“If you like your dress, then you should take it off hastily, wife,” he said dangerously.
She laughed, pulling at her laces, her eyes never leaving his as she pulled open her bodice and pushed her skirts down. Once done, she stood in nothing but her thin chemise and her stockings, which were secured over her knees with ribbons.
She drew the chemise over her head, her body stretching as she did so, revealing the high swell of her breasts, the pale pink points of her nipples. She dropped the gossamer fabric aside and leaned down to reach for the ribbons that secured her stockings, but Svagnar groaned: “No. Leave them on.”
She looked up through the dark hair that had fallen over his face.
“Do you like my stockings, husband?” she said sweetly.
Svagnar pounced on her like a predator too ravenous to wait for its prey to come close. Grabbing her into his arms, he hoisted her up against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, his powerful arms secured around her waist. She curled her legs around him, lowering her mouth to his, and she pressed a slow, delicate kiss against his lips.
“I’ve waited so long,” she breathed, gazing into his eyes. “You’ve been so cruel these past few nights.”
Ever since they had returned to Fjersfell, Svagnar had refused to take her until she could move about without wincing in agony. Every night since, he had fallen asleep with his hard cock pressed against her leg, no matter how much she squirmed against him or how many times she tried to provoke him with lewd words. Now he growled, and she felt the thick, blunt head of his cock press at her entrance. His hand clasped one buttock and pulled it, roughly spreading her sex.
“You have no idea how cruel I can be, wife.”
Grabbing her buttocks with both hands now, he slammed her hips down over his cock, impaling her in one rough gesture. She cried out, her hands gripping his shoulders, her legs curled against his waist for balance. But Svagnar’s dust-grey eyes seemed possessed by some wild force, and his grin was hungry and wicked as he lifted her hips and slammed her back down, drawing another scream from her.
Striding to their bed, Aster gasped in surprise as Svagnar pinned her against the wall next to it. The velvet of the tapestry was soft against her back, but now that Svagnar had her caught between him and the wall, his thrusts became merciless, and soon Aster was screaming, her back arched, her cheeks crimson, hot pleasure pulsing through her.
“I love making you scream,” he said against her neck. “Fuck, it makes me so hard.”
She squirmed at his words, her inner walls clamping down on him. Each devastating thrust of his cock slammed her closer to a chasm of ecstasy, and she held on desperately to him.
“Svagnar,” she whimpered, her eyes wide. “Svagnar, please… I need… I need…”
He kissed her hard and fucked her against the wall in deep, harsh thrusts, and as he did, she felt herself hurtled towards the chasm, and then she was falling, and crashing, and exploding. A scream tore from her lips as she bucked wildly, the force of her climax making every part of her shudder violently.
“Yes,” hissed Svagnar. “Gods you feel so good. You feel so good, Aster. I love you.”
Her hips undulated wildly as she rode the waves of her climax, and she struggled to fill her lungs enough to reply: “I love you too, husband.”
The words drew a strangled noise from him, and with a brutal thrust, he buried himself inside her and came hard, filling her with his seed. She held on to him as he bucked his hips against hers, riding his climax as she had done hers.
He stumbled over to the bed and they both collapsed breathlessly over the pale blankets. The pain in her side had awoken and throbbed dully, but the effervescent pleasure that still coursed through her seemed to chase it from her body. She breathed hard, exulting in the closeness of his warm skin, his muscles, his strength, the wild musk of him. She could feel his seed slowly seep out of her, and the sensation was strange and exquisite all at once.
“How did I ever live without being able to fuck you?” he asked, drawing her closer to him.
“You must have been half a man,” she said with a slight smile. “You must have been hollow and wretched.”
“Aye, I feel hollow and wretched now that I’ve emptied myself in you, hellhound.”
“I don’t,” she said sweetly. “I feel quite full.”
He groaned at her words and buried his face against her neck.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said.
“Yes, probably. But you might be the death of me too, I suppose.”
“Mm… how so?”
“A witch told me I would die on a sword.”
He looked up, his eyes bright as sunlit silver. “Aye, I remember.”
“Well, I certainly felt like I was dying on a sword a little while ago.”
Svagnar burst out laughing, the roar of it filling the room and warming Aster as surely as any fire.
“If that is the case, hellhound, you will die on a sword hard and often.”
And he kissed her, and his kiss was so slow and deliberate and deep that it made Aster melt like sugar. He pulled a fur blanket over them and lay back with a contented sigh. As he sank into a satisfied sleep, his breath growing deeper and slower, Aster pondered that it was not so bad being the stolen wife of a barbarian king.
Even if it meant dying on a sword every night.
Chapter XX
Svagnar the Grateful
On the sunset of the winter solstice, Svagnar travelled to the top of Velvangar Hill, where a circle of altars lay beneath great archways of stones. They had been there for many centuries, and the stones were moss-ridden and snow-covered. Still, even in the dead of winter jewels, flowers and candles could be found there. For Velvangar was the place in Arkavik known for being the closest to the gods.
Svagnar went alone. Wrapped in thicks furs and riding Artor, he brought with him offerings of sapphires, steel weapons and a ram to sacrifice. He had vowed he would thank the gods, and he would not forsake them in his joy- they had not forsaken him in his woe. They had given him too much, favoured him too long that he should forget to give thanks.
Once he reached the top of Velvangar Hill, he left Artor amongst the naked trees and walked beneath the ancient archways of stone. He lit the candles on each altar, bathing the hill with flickering firelight and then he thanked each of the gods one by one.
He thanked the god of war first, for he was the oldest god. Svagnar thanked him for keeping him strong when he had needed to be, for feasting with his fallen warriors and, finally, for turning his back upon Arkavik for the time being.
He thanked the goddess of death for sparing him, and Gunnar, and Eirik, and his Jarlsguard, and his shieldmaidens and vikingr. He thanked the goddess of death for sparing his people, and for not taking his injured wife from him.
He thanked the god of mischief and friendship for sending him Byram, the Veritian Knight, and Adrienna, the queen of Karscha. They might all have been his enemies, and yet they had both come to help him. He thanked the god of mischief for giving him a present in disguise, for giving him success dressed as failure.
He thanked Freja, finally: he thanked her for blessing his marriage, for blessing his household. He thanked her for giving him a kind sister, cousins who loved him and humbled him in equal measure, a castle that was always bright with light, with laughter, with mirth.
And he thanked all the gods for his wife: his dauntless, indomitable wife. He thanked the gods for Aster, for her frown and her blue eyes, her pale skin and fawn freckles, her earnest smile and her sensual mouth. He thanked the gods for giving him a wife that was strong and loyal and humble and impressive and beautiful. He thanked the gods for giving him a wife that was both earnest and playful, reckless and courageous, loving and lustful.
Once done, he made his sacrifice, spilling the blood over the altars. Before he left, he prayed to the gods to let him keep everything they had given him.
And then he returned to Fjersfell, where his
wife awaited him. He had promised to take her hunting the following day, and he was full of the anticipation of it. Svagnar found great pleasure in watching his wife wield a weapon, be it an axe, or a sword, or a bow and arrow. The little frown of concentration on her face when she tracked her prey was both solemn and alluring.
And Svagnar had a mind to follow his wife deep into the woods, and to catch her like a wolf might catch a doe, and to flatten her into the snow, and take her deep and hard.
He would fuck her amongst the trees, for all the forest spirits to see, for the sky and the earth to know that she was his. And the gods and goddesses would witness how they had given him the perfect mate.
The End
About the Author
Violet Froste was born in France and grew up dreaming of dragons, warrior kings and ancient lands. Most of her childhood was spent amongst the characters of Tolkien, Nix, Pierce, Marillier, Gaiman, Whalen Turner and Pullman.
Now she lives somewhere rainy and green in England. When she's not writing books about strong-minded women and the indomitable men who fall in love with them, she spends her time reading, conjuring supernatural forces and trying to keep her plants alive.
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You will receive a free copy of Rubies and Roses, the steamy novella companion to Sapphire and Steel that follows Adrienna's adventures in Karscha.
Rubies and Roses
After Adrienna is separated from her trusted Princessguard, she finds herself on the run and forced to take her destiny in her own hands.
When she gets reluctantly rescued by a band of Karschan soldiers, she immediately clashes with their arrogant leader.
But the tension between them soon escalates when she realises she is actually engaged to him.
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Flower and Flame
Heatha has trained all her life as a shieldmaiden with one goal: to enter her brother's guard once he becomes the jarl of Erleskal.
Her carefully laid plans are thrown into chaos when news come that the king of Sefena has disappeared, taking with him his Kingsguard - including Heatha's youngest brother.
She sets off to Sefena determined to find out the truth and save her brother. But when she finds out that the king's bastard son, the arrogant Prince Arzade the Debaucher, has been tasked with finding his father, she knows his mission is doomed.
Heatha joins his Princeguard and decides she will find the king and her brother herself.
Even if it means putting up with the unbearable Prince Arzade, his rag-tag group of woefully unprepared guards and the dangers of a looming war.
Coming January 2020.
Sapphire and Steel Page 22
