Vidar moves toward the door. Turning his back. Relief floods my body. He could have attacked me. He stops.
“Play along, Kilda,” he says. “Be loyal. We could still be friends.”
He swings open the door. It smashes against the wall, pulling at its hinges. Like it’s his house. Like it’s all his.
“Good day,” I say coldly.
“My father is waiting,” he says as he steps out. “You’d best not make him wait any longer. Oh, and one more thing…”
He turns, showing me a smug smile.
“Wipe that defiance from your face before you enter the hall. Know your place.”
I stand. Finally, alone. His words linger in the room.
Know my place? I’ll show him my fucking place. With my boot on his fucking nose.
Vidar had been so charming, so friendly. Any girl’s dream. Yet it comes with a leash, a fence. A bull plows the field for the farmer. A beast of burden. Forced to perform tasks. I know what tasks Vidar would want from me.
A thought brushes my mind. This is how Vidar reacts when he doesn’t get what he wants. When he is denied my body.
Eidunn… Could it be? Could it be him? Why wouldn’t she tell me?
Snapping back to reality, I hurriedly fix my hair. Best to be presentable.
The jarl waits.
I step out, with my blue robe wrapped around me and my chin held high.
Kilda the beast of burden?
Fuck that.
Kilda the Wild.
I will not bend the knee to Vidar the fucking animal.
A warm wind messes up my hair again. Like I’m meant to be this way.
Kilda the Bull? Please.
Kilda the stomp her boot on your fucking face.
Leave you choking on your teeth.
CHAPTER 70
My defiance melts away as I pass the guard and his sour expression. The hall is quiet when I enter. Empty.
Only Thyra stands next to her father’s throne, speaking to him in a hushed voice. She strokes his shoulder, showing a tenderness I have never seen from her before. Her face hardens when she sees me. My shoulders sink as I approach, waiting for some harrowing insult.
She walks toward me. My body tenses up. Ready for a verbal attack. But she passes me without a word, not even sparing me a glance. I notice her braid is disheveled, with strands shooting out at different angles. Dark pouches lie beneath her eyes.
Poor woman.
The jarl lifts his hand and gestures for me to stand next to him.
“Kilda,” he says, his voice rough.
