Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2)

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Viking Wolf

  Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Edited by

  Adrea Kore

  This short story is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted with prior permission in writing from the author, or in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  The right of Emmanuelle de Maupassant to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018

  Note from the author

  Welcome to my ‘Viking Warriors’ steamy romance series.

  I hope you enjoy ‘Viking Wolf’, and its prequel ‘Viking Thunder’; the story will continue with ‘Viking Beast’ (releasing in 2019).

  Svolvaen and Skálavík are fictitious, as are my characters. While the superstitions and rituals related in this series are based on true Norse beliefs, I’ve taken liberties in shaping them. The draug (a restless spirit which reanimates its human form), I’ve adapted to suit the needs of my tale. You’ll recognize the Norse myths, though with many omissions and told with my own emphasis.

  Daily life and habits in Svolvaen are based on my research, some of which is drawn from the ‘Hurstwic’ online site. I’ve described the longhouse much as we believe it would have appeared, with deep benches along each interior wall (used for sitting and sleeping). Central firepits provided warmth and a means of cooking, with smoke drawn through a hole in the roof. While it’s commonly believed that most longhouses were ‘windowless’, the sagas of Brennu-Njáls and Grettis both mention openings akin to windows (without glass but using skins which could be drawn back). I’ve used this device, as it serves my plot.

  For the purpose of this story, Eirik and Gunnolf’s beds are situated at either end of the longhouse, being ‘boxed’ in wood, to offer more privacy.

  Finally, I’ve chosen to use British spelling for this story, but US punctuation… and there’s a short glossary at the end of the volume, to explain the handful of Norse words I’ve included.

  ps - if you haven’t yet read the sizzling prequel to Viking Wolf, you may like to enjoy that first. You’ll find ‘Viking Thunder’ on Amazon.

  Much credit goes to my gorgeous editor, Adrea Kore, for her work in helping bring this story together: for her patience, creativity and friendship.

  CAST

  Brought from Northumbria, by Eirik

  Elswyth – newly widowed, former wife of Holtholm’s chieftain, now Eirik’s lover

  Faline – Elswyth’s stepdaughter

  Svolvaen residents

  Gunnolf (‘fighting wolf’) – chief of Svolvaen and Eirik’s older brother

  Eirik (‘eternal ruler’) – brother to Gunnolf

  Asta - Gunnolf’s wife

  Helka – sister to Eirik and Gunnolf

  Guðrún and Sylvi – Gunnolf’s thralls (slaves who undertake household duties)

  Astrid – a village woman who befriends Elswyth

  Ylva - Astrid’s daughter

  Torhilde – Astrid’s neighbour

  Bodil – a former lover of Eirik

  Anders – the blacksmith

  Halbert – the blacksmith’s son

  Olaf – friend to Eirik

  Deceased

  Wyborn (‘war bear’) - father to Eirik, Helka and Gunnolf Wybornsson

  Hallgerd – the previous jarl (uncle to Eirik, Helka and Gunnolf)

  Vigrid – Helka’s first husband

  Bjorgyn residents

  Jarl Ósvífur

  Leif Ósvífursson – oldest son of Jarl Ósvífur

  Freydís Ósvífursdóttir – sister to Leif

  Skálavík residents

  Jarl Eldberg (the Beast)

  1

  With the midsummer sun dipping to the last portion of the sky, twenty men took the oars and pulled against the current.

  We’d been three days on the open sea, travelling to Svolvaen. Some places on the rowing benches were now empty, for several of Eirik’s men had fallen in the skirmish with the troops garrisoned near our village. As the ship battled fierce winds and my stomach heaved with the churning of the waves, I wondered if I’d made a grave error in leaving all that I knew to join these Norsemen. My thoughts turned repeatedly to my ailing grandmother, lying weak in her bed, left in the care of our neighbours. My decision had been selfish, borne of yearning for adventure and the chance to start anew, of my knowledge of kinship with these warrior men; borne, too, of my desire for Eirik, who’d pulled me into the protection of his hard-muscled body as the ship plunged across the vast sea.

  At last, we sighted the mountains of the north. Reaching the calmer waters of their coast, sailing between scattered islands, the men’s eyes raked the maze of inlets, looking for their own.

  Gulls and gannets whirled above, cormorants and kittiwakes, as we followed the narrow channel of the fjord, as Eirik called it, past cliffs on either side, rising steep, pocketed with caves.

  The crew’s elation was plain to see and I shared in it, for I was now part of this world, although all in it would be new to me.

  The other ships of the raiding party had returned some days before, survivors of the storm that had brought Eirik and his men to our coastline of Northumbria and the rocky beach on which my former village had nestled. His people had been keeping look-out, horns blowing through the still dusk of the evening as we approached the landing piers.

  What a press of bodies there was: comradery between men, as friends slapped and hugged one another, and received kisses from their wives, embraces from mothers, daughters and sisters. I no longer thought of those men as murderers, but as my kin. They’d shed blood, but I now knew my blood was also theirs. I recognized some part of their brutality as my own, for I was not as other women in the village in which I’d lived all my life. I was half-Viking: tall and golden haired, as the women of Svolvaen mostly were, and born of a wilder spirit.

  Amidst the jumble of voices and the scramble of the crowd, Faline and I received little regard. We were no more than possessions, of Eirik’s concern alone; curiosities, eyed briefly, then ignored. Whatever welcome I’d hoped for in my heart, whatever foolishness, I pressed it down and bit my tongue against disappointment. To earn my place would take time.

  Eirik’s sister, Helka, guided us away from the crowd, scanning for one who wasn’t there: one who hadn’t deigned to push among the common throng, who’d waited, instead, for Eirik to come to him.

  We climbed the slope rising from the small harbour, past modest dwellings which appeared little different from those of my own village. The light had almost gone as we approached the summit of the hill, where stood a longhouse of great size, turf-covered upon low walls of stone. A sentry guarded either side of its door, whom Eirik greeted with clasped hands, before we stepped inside.

  The vaulted ceiling rose higher than that of the home I’d not long ago shared with my husband. The ribs reached up into the darkness, above a central fire pit, whose flames leapt, casting the farther reaches of the hall in shadow. The air was thick with the smell of stew, a great cauldron hanging over the heat of the pit, smoke curling upwards, to an open hole in the roof. Along the length of the hall were deep benches, sheepskins thick upon them; there was room enough to sleep the
household and many more.

  Faline and I stood behind Helka, who whispered a little of what was said, translating enough for us to understand. I was glad, too, that during our sea voyage, Eirik had begun to teach me some of his words.

  “Jarl Gunnolf!” cried Eirik, “And my Lady Asta, who grows more exquisite than ever.” He bowed to the pale beauty, sitting beside the man richly dressed in raven-black. She was beautiful indeed, with an air of delicate refinement, her fine hair hanging to her waist, a silvered cloak complimenting her dress of light-blue. Eirik was surely addressing his brother, the chieftain of their village, or jarl in their own tongue, and his fair wife.

  So dark was his clothing, his beard and mane that I could not fully discern the man seated in that half-light. The shadows played over his face, concealing and then revealing. I saw him in pieces that did not resolve until I stepped closer, following Eirik’s approach to the dais.

  “You’re returned then, brother.”

  Their features were similar, with full lips and a strong jaw; Gunnolf bore a livid scar through one eyebrow, deeper than that crossing Eirik’s cheek. Despite the white creeping at his temples, I thought him yet in his prime, with shoulders broad and strong and limbs muscular. As with Eirik, I imagined him taking whatever woman he desired, regardless of whether she was compliant. Yet the two were different. Where my lover was a stallion, his energy and passion scarcely contained, Gunnolf had a concentrated intensity to him. I found that I looked too closely and made myself lower my eyes.

  “And Helka, my dear sister.” Gunnolf rose from his seat, crossing the remaining space between us to kiss her hand. “You’ve brought prizes, I see.”

  Grasping above my elbow, he drew me forward, and looked at me directly; his eyes were the same icy blue as Eirik’s, and my own. His scrutiny was piercing, as if penetrating to my naked skin. Abruptly, he unhooked my cloak, letting it fall, so that I stood trembling in my worsted dress. It was not from cold that the shiver fluttered through me. His eyes took in the shape of me and lingered in careful appraisal.

  With a shake of her hair, Faline jostled forward, pushing back her cloak to reveal the curves of her young body, wishing to capture the Jarl’s attention for herself.

  My anger flared as it had when Eirik had taken us both to his bed. Faline was dark where I was fair, beautiful by any standard, and my rival for any man who showed me interest.

  He regarded her with some amusement, and a nod of approval, before resuming his examination of me.

  Eirik moved closer to my side, placing his hand firmly upon my shoulder. “Elswyth is a woman of former standing, and with some proficiency in healing.” His voice, though level, was firm. “She is mine.”

  Gunnolf’s eyes narrowed, and I saw him set his jaw as he squared his shoulders to Eirik. His fist clenched and I feared he’d reach for the dagger at his belt. The vein at Eirik’s temple stood visible as he returned his brother’s glare.

  The two stood silent for some moments, before the tension broke, and Gunnolf’s mouth twitched in a half-smile.

  Gunnolf’s gaze returned to Faline. “And this one?”

  Eirik answered with all courtesy.

  “Elswyth’s step-daughter by her husband, now deceased. Both I offer for Asta’s service, if our Lady wishes it. They come as free women but are willing to serve.”

  It was as we had agreed. I would need some occupation besides the tumbling companion of mighty Eirik, and my duties would be light, he assured me.

  “For that, my Lady thanks you,” said Gunnolf, replying for his wife. “No doubt, they will bend to the command of their betters, for all that you call them ‘free’.”

  What next passed between them I never knew, for Gunnolf pulled Eirik close, and whispered in his ear. They laughed together and clasped each other about the back, thumping in brotherly embrace. However, as Gunnolf pressed his cheek to Eirik’s shoulder, his expression was without mirth. If it was joy he felt at the ship’s return and relief in knowing his brother to be safe, it was soberly tempered.

  As Eirik led me away, I felt the Jarl’s inscrutable gaze upon us.

  2

  “No more waiting.” He carried me to his bed, which would now be mine, in the service of our mutual pleasure. He cared not for the others, who would surely hear us beyond the meagre curtain of our boxed chamber, and nor did I. He lay me back and pushed up my skirts, freeing his erection from the rough wool of his trousers.

  We’d been too long without consummation. Eirik would have taken me in the prow of the boat, but the roughness of the waves scarcely permitted it. How scared I’d been, sick with fear and the motion of the vessel. I’d believed I’d never see land again, but he’d pulled me to him, murmuring comforts, and bid me lay my head upon his lap. I’d been grateful for his strength, as I struggled with my own weakness.

  Now, I watched as he reached beneath my buttocks, lifting me to his cock, nudging past the tightness of my initial trembling, for his size was enough to awe any woman. He pushed gradually within, easing me to accommodate his girth, voicing his pleasure in the warmth of my cunt and its constriction.

  I drew up my legs, offering him deeper entry. Still, I held my breath as I prepared to take his full length. He slid to fill me with a groan of satisfaction, then began his steady rhythm, drawing back and forth, eyes bright with desire, bringing from me a returning moan.

  His need would not allow him to hold back for long, his thrusts growing harder. Only his grip beneath me, pulling me upwards to meet the lunge of his cock, prevented him from pushing me away. With the force of his fucking, my voice rose. My fingers kneaded the muscle of his buttocks, urging him on; I’d known his lovemaking would be fierce, and I welcomed it.

  At last, his voice broke in a Viking oath, and he shuddered, plunging with final fervour. I felt the flood of his seed and gave my own cry, part pain and joy, leaving me breathless.

  With a low chuckle, he lowered his mouth to mine, kissing me gently. “A good beginning, my Elswyth.”

  His hands moved upwards, first to squeeze my waist, then to push down the fabric covering my breasts. He took each in his mouth, humming low as he suckled, rubbing his beard where it would most antagonize me. I wriggled, and clenched, against his retreating engorgement.

  It wouldn’t be long before he was again ready, his prowess being such as any man would envy. He pulled off my gown and the shift beneath, so that I lay naked before him. Stretched back on the bed, I opened my legs to him, awakened to desire and the certainty of fulfilment. There was nothing I would not give him.

  His own clothing removed, he knelt above me, and I quivered at the sight of him. I knew all the scars of his body, and its markings, too. The intricate patterns of the inked sleeves upon his arms, dark green and blue-black, forming the branches of knotted trees. Jörmungandr, the snake curving down his spine, whose scales rippled as he moved, twisting its head over Eirik’s shoulder, as if in an attempt to watch me. I knew the circle of pointed arrows on his chest, and those across the top of his buttocks: a cloak of beliefs that gave him power.

  His erection was already rising. I wanted to feel him, to be naked under the insistence of his hands and mouth, coated with the sweat of his body, and mine.

  He looked down on me with his customary confidence, tracing the curve of my belly, stroking through my soft fur. I held his gaze, wishing him to see me as clearly as I saw him.

  “With just my tongue, little bird, I can trap you, and keep you, or make you fly.” His voice growled low, speaking in my own language, his vowels drawn out as he formed the words.

  He raised my hips again, and lowered his face, brushing my delicate skin with the bristles of his beard, kissing to the entrance between my legs. I felt the cream bubble from inside me, trickling out, in anticipation of receiving him.

  He drew the flat of his tongue through my slit, before flicking against the sensitive nub, making me gasp before he pushed inside, to rub back and forth, moving expertly, to press where I desired, although ne
ver hard enough.

  “Please,” I begged, “Eirik…”

  “More?” he whispered, his breath hot against my thigh.

  I bit my lip as he penetrated more deeply, sliding through me in long, slow strokes.

  He lifted his head and grinned, emerging from my slipperiness, sitting back on his heels. The firm, hard-muscled ridges of his abdomen led to the thatch of his groin, and the thickened root: full again, dark-veined, with the head pushed forward, glistening with arousal.

  I reached for him, eager to pull him down, and into me, but he took both my hands and moved them to the base of his meat. “Feel me,” he said. “Take it. Taste it.”

  Gripping the shaft, I rolled the skin back and forth, before guiding him to my lips, moving the velvet of my mouth over his smoothness, beyond the furrow and some way down his column, enclosing him tightly. I loved the solidity of him in my mouth.

  He shifted and groaned, pushing one of my hands lower to cover his sac, closing his fingers over mine, rubbing himself through my grasp. I kneaded the heaviness in my palm, working him harder, extending my fingers to stroke the skin between his balls and his anus.

  “Völva!” he groaned, calling me an enchantress in his own tongue, twisting under the pleasure I gave him.

  I smiled as I took him from my mouth, for I fully intended to bewitch him. Shifting quickly, I moved to sit astride his lap. I was ready to lose myself in the heat of his body, but the devil in me wished him also to wait, as I had waited.

  I was open, slick with his semen and my own desire, but I held back, rubbing only the tip of him to my ache.