I’m branding it with sin.
“Your little death,” I breathe. “Ma petite mort. Your filthy little slut. Yours. Always yours.”
“Then take what’s yours,” he growls.
So I do.
I open my mouth and take him like worship, like ruin, like every prayer I’ve ever carved into a corpse.
He groans, low and guttural, hips snapping with the kind of control that only looks like restraint. He mutters in Old Norse—those lovely blasphemies I adore—like he’s praying while fucking a sacrifice.
The crowd? Gone.
Indie? Gone.
The tent? Gone.
There’s only him. Only us.
His hands are in my hair. My throat burns. I can barely breathe—and I don’t want to.
“You’re mine,” he growls, voice like thunder over a funeral pyre. “Mine to use. Mine to bleed. Mine to feed.”
And then he comes—hard, raw, with a sound that feels like a war cry for the gods.
I take it all. Every drop. Every shiver. Every goddamn thing.
I swallow him like it’s divine.
Because it is.
Then I drag my fingers across my lips, lick them clean, and smile up at him—grinning like a rabid thing finally given a treat.
“Thank you,” I whisper, voice sweet and soaked in sin. “For letting me drink from the gods.”
Bjorn stares down at me with that same look he always gives me when I’m filthy and feral and perfect.
But his gaze drifts back, past me.
To him.
The stranger.
Still standing there. Still watching.
Still calm. Still unmoved.
“What do you think he wants?” I ask, voice low, and sticky with curiosity.
Bjorn’s still catching his breath as his hand flexes once more in my hair.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “But I think he’s already chosen us.”
chapter six
bjorn
The gods are still hungry.
