He looked at her face again. She was a beautiful woman, even if she was hurt, filthy, and clearly not of his people. But maybe that was a good thing. His people shunned him, forced him out because they feared him. Stian welcomed that fear in them though. It made them wary, made them smarter.
She ate well—that he could tell by the thickness of her body and the curves he could see through her filthy, wet clothing.
He lifted her easily into his arms. She was small, much shorter than his towering height. He could have left her to die, but instead, he’d bring her back to his hut and make her his. He was in need of a wife, a bed partner, and what a perfect gift from the gods for a monster like him. Whoever she was didn’t matter anymore, because now she was the wife of Stian Dagmar.
4
Agata opened her eyes. The lighting was dim and not painful as she looked at the ceiling. Her head throbbed, but the feeling of a warm, wet cloth on her forehead was pleasing. How had she gotten back to the hotel?
She closed her eyes again, lifted her hand to rub her aching head, and breathed out. She couldn’t remember much, didn’t think she even had any alcohol at the festival, but she had to have gotten drunk to be feeling this way, right?
Opening her eyes again, she blinked at the ceiling and then knitted her brows. That wasn’t the ceiling in her hotel room, not with those crude wooden beams, and what was that? Hay? When she pushed herself up, a wince and gasp left her as her arm gave out from her weight.
Looking down, she noticed a white bandage wrapped around her forearm, but it was the thick animal hides and fur she was on that had her confused. Was she still at the festival, maybe in one of the novelty huts?
The sound of metal on metal had her snapping her head to the right. She felt her eyes widen at the sight of a very naked male back in her view. The man who was crouched before a fire set in the center of the hut was monstrously big, with wide shoulders, and muscles layered upon each other.
He also had scars that ran crisscross on the expanse, and what looked like Nordic symbols inked into his sides, back, and shoulders. She could see his biceps, saw the same inked markings on them as well, and wondered what the front part of him looked like.
“Um, hello?” She cleared her throat, feeling like she swallowed a bucketful of sand. What she needed were some painkillers for this wicked headache and the throbbing in her arm. “Am I still at the festival?”
Why would she even ask that? Of course she was at the festival, because no one lived this primitive and raw anymore, not even in this part of the world. Did they?
The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t responded to her question either. Maybe he didn’t speak English?
“Hello? Am I at the festival still?” she asked in Norwegian this time, and even though it was rusty and probably thick with her American accent, she knew he would have understood her well enough. He still didn’t respond or move. She pushed herself up on the bed and looked around more thoroughly now.
The hut was bigger than the ones she’d seen at the festival. There was a long-standing fire basin in the center of the one room, and through the sides of it, she saw the crackling flames and felt its heat.
There was a scarred wooden table off to the side, with wood bowls, metal crude-looking utensils, and a basket full of vegetables and fruit. Bones and feathers hung from the ceiling, and she saw weapons close to the front door, as well as sporadically placed around the room.
The floor was dirt-covered wooden planks, and the fact that there wasn’t anything modern about this place, nothing familiar to her, had her heart pounding harder with confusion and hesitation. She looked out the window, or at least tried to, but in her position and the way the wood shutters were positioned, it only showed her glimpses of trees.
“Excuse me,” she said more determinedly now. Bracing her hand on the hide, she pushed herself up as best as she could with her injured arm. Once standing, she swayed, her head growing fuzzy and starting to pound fiercely. She immediately sat back down and cupped her forehead. “I need to know where I am. I have to get back to the hotel. I have a flight to catch.” What time was it? What day was it even?
She dropped her hands to her sides and stared at the man again. He slowly started to rise, and she craned her neck to look at his towering height. Even in the sitting position and from the distance she was at, she had to tilt her head back just to look up at him.
The leather pants he wore formed to his massive thighs, and his height was staggering. She actually moved back on the pallet, not sure what in the hell was going on, but her flight or fight instincts were kicking in.
He turned around, his long blond hair falling down his back in thickly coiled locks. He sported plaits on either side of his temples making him seem more dangerous. His chest was hard, defined, and littered with scars. It was like this man was a warrior from long ago.
He held a cup, a long, discolored-looking one that was strange in appearance. But the closer he came, the more she realized it was actually a horn. She moved back another inch on the pallet, and when he stopped a few feet from her, all she could do was stare at him.
He was huge, easily over six and a half feet in height, and his muscles were honed to godly proportions. He had leather ties wrapped around his bulging biceps, and when she looked down at his chest, saw the Nordic symbols and designs in his flesh, snaking around his arms and sides, even around his pecs, this strange arousal consumed her.
God, what was wrong with her? What was she thinking to be feeling anything more than shock and horror that she was clearly not where she should be?
She stared into his face, looked right into his cold, hard blue eyes that were so bright in color they seemed unnatural, and she felt fear unlike anything she ever felt before slam into her. He held out the horn cup, and she eyed it.
The memories of where she’d been before waking up in this hut came back to her—the old woman, the words she’d spoken, and then the drink Agata consumed. No fucking way was she going to drink anything this man gave her. The last time she drank anything, it landed her in this situation… wherever this was.
“I’m not thirsty.” For all she knew, this man was some kind of psycho, wanting to experience some other time and live like a barbarian. Who knew what in the hell he wanted with her. She stood, not about to stay here any longer, especially when it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to her questions or tell her where she was or what was going on.
He pushed the cup to her again, and she shook her head, not taking her eyes off of him.
“I said I’m not thirsty. Why won’t you answer me?” She was speaking in Norwegian now, hoping this man, this beast of a male, wouldn’t just stare at her like he was possibly thinking about how warm her skin would be during the winter months.
“Dua manki drekka, konna mae,” he said in a hoarse, slightly scratchy voice. He wasn’t speaking a dialect of Norwegian she knew, and although she had no clue what he said, she did recognize one of the words.
Wife. Why in the hell had he called her wife? Was this a joke? She looked around, went to stand because she needed out of here, but he shoved the horn cup in her face.
“Dua manki drekka.” He reached out, gently but firmly grabbed her uninjured arm, and pulled her closer. “Konna, drekka.” He put the rim of the cup at her mouth, tilted it back, and poured the contents into her mouth.