Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Snarf Snarf!” Clara cries out as Freja rips out of Maja’s grasp and comes running over to him.
“Where did you find him?” I ask, immediately offering one of my blankets. The numbness is starting to fade, my nerves are prickling as they grow warmer and warmer. My heart is the warmest of all, seeing Aksel take the blanket and wrap the little pig up in it, placing him in front of the fire, crouching beside him. Snarf Snarf’s snout twitches, his eyes curious. He’s alive, he’s safe. We’re both safe.
“He was curled up inside one of the guard booths,” he says. “He was shivering but he didn’t seem as bad off as you were.” He glances at me sharply. “You shouldn’t have run off like that. What were you thinking?”
Oh god. Here comes the lecture.
Maja clears her throat loudly. “Clara, Freja, kom nu.”
Though they’re petting Snarf Snarf and loving on the bundled-up pig, I can tell they’re a bit uncomfortable with the way Aksel is speaking to me, so they immediately go over to Maja who takes them both by the hand.
“Godnat Snarf Snarf,” Freja says.
“Goodnight Papa and Aurora,” Clara says.
“Goodnight girls,” I tell them as Aksel says the same in Danish.
Then Karla appears, dropping off two mugs of fragrant bone broth for us before scurrying away, and then it’s just me and Aksel and the pig. His sharp words still hang in the air and his intense gaze has lifted off my face.
“Well?” he prods me. “You could have died out there.”
“It’s just a little snow.” My voice is weak but I’m stubborn.
He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “A little snow? How long would you have gone running for if I hadn’t found you?”
“I wasn’t running,” I tell him. Doesn’t he get it? “I was looking for Snarf Snarf.”
There’s a small shake of his head, the melted snow dripping off his hair and onto the floor. “I know what it looks like to run. You were running. From what? From me? From this?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. “I just wanted him back. I couldn’t bear for the girls to lose him, for you to lose the girls’ happiness. Why would I run from this? I work here. I went out there so I could continue to work here.”
“You think I’d let you go otherwise?”
I press my lips together and look down at the pig. He seems to be sleeping now despite our conversation which is getting louder by the minute.
“You’d said I’d blame you,” he goes on. “Do you really think that?”
I glance at him warily. For the first time ever, he actually looks hurt. I didn’t think it was possible to hurt him, especially from something like this.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess … I got afraid. I wasn’t sure what you’d do. And I realized how important this job is to me.”
He stares at me for a long, heavy moment. The fire roars, the pig is snoring lightly, the grandfather clock ticks on. The loudest sound of all is my heart.
“Is that the only thing that’s important to you?” he asks, his voice low and rough. “The job?”
“No. The girls are everything to me.” I take in a deep breath. “As are you.”
There. I said it. Part of my truth.
I’m scared to watch his expression but I can’t read it at all. He just stares at me. It’s like he didn’t even hear me.
Or that he doesn’t really care.
Probably the latter.
I look away and start to peel away the blankets, growing hotter now. My clothes underneath are soaked from the melted snow.
“You need to get out of those clothes,” Aksel says, straightening up and walking past me. “Stay there. Drink your broth.”
Yes sir, I think but don’t dare say it. Not now.
Still, I do as he told me, the broth reviving me a little. I’ve drunk half the mug when he returns with one of his flannel pajama sets. He places it on the arm of my chair and then crouches down in front of me and starts unbuttoning my wet cardigan.
I’m breathless. He’s so close to me and he’s taking off my damn clothes. He smells like snow and cardamom, his presence feels as warm as the fire. I can only swallow loudly, my heart beating against my ribcage, powerless to him, to this moment.
“You know my father wore cardigans just like this,” he says quietly as his fingers slowly unbutton just below my breasts.
Oh good. I remind him of his dad.
“Your father must have good taste,” I manage to say, and my voice comes out all squeaky.
“Mmm,” he grunts in reply and continues to work his way to the bottom, frowning as if in deep concentration.
“Do you ever stop frowning?” I ask him softly, and without thinking I reach up and slide my thumb between his brows, smoothing over the deep line. He closes his eyes to my touch, as if surrendering to me. It makes me think he might be as deprived of touch, of connection, as I am.