And he has easily seen forty winters.
“Truly, sir, I am here mistakenly.” She manages to squeak out without glancing away from his perfect nose and lips crafted for devouring flesh.
“Briny! Invisible, now, please!”
Nothing. Not even a tingle along her skin.
“I know you are there, Grandpapi! Why are you ignoring me?”
The side of the ship connects with her back as his hands clutch each side of the boat, trapping her. The collar of his black tunic tugs low, revealing chest hair to match his salt-and-pepper beard and more dark ink lurking along his battle-hardened skin.
His eyes, bright and cold like the frozen fjords, intently focus as if assigning her appearance to memory. The stranger is now so close that his scent of wood and leather tantalizes the Princess. Everything about this man has her ensnared in his grip—each twist of web sears her flesh with heat.
She lifts her hands to show she is unarmed. “I was merely looking for someone.”
“Who?” The question is not intended as a means of exchanging pleasantries.
He expects a name.
How much is appropriate to share with this stranger?
She grinds her teeth in indecision. “Someone who betrayed me.” She chews along the inside of her cheek. “A woman.”
“Did she do this to you?” His rough fingertips lightly caress her face with a heat that flutters in her belly.
Aura glances away. Her throat burns in her attempts to simply utter the word ‘yes.’ Ultimately, she nods curtly. The events of the day still war with her mind.
An underlying fury grumbles low in his chest.
She yelps when he takes her jaw in his firm grip. The light of the dock lanterns blinds her as he tugs her face toward the flickering flames, no doubt examining the bruising and cuts. He reaches behind her head and feels the end of her newly cut curls without ending his fierce eye contact.
Tears well in her eyes, and she curses herself for surrendering her state before a stranger. “She cut my braid.” She chokes out before burying her face in her hands.
“What a cruel way to disrespect a Salt Warrior.”
He acknowledged her as a Salt Warrior rather than a failed Drengr.
That admission alone stirs her desperate need for approval far more than rehashing Isabel’s betrayal and those repercussions.
He rubs the ends of the cut hair between his thumb and forefinger. “I assume she is not of Salt birth to disrespect you in such a heinous way.”
His arm brushes her shoulder when she leans back slightly, leaving her shivering.
“Timber.” Her tone suggests there is more that she wishes to convey.
“Fucking Timber.”
Her head jerks up. “Are you from Treland?” His ship has more of a Skalor appearance with the Wyvern head, but his dialect reminds her of Uncle Slode and Father.
“A long time ago, I called your country my home.” He grunts.
She crosses her arms, gnawing at the increasing number of questions she has for this warrior, who looks like he could obliterate five Drengr with one hand tied behind his back.
“Who are you?” She asks with her head held high.
“Jarl Calder Avardsson of Kaldrgataness.”
The Iss Drengr.
