Nena by Ann Boelter (red white royal blue txt) 📗

a Teclan, but the virgin daughter of Meln.” He whistled between his teeth and shook his head as if he still could not believe it. “I don’t think you can imagine what they would pay.

“The Teclan may be respected, Jarl, but they are not loved. Many men have lost things at the ends of their spears and swords. Many who would relish the opportunity to get back at them.” He nodded at Nena. “She would provide a most enjoyable way to do so.”

Piltor mistook Jarl’s silence for consideration. “She will be as well-cared for as any slave ever was—to ensure her longevity, of course. And she will be trained,” he murmured, lost briefly in his own imaginings. “Perhaps as good as Altene. If you would like, I could include in our negotiations a free night with her, or two, on your next visit to our lands. I can guarantee I will include at least one for myself. Though not her first night,” he sighed wistfully. “I could not come close to being able to afford that.”

Piltor reached out toward her breast as if to sample the quality of the wares.

Nena shrank away, sure now that a passage north and a lifetime in a frozen hell were much preferable to spending any time with this vile man. She twisted her body out of his reach to the full extent of her bindings, unable to heed her earlier council to stay still for the lion and not excite the predator’s urges. The slaver only smiled and stepped closer.

Nena stared down horrified as his hand closed the distance between them. His energy, she sensed, was dark and twisted—as alive as Jarl’s had been when he was close. But unlike Jarl’s that was warm and vibrant, the Worick’s energy was cold and wriggling. Any second his hand would touch her, and she would feel the cool slime she had only imagined before. So focused was she on his fingertips, she did not see Jarl moving across the tent toward them. Out of nowhere, his hand slapped down on Piltor’s wrist, seizing it and jerking it away.

The Worick grunted in pain. Jarl’s eyes were the color of dark slate, and his face bore an expression Nena had never seen before—a cold hard fury she had not known him capable of. She could see the muscles of his forearm bulging as he applied more pressure to the man’s wrist. She wondered if at any moment she would hear bones breaking. She hoped so.

But then Jarl released him, a smaller version of the false tense smile back on his lips. “As I said before, she is not for sale.” His eyes glittered dangerously, challenging the man to ask again. But Jarl had made his point. The Worick only nodded as he rubbed his wrist.

“I stand corrected, Jarl. Perhaps everything does not have a price.”

The negotiations after that were brief. The price the Worick offered for the remaining items seemed low to Nena, but she had no way of knowing. As he moved toward the tent opening to leave, he paused and took one last lingering, appreciative look at her before he exited. Nena again felt the slimy tracks of his eyes where they touched her. Jarl bristled. Then, in a flash of red silk, the Worick was gone.

Tryggr entered soon after, an expectant smile on his face. “Well? How did it go? Will we soon be rich men? Piltor seemed to leave in a twist; did you drive a hard bargain?”

Jarl relayed the offered price.

“What?” Tryggr said incredulous. “That’s impossible.” He shook his head while the number slowly sank in, then exploded. “What the fuck happened in here? It should have been twice that, at minimum, and you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jarl said.

“Doesn’t matter? Yes, Jarl, it does matter. Acquiring wealth is the whole purpose of our little expedition. We don’t come all this way to enjoy the weather. What happened? Did you insult him?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? Not exactly?” Tryggr blustered. “What does that mean? You only insulted him a little?”

“I may have almost broken his wrist,” Jarl admitted.

“Broken his wrist? For what?”

“He was sticking it where it did not belong.”

Tryggr glanced at the chest full of gems, then followed Jarl’s eyes to Nena.

“Her?” he asked, his voice very low. “Do not tell me it is because of her that he offers half. Do not tell me that my labors for the past months are now worth half because of some Dor bi....”

“Tryggr!” Jarl cut him off. “Mind your next words.”

The two men stared at each other in hard silence.

“So that is the way of it then?” Tryggr asked, his jaw clenched.

“It is,” Jarl said with finality.

Tryggr turned without another word and left the tent.

Jarl paced the tent like a caged animal, then slammed his fist down on the table so hard the plates and untouched cups of wine jumped and rattled. He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a long look. Then he, too, left the tent, leaving Nena alone with her racing thoughts.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She could not stay here a moment longer. She struggled against the overwhelming urge to scream and jerk wildly against the cuffs until her wrists were bloody. She had to escape. The slaver was no hope. Jarl had made it clear he was not going to ransom her. The port loomed ever closer. She was out of options.

THE NEXT MORNING, Jarl called his higher ranking men to the tent to discuss the slaver’s offer and make plans. Tryggr was present, and though he pointedly ignored her, he and Jarl seemed to have come to some understanding.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that the Worick’s offer was half of what we expected,” Jarl said to the assembled men. “Even with the Curse, we’ve made very good time on this trip and are well ahead of schedule. There is plenty of time to make an additional short sweep to the east, here.” He