I rock my hips against the floor, thighs clenched, body singing. If I could come just from this, I would. Hell, maybe I already am.

His fingers tangle in my hair again, tighter now, possessive. That rough, Viking grip that makes my spine arch and my stomach twist.

I’ve got blood on my tongue, spit on my chin, and his name etched into my bones.

And gods help me⁠—

I never want to leave this place.

“You want to be good for me?” he rasps, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.

I nod. Big eyes. Swollen lips. Devoted little monster.

“Then make it unforgettable,” he snaps. “Make the gods jealous.”

I do.

I give him everything.

And then⁠—

His breath catches. That shift. That edge in his voice.

“Behind you,” he mutters. “Don’t move.”

I freeze.

Because I know that tone.

I know it like I know the runes carved into his flesh.

Danger.

Not for me—no. Never me.

But someone’s watching.

And it’s not just a someone.

It’s him.

I tilt my head just enough to peek past his hip.

And there he is.

That man.

The one in the fur.

Black band. No mask. Still as death and twice as pretty.

Just standing there—watching.

Again.

My spine tingles. My stomach flips.

And I fucking purr around Bjorn’s cock.

When I finally pull off, my mouth wet, lips swollen, I lick the taste of him from my teeth like it’s bloodwine and grin like the damn lunatic I am.

“He was watching earlier too,” I murmur. “Didn’t blink when a man got his guts turned into garlands.”

Bjorn’s eyes narrow. Real slow.

“I saw him in the blood tent,” he growls. “Didn’t move. Thought he was a ghost.”

We lock eyes.

“You didn’t imagine him.”

He looks again, past me, over my shoulder.

Watching the stranger.

That unshakeable thing with a face carved out of old secrets and eyes like storm clouds ready to burst.

He’s not aroused.

Not scared.

Not even trying to hide how fascinated he is.

“He’s not afraid,” I whisper.

“No,” Bjorn agrees, voice dark with something that sounds suspiciously like awe. “He’s one of us.”

Then his fist tightens in my hair—hard—and he drags my mouth back to him like a god claiming tribute.

“Let him watch,” he snarls, voice low and brutal. “Make it fucking worth his while. Show him what a real Valkyrie looks like on her knees.”

I whimper. And gods, it’s not even for show.

“Say it,” he demands, voice jagged with lust and pride. “Say what you are.”

I flick my tongue along his tip, slow and teasing, like I’m branding it with sin.

“Your little death,” I breathe. “Ma petite mort. Your filthy little slut. Yours. Always yours.”

“Then take what’s yours,” he growls.

So I do.