He’s still watching me, like I’m the only thing in this whole goddamn tent worth seeing. And maybe I am.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide behind the mask like the rest of them.

He just stares. Calm. Knowing.

Like he’s waiting for something.

Like he’s testing me.

Good. Let him.

Let him watch. Let him wonder. Let him try to understand what kind of creature I really am.

I’ve already spilled enough blood to fill a river tonight. And I’m not done.

Not even close.

So I smile and sway, blades flashing at my hips, and let the tent swallow me again.

He came to watch?

Then he better fucking enjoy the show.

Indie disappears back into the shadows, hips swaying, already sizing up her next victim.

And me?

I stay where I am, dripping and smiling, eyes locked with the stranger wrapped in fur and shadow.

He doesn’t break eye contact. Not for a second.

And neither do I.

chapter four

bjorn

I watched her ride him.

Watched her grind, moan and slice him open the second he came, like a goddess sitting on the pulse of a dying world. And gods, I wanted to tear the flesh from my bones just to bury myself inside her.

Ma petite mort. My little death. She is both the salvation and my sin.

Now she’s soaked in blood, glowing like a Valkyrie high on chaos, and I swear by the end of the night I’ll fuck her so deep she’ll be chanting the old gods’ names through split lips and broken breath.

But not yet.

Not until the gods are full.

Not until I’ve given them every drop they’ve asked for.

Because this?

This is my night.

My fucking altar.

My purpose.

And the gods?

They are starving.

I stalk across the altar, barefoot and blood-slick, my chest rising and falling in heavy panted breaths. My breath steams in the air like a dragon’s snarl, and my axe hums at my back, heavy and patient, waiting for the next throat.

The firelight flickers across a fresh offering.

A woman. Red-branded. Naked. Kneeling.

She’s already trembling, but not with fear.

No, no.

With purpose. With hunger. With holy, filthy need.

Her thighs glisten, lips parted, pulse thudding like a war drum against her throat. She came here like so many others, marked in red, begging to be devoured by the gods.

And I?

I am their jaws. Their blade. Their holy fucking fire.

I fist a handful of her thick ebony hair and yank her head back, forcing her gaze to mine. She looks up at me like I’m carved from the stones of Uppsala itself, like I’m her god.

And for tonight?

I fucking am.

“So,” I growl, voice low and thick, “another desperate offering. A wretched little whore come crawling for a place in the eyes of All-father.”