There were many ways in which he could subdue her but, for now, he’d give her something to think about.
“Look at me.” He leaned close enough that she would feel his breath on her face—close enough that his leather jerkin brushed her breast. She would be aware of his weight—would know that he could crush her simply by shifting his body over hers.
Still, she looked at the timbers, but he guided her chin downward, until she permitted their eyes to meet. He spoke softly, letting each word unfurl. “One day, soon, you’ll give me everything.”
Showing her the last strip of silk, he wrapped it around his knuckle, drawing it tight, then placed the width over her eyes.
She pressed her lips together, saying nothing as he secured it. Only when he brought his hands to rest on her ribcage did she respond with a shuddering breath. Her pulse quickened. She trembled.
What was she imagining?
That he would fuck her?
In this position, lying open, she could be certain of it.
What if he told her something else?
That he would send his men; fingers greasy with meat, mouths eager upon her, raising up her hips to meet their thrusts—one by one, until he decided her punishment was enough.
Yes, she would believe it.
Her chest rose and fell, and she swallowed, worrying at her lips. She shifted, testing the bonds. They were not so firm that she couldn’t move. One foot flexed. She stretched her fingers, then curled them closed.
He told her nothing, knowing she would tell herself far more.
* * *
Eldberg had offered up daily sacrifices to the gods, and they’d looked favourably upon him. The scarring would remain, but he’d kept all the fingers on his left hand. The rest was superficial. Even where his hair and beard had been scorched, there was regrowth.
Still, the pain tested him—strange prickles where the tissue was knitting together; a sign of his healing. Only the eye on that side truly troubled him. The eyelashes were gone, replaced by blistered skin. Some vision remained but, with the eye half-closed, it was difficult to judge distance. When he grew tired, even his own hands refused to come into focus.
If the others knew, none had spoken of it, and if Sweyn or any other had thought to usurp him, they’d waited too long to act upon that ambition. Those closest to Eldberg served through fear but also respect. Who among them would dare claim themselves his rival, fit to take his place?
They hadn’t expected him to pick up his weapons. Not yet. Nor had they expected him to lead the attack on Svolvaen. He’d pushed himself to do both—to show them that he was tenacious, a man whose life-force burned stronger than the flames sent to consume him.
This evening, Eldberg was plagued with sparks of pain down his side. In answer, he drank more mead than sat well in his stomach and let the carousing continue longer than he’d intended.
Fiske and Hakon tried to draw him into conversation, avoiding any questions about the woman, though their curiosity was evident.
Sweyn said nothing, sitting apart, unable to hide his scowl.
Eldberg let it pass. The man was entitled to nurse his discontent—as long as he didn’t show outright disrespect.
It was a trial to sit so long, knowing she lay in his chamber, but the waiting would do his work for him. Only when most of the men had passed out on the long benches did he return.
The wick had burnt low, but the light was sufficient for him to see her slender body, pale as moonlight, stretched out on the sheepskins, occupying the bed he would have thrown himself into had he been alone.
Jerking at the sound of his footstep, she twisted against the restraining silk, straining to identify who was in the chamber.
He stood beside her, letting her feel his presence. She would know the smell of his body and the rhythm with which he breathed.
She raised her head, and he thought for a moment she would say something, but she lay back again.
His cock grew hard. His body remembered the satisfaction of entering a woman.
In the hours that had passed, he’d had time to plan. From the trunk, he drew out the smaller of the marble columns and the harness that went with it. The leather straps were stiff, being new. Another gift for Bretta—one she’d never seen. He rubbed his thumb over the stone.
A strange thing, he’d thought it, but the merchant who’d sold him the device assured him that the noblewomen of the southern Mediterranean all used them. There were five pieces of marble, each slightly wider and longer than the last, chiseled, then polished smooth. Only the final rod bore any resemblance to his own organ, but the trader had explained the thinking behind the progression.
