Chapter 15

They exchanged few words on the remaining journey to Elin's dwelling. He sensed they were both alone with their thoughts, and Rangvald toiled with his wrestling emotions as he trudged on.

He'd lived so long under the shadow of his past, never believing another would comprehend the part of him he'd cloaked in darkness. Had he at last met someone who could understand and cherish him, no matter his depravity?

A future with a woman like that would be Valhalla itself.

Future?

His heart lurched.

Don't deceive yourself! There can be no future for us! Once Eldberg has restored the ship, I'll be leaving this place, returning to where I belong.

Yet, could he sincerely call Skálavík home?

Yes, he'd been born and raised there, but he'd always been an outsider. That point had been proven when his odious father had passed the role of jarl to Eldberg, though Beornwold had surely known Rangvald to be his kin. The anger and resentment he'd long held onto for that insult swelled in the pit of his belly, like an ulcer that grew with the passing of time.

Regardless of how he felt about Skálavík—the wound of his thwarted childhood and pent-up fury toward his father—he knew he wouldn't be joining the others on the ship. He could no more contemplate abandoning Elin than he'd think of chopping off a limb. Their time together was short, but the bond between them was already strong. Through steadfast compassion and submission, she'd burrowed into his heart, and he was helpless to resist her.

My heart? His head spun.

The kiss they'd shared had been unlike any he'd known. A kiss he hadn't wanted to end. He'd sought only to comfort her, but the gentle caress had filled him with a yearning he could not name—an aching desire as frightening as it was sublime.

As they reached the hut, he clutched the doorway, his legs threatening to give way.

Is this what it means to love?

‘Twas as if he stood on the brink of a precipice, the abyss calling to him, but was he ready to tumble into that unknown?

He squeezed closed his eyes, fighting for composure.

How have I let this happen?

"Rangvald?" She grasped his arm. "Are you ailing?"

"No." He shrugged her off, hating the gruffness in his tone, but unable to help himself. "‘Tis the sun. Nothing more."

He shuffled inside, the tension in his body easing as she closed the door, shutting out the outside world. It was as if the two of them had created something special in her humble home, something that was more easily captured in its privacy.

"I need you again, little Elin." The admission brought him strength as he settled upon the taller of her stools.

"As before, Meistari?" An eager glint shone from her eyes as she rushed to kneel by his feet, a gesture of submission he loved to see.

She'd taken to calling him her master whenever they were alone together. Watching her shows of surrender, he'd come to realize she enjoyed the acts of capitulation.

Meistari.

He never tired of hearing the word.

It was as though the term nurtured him somehow, providing his soul with the sustenance denied when his mother had been mistreated and he'd been powerless to come to her aid. Denied, too, when his father had overlooked him in favor of Eldberg.

Hearing Elin call him so brought a sense of completion.

For a long time, he wondered whether his need to dominate women had been born of those early scarring memories, of hearing his mother's cries as he was ushered away. He would never know how the man would have grown had the boy been better treated and his mother respected rather than used and condemned. But Rangvald had grown to doubt the link.

His proclivities were not rooted in tyranny, the way Beornwold's had been. He enjoyed inflicting pain and humiliation on a willing wench, but the woman had to be just that—consenting to the acts and safe in the knowledge he'd never inflict real harm.

For Rangvald, the distinction was clear, and he sensed Elin was coming to realize the same. Now he'd gone some way to explaining his lurid past, she might forgive his oft-callous approach. Rangvald recognized how Elin came to life under his instruction.

He turned his attention to the woman patiently kneeling before him.

"No, not as before."

Much as he'd relished her hot lips caressing his sac and how delightful she'd looked after he'd decorated her pretty features with his seed, that was not the task he now had in mind.

"I have a new use for you." With one finger, he beckoned her closer.

"What use?" Her expression was one of eager curiosity.

"A more functional one." He smirked at the confusion in her beautiful eyes. "Although no less pleasing than the way you worshipped my testicles."

"Tell me what you desire, Meistari." Her breaths came faster as she waited for his command.

Seeing her so enthralled him. How glorious it was to have found a woman who desired deference as much as he reveled in his domination of her. It was captivating. However, he sensed that his next demand would test her boundaries.

"I'm weary." He sighed, more for effect than any genuine exhaustion.

"You pushed yourself too hard today." She placed a sympathetic hand upon his knee.

"No," he insisted. "‘Tis not that. I only need a little time with my footrest for this fatigue to pass."

Her tempting lips pressed together. Elin was deliciously alluring, even when he toyed with her, or, he should say, especially then. The bewilderment in her gaze was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

"Footrest?" She glanced about the place. "But I have no such furniture, Meistari."

"No, my sweetling." He suppressed the smile that tugged at his lips. "You shall be the footrest."

There was a wonderful, protracted moment when she finally acknowledged his meaning, her mouth parting as she struggled to comprehend the demand.

"Me?" Heat flushed her cheeks, though he couldn't say if her blush was born of embarrassment or disgust.

"Ja." He pointed to where he wanted her. "Remove my boots and turn to one side. I shall rest my feet upon the small of your back. No harm shall come to you because of it."

"No harm perhaps,"—her voice wavered—"but shame! I am no footrest!"

Ah, so it was anger that rushed into her burning cheeks.

"You are for me, little Elin." His tone was even.

There was no need to raise his voice or repeat his instruction. She knew what was expected, and secretly, she probably knew how she'd enjoy the subservience. He wondered if that was the root of her resistance.

Rangvald understood the struggle of coming to terms with one's sexual needs. Accepting that he might be like Beornwold in this most primal way had long troubled him, but Rangvald had worked hard to ensure he was a different man. A better one.

Beornwold had not dominated with assent nor cared for the well-being of anyone else. Rangvald was far from perfect, but he'd only indulged where women yearned for his authority. Elin was no exception to this rule. Of course, with this new act of reverence, he was pushing past another boundary. He'd half-expected the stunned expression that met his request.

"You cannot mean this." She shook her head, but he noticed how she never moved from his feet nor tried to rise to hers. She wanted this then or was at least intrigued enough to try to appease him.

"I do." This time, he allowed himself to smile. "This is your meistari's order."

She blew out a breath, clearly indignant. Nevertheless, she unlaced the pliant boots encasing his feet.

"I can't believe you see me this way," she continued to mutter. "As only furniture."

"I see you as this and much more," he soothed. "My friend, my lover, my submissive, and when the need arises, my footrest."

She swallowed at that, and he allowed her a moment to digest his explanation.

"You don't see me as less than yourself?"

"In no way. You are the other half of me. The softness to my hardness." His pulse gave an unexpected thump.

You complete me, little Elin.

"Then I shall try this thing for you, Meistari." Her grimace showed him she was still uncertain. "But I do not promise to repeat it."

"Good girl." His staff thickened as she maneuvered into place. Having a woman willing to demean herself for him in this way was even more thrilling than he'd imagined.

Gently, he placed the heel of his foot on her back, waiting for her to settle her position before raising the other. Her head fell forward as he stretched out.

"There!" he exclaimed, glorying in the sight of her. How wonderfully she fulfilled the purpose. He could endure any discomfort in his ribs with Elin prostrated before him.

Despite her protests, she seemed to accept her new position with characteristic ease and grace. Naturally, he would have preferred she was naked for the role and hoped, one day soon, he would persuade her to grant him that wish, but for the time being, her performance was flawless.

"I'm not too heavy for you?"

She shifted slightly beneath the weight of his feet. "I can manage… Meistari."

"Good." He wanted suddenly to kiss her again and convey how thankful he was to have her in his life. "This is how it should be, little Elin."

"With me as your footrest?" There was a hint of insolence in her tone.

"With you serving my needs," he corrected. "Whatever they may be and however it pleases me for you to do so." The way his staff throbbed told him he'd have another task for her all too soon, but he ignored its pulsing call, determined to relish his footrest.

"As you wish, Meistari." She said nothing further on the subject, but the way she bit her lower lip made him think she might be enjoying the new role more than she admitted.

Ah, yes, she's discovering her submission with each passing day.

Praise be to Odin!

Only the gods could conjure a union as perfect as this.