“You do not understand the principles of taming, Tryggr. It’s the same as breaking a fine horse. Choose a strong-willed one and take your time, and the results will far surpass your expectations. Rush the process, and you will be left with little of worth.” Jarl took another long pull from the bottle and exhaled sharply through his clenched teeth. “Though that is probably why you still ride an oversized plow horse. My stallion fights beneath me like an additional weapon, often taking down more foe with his hooves and teeth than my sword. He does this now, but trust me, when I first captured him, he was as eager to kill me as the woman is.”
“I ride an oversized plow horse because that’s the only thing big enough to carry me,” Tryggr objected. “And no matter what the method, Jarl, everyone gets around to riding them sooner or later. Maybe it’s time you just threw your saddle on her and see what happens.” Tryggr laughed and slapped his leg, then reached for the bottle and took another swig.
Jarl shook his head. Tryggr would never understand. He was a good and trusted friend, but they were very different men. Tryggr lived and fought by brute strength alone, and it had served him well. His only battle loss had come at Jarl’s hand, and from that Tryggr had sworn his undying loyalty, but it had not changed him.
“No, but seriously,” Tryggr continued when his laughter had abated. “I’m telling you, you’re not thinking clearly. She’s not like your horse that will fight by your side for years to come. What difference does it make what she thinks of you, or if she’s a bit battered by the experience? She’ll recover; they all do.” He shrugged and took another drink. “And soon we’ll be returning home.” When Jarl did not respond, Tryggr paused and regarded him closely. “You can’t possibly think to have a future with her? As what? As bed slave? As wife? Do you think to marry her and take her home to the North? She’s never even seen snow, Jarl. She knows nothing of surviving in the cold, and nothing of our ways. Will she gather wood and keep a fire in your hearth? Tend to your cottage and rear your brats? Is that what you see?” He didn’t wait for Jarl to answer. “No, it’s not, because you haven’t thought any farther ahead than fucking her. So do it. It’s consuming your thoughts. For the sake of the gods, man, go do it now. Throw her to the furs and get this madness out of your system.”
Nena was kneeling, balanced on the balls of her feet, when he entered. She looked up at him. It was early for him to be retiring to his furs. But Jarl wasn’t looking at the furs. He was looking at her. Her pulse quickened. Something was off. Something had changed. She stood in one fluid movement to face him.
Every fiber in her body sensed him. Her eyes. Her ears. Even her skin felt for tiny wind currents. It was her warrior training. The Teclan were thought by their enemies to have reflexes of lightning, but in truth they were no quicker than any other Dor. They were just taught from a young age to be aware—to sense their opponent with all their senses, not just their eyes. And even with their eyes, they learned to see differently. Not to see the sword blade as it was pulled from the scabbard, but to see the fingers as they twitched or trembled before they gripped the hilt. To see the slight flaring of their enemy’s nostrils as they inhaled before lunging. Through those small silent almost invisible signals, the opponent telegraphed what their next move would be long before they made it. The Teclan saw and felt it all.
Without a word, Jarl came closer, not stopping until he stood only inches from her. Her senses screamed at his nearness. She could not turn them off, and they continued to bombard her with signals of imminent danger. His eyes were the deep green of when he was aroused. She smelled the smoke on his clothes from the cook fires outside, the harsh scent of lye soap on his skin, and the alcohol on his breath. His masculine energy ran unchecked between them, filling the small space like a living thing. Nena did not step back or shrink away. There was nowhere for her to go—a few feet in either direction to the end of her chain, and the result would be the same. She would not show fear. She dare not excite the predator response in him. Every warrior knew that if attacked by the lion, never to run, but to remain as still as possible and hope the beast would lose interest. Nena called upon that training now.
Jarl reached up and touched her face, stroking from her temple down over her cheek to the line of her jaw. She remained perfectly still, but the track of his fingertips left a stinging burn as if he had slapped her. His touch was gentle, but Nena could see his entire body was as taut as hers. She held his gaze, unmoving, grasping at every shred of her discipline to do so.
With Tryggr’s words fresh in his ears, Jarl stood before her, taking in every detail. Her eyes, dark unreadable pools, held his. The curve of her lips, her exotic scent and her warmth beckoned him. Her proud strength combined with her almost innocent sensuality filled his senses, and it was far more intoxicating than the liquor he had just consumed. He could only imagine how having her would feel.
“Do I frighten you?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Free my hands and give me a weapon, and I will show you,” she murmured.
Nena’s senses first reported the unusual indents in his cheeks beginning to form, then the softening at the corners of his eyes, before
