He shifted his gaze from her to the vase on the table and something about that made his neck get tight as it had done several times since her small hand wrapped around his fist in the Dwelling of the Gods.

Princess Sjofn was not known to enjoy pretty things. Princess Sjofn would throw such a bundle out. Definitely her wedding bundle of adela tree twigs, regardless of how precious they were. Princess Sjofn would not stuff them in a sparkling, crystal vase and put them on display.

And Princess Sjofn had not once on the three unpleasant occasions he’d spent time with her smiled at him. Or joked with him. Or shown her ample and unfortunately spectacular cle**age. He didn’t know she had that in her or that she could even wear a dress without looking like her garments were boiled tar poured on her skin.

At the very least not wear them without looking like she was sucking lemons but wear them with grace and float down the aisle toward him with the bearing of her mother, a woman renowned throughout Lunwyn, hell, all of the Northlands, for her refined manner.

He’s so into it, we could probably go sit down or even go out, get a beer and come back and he’d still be at it.

He heard her teasing words and saw her smiling face and he suspected the Winter Princess was up to something.

Something was not right.

He just had no idea what. What he did know was that whatever that woman was up to, he had no intention of falling prey to it.

Her father was king, regardless of the fact that his blood didn’t merit the throne. And King Atticus had offered an immensely handsome dowry. The pull of both, Frey refused for three years.

But King Atticus was anxious for a son so the kingdom would be secure, going to Sjofn’s boy rather than King Atticus’s brother, Baldur, who ruled Middleland, the country to the south. Baldur was a known tyrant and a twat, even Atticus detested him, everyone did.

This last, more than the trunks of Sjofn ice diamonds, gold and the land Atticus had settled on him for strapping him with his man-woman daughter was the reason why Frey had finally agreed.

There was not anything Frey would not do for Lunwyn, including marrying a guenipe even though he was urged strongly not to do so by powers he should likely not ignore.

It was that and the fact that the blood of Drakkar would sit the throne.

His son would be king. And Frey wouldn’t have to wage war to dethrone Baldur or Baldur’s own woman-man son should one of them succeed Atticus. Not to mention, Frey wouldn’t have to settle his own seat on Lunwyn’s throne after he defeated Baldur.

That would be a pain in the arse. Absolutely.

Thaddeus whistled his surprise through his teeth at the sights he beheld taking Frey out of his thoughts.

Frey ground his.

Then he moved away from the cabin, soundless through the wood to where they had left their horses and Thaddeus followed.

Without a word, they swung into their saddles but Frey didn’t ride. He sat on his mount, Tyr, staring at his cabin, smoke serenely drifting from four chimneys, a golden, cheerful glow shining from the windows, his bloody wife asleep and dreaming of gods knew what.

Frey glared at the house feeling something unsettling then he looked at the windows.

They were opened, the curtains not closed to shut out the cold.

His brows drew together.

The woman had it in her to clean and build fires; this was a surprise and an annoying one. But Sjofn, Winter Princess, who had every whim catered to but who clearly demonstrated she had the wherewithal to fend for herself, would therefore definitely draw the curtains to ward off the cold. Even if she had been reclining, defeated, in his filthy hunting cabin, being Lunwynian, she would know to close the curtains to shut out the cold.

Thaddeus spoke, taking Frey from these thoughts.

“I must say, Frey, I wouldn’t give a gods damn that one preferred tart. That was my new bride, she’d be tasting my c**k either straight through her mouth or because I was thrusting it so deep, she’d savor it in her throat,” Thaddeus remarked quietly at his side.

“Mm,” Frey murmured.

Frey felt his friend’s eyes. “You don’t agree?”

“I’ve no idea where that mouth has been. Or that cunt,” Frey replied.

“Must say, speaking true, I wouldn’t care about that either,” Thaddeus returned.

Frey thought of her hair all over the armrest, her smile, her cle**age.

Then he thought of her fervent return of his kiss after they were wed, a return that made his blood heat and his c**k begin to get hard as her tongue played hungrily with his and her arms glided around his neck, holding him tight. It wasn’t a passable kiss. It wasn’t even good.

What it was, was the best embrace by far he’d ever shared.

Something else that did not sit right for that was something else that was not Princess Sjofn.

He’d been infuriated at her drunken admission years ago when King Atticus had started his campaign to win Frey Drakkar as his son-in-law. He’d been infuriated because she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and he wanted her the instant he saw her even, maybe especially because she was wearing breeches.

His new wife had a spectacular arse and even better legs.

Then he found out what she was.

Frey had no issue with guenipes.

But he wanted no wife who did not want him, no matter her beauty.

But, after that kiss, after she’d demonstrated how very well she could pretend, Frey had to admit, Thaddeus’s words held merit.

“The ship awaits, Thad,” Frey muttered, putting an end to their short conversation.

“Indeed, Frey,” Thad muttered back.

They turned their horses, touched heels to flanks and they were away.

Chapter Five

Welcome Home

Six weeks later…

“Woo hoo!” I cried, feeling the rush of cold air coming in behind me as someone entered the pub.

I ignored it to crow my victory, my arms straight up over my head and I grinned at the men sharing the table with me before I dropped my arms and leaned in, pulling the pile of coin toward me.

“Are you sure I taught you this game two short weeks ago, Princess Finnie?” Laurel grumbled at me from my right, watching his money come toward my big pile.

“Mm hmm, swear,” I nodded, turned my head, lifted my hand to cross my heart and smiled big at him, “cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Right,” Ulysses muttered from my left and I swung my smile at him to see him smiling back showing me he held no ill-will. Then again, we were playing for what was, essentially, pennies so it wasn’t like they owed me the notes on their cottages.