Malice Striker by Jianne Carlo

guarded when replying to his questions. Brökk signaled the end of the feast by giving thanks to all who had journeyed to the holding.
    He helped Skatha to her feet, and they left the hall to loud cheers, the odd vulgar shout, and much thumping of his shoulders. They walked in silence to his lodge. During the meal, he had arranged to have a fire lit, and food and drink to be left for them.
    Brökk secured the door and lifted her into his embrace. “Last eve you bore the pain of your virginity, Skatha. This eve you learn of the pleasures to be had once your maidenhead has been taken.”
    She shivered and her throat worked, but she uttered not a word.
    After settling her gently in the middle of the mattress, he whispered, “Be not afeared, wife. All will be well.”
    “I know my duties, my lord.” The musical lilt to her voice had vanished, and she clasped her fingers tightly together, but otherwise sat rigid where he placed her, not seeming to even draw breath.
    Brökk shed his garments, leggings, and boots, added three logs and tinder to the blazing fire, and doused all but two of the sconces on the wall. He poured wine into a goblet and made his way to the bed, pausing to study his goddess.
    The blue tint to the ringlets falling to below her waist glistened like the finest black bear pelts he had once purchased from a Rus trader. Goddess she would look spread naked on a bed of those furs, with her fair skin, violet eyes, and ruby lips. He had been hard and aching since speaking with Ali in the tavern, and now knowing soon he would have his fill of Skatha, his stones fired tight, and his prick wept.
    He eased onto the mattress. “Will you hold this wine for me, Skatha?”
    She flinched, shifted to him, and held out her hands. “Of course, my lord.”
    “Brökk. Say my name, lady mine.” He folded her fingers around the base of the goblet and brushed his lips across her forehead.
    “Brökk.”
    Smiling, he drew the bed curtains and scooted against the headboard. Aware with the lights doused and the bed drapes drawn, she could see little, he gently lifted her onto his lap and took the goblet from her grasp. “Will you share a few sips of wine with me? ’Twill relax you.”
    He heard her swallow. “As you wish.”
    “Brökk.” He kissed her cheek.
    “Brökk.”
    “Do you wonder why I have darkened the chamber?”
    She started and her brows pinched for a moment. The pink tip of her tongue moistened her lips.
    He knew she had to feel his cock’s further engorgement.
    “Aye, my lord.”
    “This eve we learn each other by touch and feel. We have no need for light or sight.” His arm supported her back, but thus far she had kept apart from him, holding her spine straight and her legs still where they lay across his. To his delight some of the stiffness eased from the shoulder lying on his. He had been right to douse the torches.
    “’Tis the way of bedsport?” The steel that had previously tempered her voice softened.
    “One of the many. ’Tis of import we learn what pleases each other.” He had trained many a wild creature to his touch—falcons, hawks, and the high-spirited wild horses the Arabs raised—and ’twas all the same steps. Accustom them to his touch, speak soft and crooning of what he would do next, and reward oft with food and caresses.
    “I know not the ways of men, my lord. Naught of bedsport and pleasing men.”
    He kissed her full on the lips. “Brökk, Skatha.”
    “Brökk. I was sent to the abbey in my tenth and first summer. No men lived at Sumbarten.”
    “No man aided when labor was needed?”
    “’Twas seldom needed, but if it was, then Lady Gráinne dealt with them. We had a king’s legion to protect the lands and the farms and villages, but Lady Gráinne forbade the warriors entry to the manse and the abbey fields.”
    He curled a lock of hair behind her small ears and traced the tender whorls. “Wear you no earbobs?”
    She laughed, the sound a joyous delight ’twas so