Odr was, well, not Freya’s husband as was often believed, though he was father to the girls. While mortal stories said he wandered off often and caused Freya to weep ruby tears over his absence, in truth, those tears were something different altogether.
I was eager the moment she poured me a glass, forRuby Tearswas the best vintage wine in all the realms. The borders of Fólkvangr were a sprawling vineyard.
Odr was a mortal turned Aesir, deified in honor of being the first fallen warrior to enter Freya’s hall. He then, it was said,entered her hall, and became a god in the throes of their passionate love making, thus dubbing him the god of passion as she was love. Because Freya did love him, she never tried tying him down in marriage, but let him roam free, for he always eventually returned.
“I would have it no other way,” she’d once told me, “for true love must be built around one another’s boundaries, not trying to break through them.”
Even in memory, her insight was beyond fault.
“Shall we toast to new beginnings?” Freya raised her cup after pouring wine for all of us.
I met Freyr’s eyes, and though I could see some cloudiness that remained, some lingering pain and doubt behind his gaze, the affection and longing piercing through that darkness gave me hope. “To new beginnings,” I echoed.
And Freyr echoed me.
Chapter 7
FREYR
“Shhh!You’llwakethecats!” I slurred. I could barely hold Ravnur upright as we tumbled into the bedchamber reserved for Freya’s guests.
Dinner had been lovely, the wine had flowed plentifully, and because I was more used to drinking ale than my sister’s vintage, I had grown very drunk, very quickly.
And so, it seemed, had Ravnur.
“You can’twakecats.” He giggled, turning in the hold I had about his waist and gripping the edges of my tunic. He tugged, and we spun as if in a clumsy dance, only for the backs of myknees to hit the bed, and down we toppled. Ravnur giggled again as he clambered atop me.
“You can’t?” I blinked at him. He was warm and a pleasant amount of weighty atop me. I wanted to envelop that warmth and weight, and thus slid my hands up the back of his tunic.
“Nope.” Ravnur shifted to better slot his hips against mine and spoke while mouthing up my neck like the echo of kisses. “Cats do as they please and always have one eye already open.”
That made sense somehow. As did letting Ravnur’s mouthing turn to actual kisses when he reached my cheek and moved to my lips. His lips were soft and reddened, and his tongue tasted like juicy, ripened grapes.
Freya and the girls had gone to bed earlier, while Ravnur and I kept on drinking.
And drinking.
Anddrinking.
Now I wanted to drink him down and made a valiant effort to do so by sucking his tongue. There was nothing outside this kiss, only its warmth, weight, and wonder. The fuzziness from the wine kept the last of my doubts at bay, and so I had chased that feeling with more and more, and Ravnur matched me. I liked being in this haze, in the comfort of bliss, as if, truly, nothing else existed.
Not Ragnarök.
Not my obligations.
Not my mistakes.
Not my losses…
Ravnur rolled his hips where they pressed into mine, and a spike of white-hot yearning shot through my loins. I bucked up, and as another spike ignited the flames all through me, I rolled us upon the large guest bed until I was the one on top. The pink flush to Ravnur’s cheeks, the redness to his kiss-bitten and wine-stained lips, made me as hungry, as ravenous, as if we had never had dinner.
And also suddenly sober.
But not sober enough.
I rolled away, off of Ravnur to lie beside him.
“S-sorry,” he huffed. Both of us were panting, and though Ravnur’s gaze still looked glassy when I glanced at him, I could see a bit of sobering sense had taken hold of him too. “I didn’t mean to lose myself.”
