“Oh, no.” Sorrow flickered in our bond, pulling uncomfortably on my instincts to step forward and comfort the girl. But before I could process the urge, she pressed her forehead against Bjarni’s bicep and wrapped her arm around his back in an intimate gesture.
“I’m so sorry. They didn’t deserve that.”
Bjarni only responded with a grunt, but he pulled her closer against his side and kept her there as we entered the woods.
I followed them, fighting down the burn of jealousy as I stared at their backs.
It was just instincts—nothing but stupid, primitive instincts that had my body reacting as if Annabel were truly mine.
She was not.
What was between her and I was nothing but a Norn on a power trip deciding to weave our fates together, sprinkled with a healthy dose of hormones. Much as I loathed the thought, I could no longer deny that the prophecy they had blabbed about had to be true, at least to some extent. Why else would I have been compelled to bite down on her slender neck until her skin broke and the most ancient magic in existence bound us together? I certainly had not wanted to.
Sure, in that moment, while I was still dazed from the most pleasurable climax in my immortal life, my knot thick inside her tight heat and the scent of woman in my nostrils, it had seemed like the only choice. Like she was a piece of me and I would never survive being parted from her again.
Reality was… quite a lot less enjoyable.
I glared at the couple ahead of me. I had pushed down my confusion and pain when she had reminded me that this was the Norns’ plan, that there was nothing we could do one way or the other, and that none of us had to like it. Her words rang true, and it made it infinitely easier to cope.
If I was destined not to die in glorious battle, but to instead sacrifice my sanity in an attempt to stop Ragnarök? Fine. I was willing to do that.
But it did not stop the gnawing in my gut as I watched Annabel quietly comfort her other mate. There was such an ease to it, as if they were two pieces of the same puzzle coming together without any of the jagged edges I felt in my own bond to her.
As if her speech about "none of us wanting this" only referred to me.
Just instincts. Just dumb, animal instincts.
My father was right—glory and honor were the only things that mattered in the end. I would have that. I would bring Loki back to stand trial for treason, and I would stop Ragnarök. I was nothing but a means to an end for Annabel, and she was the same to me. What care did I have if the other alphas tied in our web of Fate wanted more from her than access to her powers?
I did not.
We stopped a little ways in, the hum of Annabel’s exhaustion causing Bjarni and I to set up camp without exchanging a word. We did not have to—when it came to the omega’s needs, we shared a direct link.
“Eat. It will help your body keep warm,” I said, throwing some of the weirdly packaged stuff I had scavenged from the shops below the apartment at her. The moment we had stopped to make camp, she had dusted snow off a fallen log and plopped down, arms wrapped around her body and forehead resting against her knees.
She took the offered food—or that is at least what they called it—without protest this time, opening the packaging with a rattle of shaky fingers.
“We cannot risk making a fire if Loki’s close,” I said, feeling the need to explain why I was not doing more to keep her warm. Stupid instincts. “Bjarni will have our shelter ready in a moment.”
“I know," she said, offering me a small smile between bites. “Thank you.”
I grunted an acknowledgement and turned my back, taking a few steps to the outskirts of the small divot we had made our temporary home. Our enemy was close—my focus needed to be on him, not her.
“Annabel, the tent’s up. It’s time to sleep,” Bjarni called from behind me.
She didn’t answer, but I heard her get up from her tree trunk and head toward him. Heavy footfalls came my way, and I turned my head to nod at the blond alpha as he stopped by my side.
“I will take first watch,” I said in response to his unasked question.
“Loki’s hideout is about four hours from here, taking Annabel’s pace into consideration,” he answered. “We won’t gain anything by approaching in the dark—for facing the God of Mischief, daylight is our friend. Wake me before dawn. Once you’ve slept, we’ll head out.”
I nodded again and he turned around and headed back to the tent. And Annabel.
I kept my focus on the quiet woods around us. Only the faintest sounds from the critters who awoke at night disturbed the peace, and even they were dampened by the thick cover of snow.
From the tent, I heard Annabel’s voice. She was murmuring, her pitch soft. Comforting.
My gut knotted as I imagined her arms wrapped around Bjarni, her dark hair tickling his skin as her gentle words soothed the loss of his familiars.
Just instincts.
There was silence again, save for a fox crossing a drift some yards away. It stopped to stare at me for a brief moment before it continued into the night.
Only when Bjarni’s soft snoring reached me some minutes later and my muscles relaxed did I realize I had been tensed in anticipation of them having sex.
I was not entirely sure what I would have done if they had—whether I would have quietly seethed with the knowledge that it was his right as her mate to lay with her whenever he pleased, or if I'd have given in to the primitive instincts roaring at me to rip the imposter off my woman.
Perhaps I'd have taken his place between her thighs.
I ground my teeth, irritated at my cock already rising to half-mast at just the thought of pressing inside the omega again.
Just instincts.
I refocused my senses on the forest around us and my mind on the upcoming battle. The only thing I needed from Annabel was her power.
All that mattered was bringing Loki to Valhalla, and then—hopefully—putting an end to Ragnarök.
Twenty-Three
Annabel
It was such a peaceful scene. Heavy flakes of snow fell from the sky in unending but tranquil flurries, highlighting the thick, white blanket embracing the log cabin in its clearing. Smoke rose from the chimney and warm light glowed through the windows, a perfect postcard in the middle of the apocalypse.
Seasons greetings from the God of Mischief, killer of ravens.
Father of the fucking year.
I clenched my hands into fists, determination steeling me against the cold. I’d changed into the feathered outfit Verdandi had given me back in Jotunheim, partly for the added warmth and partly because it made me feel strong enough to take on what lay ahead.
In the sensation of the subtle leather against my skin lay a reminder of the power that had awakened in me since my paths crossed with my Norse gods. Plus I was pretty sure Verdandi had woven some sort of warming spell into the stitches—though not even a Norn’s magic could fully negate the chill of the Fimbulwinter.
“Ready?” Modi’s voice was a whisper, but I heard my own determination echoed in it.
“Ready,” Bjarni ground out, and my heart gave an achy spasm for him. He’d lost so much, and his pain echoed in our bond. His lifelong friends, his father… and, as silly as it sounded to say of a centuries-old divine being, some of his innocence.