Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
My free hand trembled as it moved under my thigh and behind me, finding that most private place that I’d only touched in the shower at Aksel’s command. The position was awkward, degrading—I had to shift in the chair, tilting my hips to give myself access while keeping my legs spread wide.
My finger circled that forbidden entrance, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. The shame of doing this in front of them all—in front of my husband who watched with dead eyes, in front of these monsters who were destroying our country—made me want to disappear. But my body had been too well trained. The tip of my finger pressed inside, and I gasped at the intrusion.
“Deeper,” Horakovsky grunted, not pausing in his assault on Katya’s bottom. “All the way in, like a good little slut.”
I pushed my finger deeper, feeling that strange fullness that I’d only experienced alone in my shower. The sensation combined with my other hand still working my clit sent me spiraling toward another climax I didn’t want but couldn’t stop.
Horakovsky’s thrusts grew more erratic, and with a deep growl, he buried himself completely in Katya’s abused bottom. She sobbed as he filled her, her whole body shaking. Almost simultaneously, Brenteuil grabbed Mila’s head with both hands and held her down on his length as he came, her throat working to swallow everything he gave her.
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, pulling out of Katya and tucking himself away as casually as if he’d just finished a handshake. Katya slumped against the chair, trembling, while Mila remained on her knees, a thin line of fluid at the corner of her mouth that she quickly licked away.
“Well then,” the Russian said, moving to the conference table and picking up a pen. “I believe we’re ready to sign. Nothing like a bit of honesty between partners to seal a deal, wouldn’t you say?”
CHAPTER 11
Aksel
Over the days following the Synergy Group meeting, I unfortunately had no opportunity to train Lorna remotely or even to get a readout on what had occurred in the room with Horakovsky and Brenteuil. The silent, ongoing intelligence war between the Groupe Synergistique, as they were known in their Gallic homeland, and the Sons of Odin had reached a delicate point. Since the first reception at Brenteuil’s headquarters, they had come up with some new countermeasure—our surveillance micro-drones couldn’t currently penetrate their strongholds undetected. We’d had hundreds of our tiny robotic minions zapped out of the air over the past few days. I would have to rely on Lorna’s memories to analyze the occasion, once I could make contact.
Takken, however, seemed to have been spooked by something at the meeting—or by some other, unknown factor. He stayed very close to home for the rest of the week and through the weekend. I couldn’t risk Lorna’s safety. At least I was able to keep tabs on her via the devices I’d previously gotten into the prime minister’s apartments, and make sure that despite Takken’s obvious rage at his wife, he knew better than to risk a scandal by taking it out on her.
In the meantime, I flew back to Rouen and occupied myself with research in the Sons of Odin’s archives. Lorna’s stunning rate of progress in her skills as a vǫlva had fascinated me, and I felt the need to see if I could find a reason—or at least a precedent.
I descended into the ancient vaults beneath our sanctuary, my footsteps echoing off limestone walls that had witnessed a thousand years of our brotherhood’s secrets. The archives stretched before me in endless rows of carved wooden shelves, each one containing decades of meticulous records. The familiar scent of old vellum and binding glue filled my nostrils as I made my way to the section I sought—the chronicles of the völur.
My fingers traced along leather spines until I found what I was looking for: a series of journals from the nineteenth century, when the Sons of Odin had first begun systematically documenting the training of female seers. The Old Norse script came easily to my eyes, though few modern scholars could have deciphered it.
I pulled three volumes from the shelf and carried them to my usual reading alcove, where a single lamp cast warm light over a desk scarred by centuries of use. The first journal, dated 1847, contained the observations of Brother Magnus Thornsson.
The girl Astrid shows remarkable progress, I read, translating the archaic dialect in my head. After only three sessions of stern discipline and masterful use with the tól, she ascends to the tree with clarity that our most experienced völur required years to achieve. I suspect her bloodline carries the old power more strongly than most.
I made a note on my tablet, then continued reading. Hours passed as I worked through the journals, cross-referencing names and bloodlines, looking for patterns. It wasn’t until I reached the third volume that I found something truly intriguing.