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Bleidd-dynn - Wolf-man (from Welsh)
Arglwyddes y Bleidd-dynn - Lady of the Wolf-men (from Welsh)
Cariad - Love/darling (f...
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Da garan - I love you (fr...
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Koantenn - Beautiful woman (f...
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Mac’hagn - Cripple (fr...
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Surferw creichion crach - Insult from Late...
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Ég sef - I’m sleeping (...
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Elskan mín - My darling (...
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Ek ann Þer - I love you (...
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Éttu það sem úti frýs - Eat that which freezes ou...
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Fara - Go/let’s go (O...
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Gall-Goídil - Norse-Irish settlers...
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Holmgang - A duel to legally settle dispu...
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Jotnahreðr - By the cocks of giant...
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Kátr-Ekkja - Merry widow ...
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Longphort - Viking ship enclosure or “ship fo...
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Serð mik - Fuck me (O...
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Skál - A drinking toast (...
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Varg (plural: Vyrgen) - Wolf, the term they...
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Vanirdottir (plural: Vanirdøtur) - Daughter of the Vanir, the ter...
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“What did I tell you about apologising to me?” I mutter. She opens her mouth as though to apologise for apologising – sees the absurdity of it, and nods instead.
Choosing me in daylight after all.
Choosing me… and it feels just as much of a stolen moment as it did before.
“You are the ones who came looking for us,” I hiss at him. “Now that you’ve found us, are you regretting that we have mouths and hands that can grasp you as you grasp us?”
I panic for a moment at how to present myself. What is the most non-sensual way to sit?
“You only asked me for release.” “Well I was an idiot.”
“Good?” I grumble against her neck. “You almost killed me.” “Mmm,” she purrs. “Might have to avenge yourself, then.”
Sleep, elskan mín, he told me, so I turned and asked what it meant. And he smiled that lazy smile of deepest satisfaction and said, it means my darling.
That he would only heed those wishes made in daylight. Release, and only release.
“I told you to do what you wanted with me,” he murmurs. “And you did some very, very nice things. That’s all I remember.”
I know I won’t ever find another man like him, capable of both calm composure and feral protectiveness, who forgives my own propensities towards excess. Who forgives me for everything. Who says my name with reverence.
They all wear the tokens of their conquests in bloody splatters across their armour, the Briton boy included. Seems like he’s finally come into his own.
When Rhun bucks and struggles against him, Nýr only leans closer, pits more of his weight against the feral prince. He’s wearing a small, private smile.
A mature Varg taming a feral one.
“Touch me,” he murmurs. “Take it in your hand.” I whimper as I reach down. My fingertips skid along his length, the veiny mass that’s poised to impale me. “That’s it,” he praises. “Take it… it’s yours.”
“Da garan.”
“Ek ann Þer.”
“Friends,” he echoes. “You attach any more weight to that word and it’ll break.”
I’m here, that kiss says. I’m with you.
Where Thrain is crushing and irresistible, Ivar is all sharp edges and stings of pleasure, and Olaf… he is solemn, leading me on, controlling the pace.
“This isn’t going to go the same way as our own feasts, then?” Olaf grumbles. “I’d prefer if it didn’t.” Ivar laughs. “I would ask them if I knew the Brittonic word for orgy.”
“You are mine,” she says in Gaelic. “My pack. Come.”
She is both things. The terrifying goddess and the uncertain, frightened girl. How can a woman manage to be both? How does she manage it in her head?
“Just promise me you’ll be honest with me,” I urge him. “Promise me that. I’m yours, first.”
That is perhaps what a daughter’s love is; caring even after the one you love spites you, calls you cursed, tells you that you are what is wrong with the world. You can try and fold yourself into a good girl as much as you like, it will not earn you their love in return.
“Fuck me,” he commands. “Before you drive me insane.” I smile at him. “Are you begging, Thrain Mordsson?”
“Stay,” I breathe. “Stay with me.” “I am with you,”
