I cannot.
No other woman rouses me the way Emeline does. Her looks are unrivaled, but it’s her sharp tongue and heart that leave me her servant—in every way there is. I will happily bow in servitude and do whatever it takes to beg for her forgiveness.
But I know my hugrekki is stubborn.
Although I’m patient with Emeline, I’m still a Viking. I do not like to wait for things I want, and I want Emeline… so very much. She will fight, and I imagine our meeting will be filled with much passion, the type that has two long-lost lovers burning down kingdoms as their love re-ignites.
I will allow her to chastise me until I cannot take it any longer. When that time comes, I’ll throw Emeline over my shoulder and order her to silence, because her mouth will be busy with other matters. She will be attempting to catch her breath as I fuck her so hard, the entire kingdom of Northumbria will hear.
The desire to see her only grows, and when we approach the campsite, I vow to make this quick. It’s easier this way because I can strike when the soldiers’ guards are lowered, as they think I am just another brainless, soulless heathen they can control.
But when I fight, who I am is immediately known. So I need the element of surprise on my side.
It’s not failed me thus far.
This Saxon slave camp is like all others—hidden away in the middle of nowhere. But the air is heavy with anguish and fury. My kin would rather die than be captured this way. Some believe they deserve this as punishment for being outsmarted by a Saxon, but sometimes no matter how hard you fight, you will lose.
I do not judge.
I fight because I do not like injustices.
I also fight because I do not like most Saxons.
All I smell is decay, and see the reason is the three decapitated heads of my men on spikes. No doubt they did not conform to the Christians.
Victory or Valhalla, my friends…
I take in my surroundings and am angered that each campsite seems far worse than the one before it. The Saxons are becoming crueler, and that’s because they have no fear. Their army grows, and therefore, they are becoming far more powerful. And whoever their leader is, they have clearly given them reason to fight.
They believe they will win, and a part of me fears they just might.
Men and women are on their knees. They are covered in filth and blood. Their arms are tied behind their backs. A long rope interlaces through their shackles and connects them, as does the thick chain around their necks, binding them to the man or woman beside them.
An anguished scream echoes in the distance.
When a Wessex guard staggers out from a hut, buckling up his pants with a grin, I vow to cut off that disgusting cock.
His friends congratulate him before another guard takes his place.
And the Christians believe us to be the heathens.
The spirit of my kind is broken. They do not fight. They merely wait for their impending doom. Their eyes are downcast, too ashamed to even see who approaches. But soon, they will have their revenge because I plan on killing every single one of these Saxon swines and making an example of them because it will be their heads I display on stakes.
“Tie him onto the end,” orders a guard.
I am dragged by my rope to the end of the line and shoved to my knees. The guard secures me with the others. I do not recognize them, but when one man turns to look at me, it’s clear he knows who I am.
I shake my head discreetly.
He understands.
One guard yanks my head back, his repulsive face inches from mine. “Just a souvenir to remember ye by.”
He cuts off one of my long plaits with a satisfied laugh. I, however, will have the last laugh when I cut off his head because I am swiftly working on the loosely tied rope around my wrists.
I see an iron wand being heated over a burning fire. I know they intend to brand me with their God’s symbol. They have done this to my people to spite our gods.
The men are too busy gloating about their latest conquests to take note of me as I utter in Norse, “Victory or Valhalla.”
