nostrils feel hot and I scoop water into them, rinsing them out, sneering when I inhale sharply through my teeth at ice-water in my nasal cavity.
I rinse until the water runs clear and the cold has contracted the blood vessels. Shutting off the water, grabbing the towel, I look at my image in the mirror as I dab my face dry.
I think I'm in love. She hit me hard enough to bruise.
Pressing an investigative fingertip into the discoloration, the pain gives me a boner.
She's fucking perfect; and she's going to cut my heart into bite sized pieces and ruin me.
Chapter 5
Hræsvelgr hight he who sits at heaven's ending,
Giant in eagle's coat
~ Völuspá
Ewan:
I don't understand it. By virtue of the stone surrounding us, encapsulating us even, she shouldn't have had a toxic reaction.
Yet that's exactly what she had, as if she is allergic to her very heritage. It's confounding and the first incident I've ever known of any such debacle occurring.
Black stone, such as the obsidian of the eagle's nest, has many virtues which by modern standards would seem superstitious. It protects against poisoning, lightning, evil, possession, illness, sorcery, and venom. Some of that is common sense as glass doesn't conduct electricity. Simple logic really, but when we adopted this hidden lair as our home the attributes did bode well for our longevity and protection.
And yet the evidence to the contrary lies before me, fast asleep from exhaustion with a precious bundle of fur snuggled up close for company.
I don't know if it's the chief in me or the writings in the mist, but the vision of such a vulnerable woman ensconced in my bed, her tranquil beauty surrounded with a halo of cocoa hair which showcases her delicate complexion, just makes me smile while wreaking havoc with my heart.
If my men see me mooning like a gawky adolescent I'll never hear the end of it, yet every cell in my body is struggling. My instinct is to protect her. Any way, any how, with pleasure, the agony is invited.
Fuck, the road ahead of us is riddled with potholes and spike strips. I know she'll fight me and I relish the anticipation of the clash. It's in our blood.
Does she comprehend it's foreplay? Does she have any residual memory of how enticing aggression, resistance, attack, pain, and scathe is? It turns us inside out and ready to nail her to the closest pike.
She head-butted me like a damn pro, with her pupils so dilated she wouldn't have been focussing well, all while having a cathartic episode. That would fell most adult men and yet she accomplished it without a day of training or any of the mind control taught to the warriors. She stepped right up and socked me; it was fucking fantastic! The instant my face went numb my blood frothed over with the urge to procreate.
Damn it! The mist has spoken and I can't. I can't do a fucking thing until he arrives to give her a choice. Until then I won't mark her or induct her into the clan. But fight her, yes I will. You can't deny me that. I want to test the strength, the resilience, and get off on her skills when she's going berserk.
Adam would make a good starter tutor. He's got a stupid soft spot for women, treating them as if they'd break even when they're splitting his lips open and smashing his eyes closed. His early years left a lasting impression on him and he can't seem to shed the gentleman's code of the philistines. The greatest form of sabotage ever imposed on the world's best warriors was 'behave like a lady'. The hereditary populace of this land had women as fierce as their men fighting side by side. Would act like a lady have worked for Boudica, or Hlaðgerðr ? Exactly. They were acting like ladies. Since when is 'be a good complacent victim' equivalent to behaving as a gender which perpetuates the bloodline? Lady my fucking ass. Pussy more like. That's why we call you pussy's because you forgot how to fight, to stand up for what's right and rally the troops for battle