“You’re going to rest for a while. I want you to eat, and then I want you to sleep,” Norrin said.
“You don’t want me to—tend to you?”
Thori was aware that he was being treated far too well for a thrall, and Norrin had already gone to great lengths to keep Thori alive during the night.
“You will serve me. But not today.”
Thori’s head was spinning. He certainly hadn’t expected kindness from Norrin, a raider who associated with people the likes of Svanhild and Sveinn. Also, he acted like he knew Thori. As if he were harboring a grudge.
Norrin’s fingers brushed against his shoulder, and Thori relaxed under his touch despite himself.
“Why are you doing this? What is it to you?”
Norrin tilted his head slightly, considering his words. The gesture accentuated his sharp features, lending him the air of a bird of prey. An eagle or a hawk.
“Would you rather I put you to work here and now?”
Thori didn’t have an answer for that. He wasn’t even sure if he could stand right now. But he certainly wouldn’t tell Norrin just how weak he really felt. Turning his gaze away, he stared stubbornly at the tent ceiling.
Norrin continued cleaning him, his touch still so gentle. The warmth of the cloth was lulling, a stark contrast to the burn the oil had left on his skin. He felt dizzy.
“I thought as much,” Norrin grumbled after a moment.
“You have some nerve talking to me like this,” Thori said, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to provoke Norrin, to make him react. “I’m the Prince of Asgard. Who do you think you are?”
Norrin only chuckled.
“I’m your master, little thrall.”
Ha!Thori certainly wasn’t. And he was going to tell him as much!
But his eyes were heavy, and Norrin’s touch was soft and—
A shuffling sound at the entrance made Thori blink. When did he close his eyes?
“Chieftain? I brought the food, as you asked for.”
A familiar voice, soft and hesitant.
Blinking sluggishly, Thori found Andora standing next to the brazier. She balanced a tray in her hands and regarded Norrin with weariness. When she spotted Thori, her eyes widened.
Motioning for her to get closer, Norrin made room on the bed for her to put the tray down. The scent of porridge and flatbread filled the tent, making Thori’s stomach rumble.
“Can you sit up for me?”
Norrin seemed neither upset by Thori’s insolent outburst nor by his display of weakness.
“Sure.”
Gritting his teeth, Thori forced himself to rise on his elbows. He refused to look any weaker in front of a thrall girl and an enemy warrior. But a wave of dizziness made him falter.
Norrin caught him before he could slump back down, firm hands bracing his shoulders, easing him upright. Thori sagged against the pillows, chest heaving from the effort. He felt weak, like a newborn foal.
“Easy,” Norrin soothed, adjusting the blankets around him.
Andora watched them, her face ashen, and Thori had the gnawing feeling that she was worried about him. That wouldn’t do. He forced the cockiest grin he could muster onto his face and sat up a little straighter. He should crack a joke or say something funny to reassure her. But he didn’t even know what was expected of him. Did Norrin want him to attend to him while he ate? He’d said he wanted Thori to eat, but that couldn’t mean—
“Here.”
