“What are you talking about? Svanhild doesn’t belong to mylið, mind you.”
With every inch separating them, the heat and pain increased tenfold. Thori’s face flushed, and he shook with the effort to stay where he was. All he could do was not throw himself at Norrin and beg to be fucked.
“What do you mean? Talk to me!”
If he’d had the capacity to be amused right now, Thori would’ve laughed at Norrin’s strained expression. As it was, all he could manage was a weak shake of his head, pulling his knees to his chest. What did Norrin want him to say, anyway? Surely he knew what kind ofseiðrSvanhild had woven.
“You’re burning up. But this doesn’t make any sense. I broke Svanhild’s enchantment. You were better,” Norrin said as if talking to himself.
“The potion,” Thori choked.
“What potion? She wasn’t even supposed to—” Norrin trailed off, and understanding dawned on his face. “That bitch.”
Thori blinked sluggishly. He couldseethe anger radiating from Norrin, each red, pulsing wave hitting him like a blow. He flinched, finally realizing what Svanhild had done. The potion’s purpose was to guarantee his cooperation for the ritual. She’d said so much herself. She’d made one hundred percent sure that he would have no choice but to hand his body over to Norrin, to be a good little conduit.Hel, Svanhild’s ambition knew no boundaries. She probably even thought Norrin would be grateful for her meddling. But she’d miscalculated.
“She’ll regret ignoring my orders,” Norrin said, still sounding like he was speaking to himself.
Norrin Stormtamer didn’t seem keen on fucking him.
Why?
Thori had seen the resentment in his gaze, a certain heat as well. It would be so easy for him to punish Thori for whatever reason he might have for hating him. Why shouldn’t he do it?
Norrin’s sharp gaze fixed on him.
“Let me see,” he ordered.
Thori froze, his body immobilized by conflicting instincts battling for the upper hand.
Look at me!
Stay away from me!
Touch me!
Please touch me!
Norrin was already getting rid of his shirt and boots, crawling onto the bed in nothing but his breeches. He was a vision; his powerful body adorned with tattoos and battle scars. Thori whimpered as Norrin pulled the sheet from his unresisting fingers.
“Take off your trousers.”
“What?”
“You said it yourself. Svanhild enchanted you so you would be ready for the ritual. Your body craves the touch. It’s going to be torture if you try to handle this alone.”
“But—”
“No arguing now. I do not torture my thralls. I will make this bearable for you.”
Thori wanted to fight back. He really wanted to. His resistance crumbled in the face of Norrin’s restored decisiveness as surely as frost melts in the first warmth of spring. Closing his eyes in defeat, Thori brushed off his pants.
Before he could panic about his state of undress and his undignified arousal, Norrin’s hands were on his shoulders. Calming. Grounding.
“Come here,” Norrin rumbled, making himself comfortable against the headboard next to him. “Sit between my legs, your back against my chest.”
Thori scrambled to obey. This way, at least, he didn’t have to look at Norrin. And the mere thought of being allowed to feel warm skin against his was intoxicating. Thori knew he ought to resist, but the strange mixture of pleasure and pain overwhelmed his refusal. Gracelessly, he sank into Norrin’s embrace.
“There you go. This is better, right?”
