by Ruby Sirois
He nods.
“Well, I like the idea of themed presents, actually.”
“Good to know.”
He gives me a saucy wink. I squirm in my seat.
“And I know you like braggots and peaty Scotch. I made this batch early on, years ago, before So Mote It Bee was even a thought in my head. It was my take on a Scotch-inspired mead. The last bottle I tried was two years ago and hadn’t reached its peak yet. I only have two bottles left—one actually, after we drink this one.”
The waitress arrives with my order on a tray and sets them down. She opens the bottle for us and leaves us to it.
I pour for us both, leaving out the ice cubes for now.
Ragnarr takes a sip, his eyes widening in pleasure.
“It’s just like a Scotch, but with a sweet honeyed hint to it.”
I take a sniff. It’s rich and floral, laced with darker hints of peat and smoke.
“I used traditionally fire-kilned Scottish malt, the same kind they use for Scotch. I made a beer from that, and added lots of late summer honey to it to make it a braggot.”
I take a sip, nod in satisfaction.
“It has a lot of peaty notes in it, but you’re right—there’s still a strong floral hint. Oh, this has really aged well. I am happy with this.”
He holds out his glass.
“Skål, to our first Christmas together.”
“Skål,” I reply.
We clink. We drink.
It warms my throat on the way down, hot and peaty, like I’ve swallowed a Highland campfire. I’d forgotten how strong it was.
I glance at the bottle. 21%—as strong as a liqueur and just as delicious.
“It’s amazing, a wonderful present,” he says, voice low and intimate. “By the way, have I told you yet how beautiful you are tonight?”
“Probably half a dozen times already.” I smile into his eyes over the edge of my glass. Ragnarr puts his arm around me, holding his glass in his free hand. I nuzzle up into the vanilla-scented warmth of him.
“Get used to it. You will probably hear it as many times again before the night is through.”
“Oh!” I sit up. “I almost forgot. Whimsy even told me to tell you something. As a gift, he said.”
“Did he now?”
A pleased quirk of his lips.
“He has a present for you—well, if you can call it that. He did, but you know him.”
“You’ve got my attention. I didn’t think he liked me enough to deign to give me anything.”
“Well… I’m not sure this doesn’t prove otherwise.”
“Now I’m even more intrigued.”
“He said he’d give you three minutes of sitting in your lap. Exactly three minutes. You’re allowed to—hmm, what did he say? Whimsy made me promise to say it exactly. He said, um, he’ll sit in your lap, and you are to scratch his chin, cheeks, and between his ears but nowhere else. If you pet him anywhere else, he’ll scratch you. If you make any sudden movements, or try to talk to him, he will scratch you. After three minutes, he leaves. And if you don’t have any fish on hand from the start, consider the whole thing off.”
Ragnarr laughs.
“This is why I enjoy cats,” he says. “They’re shameless, and I appreciate that. I rather enjoy a bit of shamelessness, just in case you didn’t know.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “Consider the offer taken, stipulations and all. I’ll even give him extra fish—that is, if he says please.”
“Hmm,” I say. “I sort of expected you to be annoyed. I know I was.”
“How little you think of me, häxan. I’m disappointed. I thought you knew me better by now.”
I make a face at him.
“As I recall, a big part of our original problem was that you don’t tell me anything.”
“So let’s get it all out on the table. Ask me something.”
I wasn’t really expecting him to offer this so freely. I draw a blank.
“Don’t be shy. What do you want to know? Ask me anything, and I promise I’ll try to tell you.”
I wrinkle my nose at him.
“Try, huh. Nice dodge. You know that’s totally meaningless, right?”
“Go on. Don’t leave me hanging when I’m so eager to talk.”
“Am I getting any more jewelry?”
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Fy fan, I sound as bratty as Whimsy. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”
Ragnarr grins down at me.
“More draconic by the day. Are those the buds of wings I see on your back? The hint of a spiked tail?”
I rub my shoulders and make a face at him. He just laughs.
“Well, I don’t mind a bit, häxan—you’re clearly the hoarded mate after my own heart.”
I lift my chin, emboldened.
“Really? Well, then… can I expect a diamond to go with my rubies and pearls?”
He considers me.
“Greedy little thing. I do like this look on you, though. Should I really check you all over for scales later? Claws? Daggers for teeth?”
“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you.”
I take a sip of my braggot, let it linger in my mouth, then stick my tongue out at him.
“I promise I’ll be very, very thorough.”
“Oh, I’m sure. And as a bonus, you’d feel so vindicated in your own avarice.”
“Mmm. Well, I wouldn’t want to be pressed too hard for a response to that. Fair warning—if you continue this line of interrogation, I’ll have to set you on fire.”
“What?”
“Does doing it with my tongue still count?”
His fingers brush the side of my breast. I lean into the caress.
“You didn’t really tell me any secrets, but I’m definitely feeling warmer somehow.”
“Good to know,” he says, draining his glass. “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to be patient and see what Jultomten has for you.”
“I thought you weren’t on speaking terms?”
“We’re not. So I’m sure he’ll be far more able to satisfy your dreams than I.”
I make a face at him.
“Never serious.”
“What fun would that be?”
I roll my eyes and sigh.
Ragnarr is incorrigible.
Dinner’s amazing. I’ve probably eaten a bit too much, but fy fan was it worth it. The ingredients are incredibly fresh, and it’s clear that the kitchen here is world-class.
If the food at So Mote It Bee attained a level of two-thirds as good, I’d be thrilled.
But when dessert arrives, I find just a bit more room. I pick up my spoon, but as I’m about to dig in, Ragnarr’s fingers find their way to the hem of my dress.
I give him a look, cheeks flaring hot.
“What are you doing?”
My voice is a hoarse whisper, and the gemstone beads nudge my hard clit. I shiver, shift in my seat to disguise my reaction.
“Eat your dessert, häxan.”
It’s not a request. I open my mouth to protest.
“Go on.”
His voice is commanding. His hand is just above my knee. And I’m suddenly very aware of what I’m wearing under my skirt—or not. I wriggle in my seat. Gasp. The gems shift position against my clit, and my pussy throbs in response.
Ragnarr’s fingers drift higher, making their way up under my skirt like an invading army. My thighs falls open. Invite him silently in.
The dark shadows of the booth hide everything.
I pick up my spoon. The sorbet is rustic and inviting, ribboned with peach-colored swirls of hjortron jam. I scoop some up, bring it to my mouth. Part my legs just a bit more to give him room.
—I want you to enjoy this sensation, he says. Hot and cold. Fire and ice.
The sorbet is cold, smooth, the hjortron earthy and not too sweet. There’s a wild quality to the flavor, reminiscent of growing things and thick with pine forest and fragrant scrub.
It’s delicious, and I’m not sure if the
moan of pleasure that escapes me is due to the sorbet or the gentle tug of Ragnarr’s fingers on the string of gemstones.
—You’re not going to stop, he says. Just enjoy your dessert. You’re not to stop.
—You’re not making this easy.
—Whoever said making love was easy?
Two fingers, one on each side of the gemstone strand, slide down along my labia. Spread them, let the beads nestle a bit deeper there where I’m most sensitive. I suck my spoon clean, trying not to shudder with pleasure.
Ragnarr’s fingers are warm, so warm, and the dessert cool and luscious. It’s a sensory overload. My cheeks are hot, my tongue cold.
I’ve never thought of myself as an exhibitionist, or even as someone who got off on the possibility of being caught… but this trip is teaching me new things about myself. My hips press against him, and he increases his pace. I gasp.
—But what if someone sees?
Just the thought makes me wetter. It makes me uncomfortable… despite that, it’s an incredible turn-on.
—She won’t be back so soon after leaving the dessert. Probably.
He brushes my clit with a feather-light touch, and I jump.
—Enjoying yourself?
—Fy fan, you’re evil.
His hand pauses.
—I didn’t say stop.
Ragnarr laughs, his voice husky with desire. One fingertip draws hearts around my clit, never close enough to touch.
I pick up the oat biscuit with a trembling hand and crunch on it, but I can’t concentrate on the flavors anymore.
—Are you sure no one’s coming?
—Why… are you about to?
The waitress walks by. I drop the cookie and grab his wrist through my skirt.
—Relax, she wasn’t even looking this way. If you hurry up, you can be done before she really comes back. Go on. Come for me. I’m not going to stop until you do.
He’s really serious. I’m really going to have to come, right here, right now. I look at him, and he meets my gaze.
His eyes are so blue, but the look he gives me is volcanic. And impossible to disobey.
—Do it. Now. Come for me.
A sharp intake of breath. I dig my fingers into his thigh. And I obey him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to split my focus both on riding my orgasm and keeping my reaction as subtle as possible. My body quivers, and my breath comes in little pants.
—That’s it. Don’t stop. More. More. I know you’re not done.
I nod, biting my lip hard, my hips rocking up against Ragnarr’s fingers where he tugs at the beads, jiggling them rhythmically against my clit in time with my heartbeat. The peak is sharp. Intense. I lose myself, falling through an endless sky of pleasure.
After a long moment of freefall, my body relaxes.
—Good girl, he says. Naughty. So dirty. I love it. That was fun, wasn’t it?
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. My forehead is beaded with a sheen of perspiration.
His fingers gently withdraw, and I watch, breath caught in my throat, as he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean one by one.
“Better than any sorbet,” Ragnarr says. “Delicious. Decadent. Divine.”
He takes my chin and brings my mouth to his. I taste myself on his lips, mixed with the flavor of the Scotch braggot: honey-wild musk and salt and smoke.
—You should make a mead with this flavor.
—Um… while it does taste nice, I really, really don’t think anyone would buy it.
—Not so. I’m sure there’s a Japanese market for it.
—Oh, stop. Be serious.
—I am serious. To me anyway, it’s beyond price.
—Well, then. No one’s stopping you from licking mead off of me directly.
—I like the way you think. I’ll have to take you up on that, häxan.
We’re in bed at last, snuggled up like spoons with my bottom wedged right up against him. Ragnarr’s arms are secure around me, and he lazily kisses my neck.
“I never knew you were such a daring little exhibitionist, häxan. I very much enjoyed it tonight.”
I laugh a little.
“I never knew that either. I guess I’m learning more about myself every day with you.”
A hesitation.
“What is it?”
He senses my discomfiture. I bite my lip, bite back the words.
“Tell me—tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Such a coward. I’m annoyed at my own dissemblance.
“Like what?”
“Like—um, like some kind of dragon secret. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He is silent, thinking, for long moments.
At last he says, “I’ve already told you about Drömheimr, so I’ll tell you something related. My lair is not in this universe.”
The room is dark, but I look over my shoulder at him in surprise.
“What? How is that possible?”
“There are the nine known realms of Yggdrasil, as you know.”
“Right.”
“What most don’t know is that Yggdrasil hides secret realms as well, large as well as small. Drömheimr is one such. Dragons have known this for eons, and they use these secret ways to their advantage. Each realm exists in a separate universe, but the well-known ones have well-traveled paths.”
“So what you’re saying is, if like, Svartálfaheimr or Midgard were roads, they’d be highways?”
“Good analogy. Indeed, highways to sprawling cities. And my lair would be a faint footpath in the woods to a single cave.”
“Sounds nice and secret.”
“As well it needs to be. The only thing more precious to me is you.”
He buries his nose in my hair, inhales deeply. Lets it out.
“What is it that I don’t know about you, then?”
Despite myself, I tense up.
“I know you’re thinking about something. I feel it. Even if you don’t want me to hear you.”
“I…”
There’s a lump in my throat. I swallow.
“Do… dragons ever get married?”
“We hoard our mates to us. You know that.”
He’s not making this any easier on me.
“Ja, but I mean… you know, with the dress and the guests and the flowers…”
“I’ll buy you a whole greenhouse if you want flowers.”
There’s a hint of the old smugness in his tone that I remember from back when we first met.
As if he knows something I don’t. As if he’s hiding something.
“It’s just that, I always dreamed of a winter wedding. Diamond ring, all of that.”
“Rubies and pearls and opals aren’t enough for you? Greedy, greedy.”
I feel him smile, but I don’t join him.
And I’m silent a long time.
But when I’ve finally gathered the courage to say something again, he’s fallen asleep.
I wish I had Linnea to talk to, but I know she would get cold and clam up like it’s her job. That’s how she is nowadays—and while I don’t blame her, I hate how our friendship has tattered.
Even Whimsy would probably make me feel better, if I could only talk everything through with him and try to figure out how not to be so afraid—that is, as long as no one mentions fish.
I sigh, my breath hitching in my throat.
And despite everything, despite the fact I should be sublimely happy with what I have already… I can’t stop hot tears from leaking into my pillow before I follow Ragnarr into restless, dreamless sleep.
6: Emelie
The next morning I head off on my own to an ice sculpting class. We’d planned to do our own things today in advance, since Ragnarr wasn’t so keen on the Sisyphean task of trying to make art out of a melting piece of ice. Not that I blame him.
I don’t really have a set plan of what I’m trying to make, but, inspired by the art we’d seen earlier in the week in the galler
y, I find myself carving a likeness of Freyja.
I’m certainly not much of a sculptor, but the expression on her face is warm and loving, and her eyes sparkle with something that I imagine to be compassion. When I’m finished, I step back, awed by the likeness that’s come from my own talentless hands.
“Give me courage, Freyja,” I murmur to it, and my fingertips tingle in response… but it’s probably the cold.
Probably.
When I get back to the room, Ragnarr is in the shower. I yank off my boots and jacket and go in to pee, but stop dead in my tracks when I see his signet ring there on the bathroom counter.
He always wears it, never takes it off—except when he’s in the shower.
Inspiration strikes.
A sudden brilliant solution to my conundrum.
I slip out again and get a pen and a piece of paper from the desk in the living room, then back into the bathroom. Ragnarr is humming something which I can’t quite place, the sound distorted by the pounding shower.
I trace the ring, my hands shaking with nerves. I have to do it three times to be sure it’s accurate.
“Tack, Freyja,” I whisper.
“What was that?”
“Never mind! Be right back!”
Then I slip out and head out for Hembygdsgården.
“I know it’s short notice,” I tell the Sami goldsmith. “But money is no object, so I’m happy to pay an extra charge for expedited service so that it’s ready tomorrow. Please, this is important.”
Gunná examines the paper, holding up several rings from the tray to it to judge the size.
“You said he wears this on his pinky?”
“His left pinky, ja. So I’m not really sure how much bigger to go… maybe you can make an educated guess?”
I tell her his height and my best guess at his weight, and she nods.
“I’d go with this one,” she says, holding a rose gold band inlaid with reindeer antler between thumb and forefinger. “And if it doesn’t fit, I’ll make the necessary adjustments.”
“I’ll pay for them,” I say earnestly.
She smiles.
“It’s Christmas. If it doesn’t fit, then the fix will be my gift to you.”
“That’s very sweet of you. But you’re sure you’ll have enough time to do the engraving?”
