Meet the devil, Part 2

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of psychological trauma, childhood abuse, confinement, and implied torture. Reader discretion is advised.

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Could she sit here and wait until he arrived? She looked at the door. Erik had told her she could lock it from the inside for a quick escape. She walked over to check, to reassure herself.

The candles cast faint shadows on the old stones, and simple religious images and frescoes decorated the walls.

Despite its small size, the intimate room contained a large altar, gothic arches, and stained-glass windows that filtered light.

Cool, damp air carried the scent of old wood, stone, and wet moss. The main hall was familiar. This room, however, was new to her.

She practiced opening and locking the heavy door a few times before settling herself behind the altar again. Shaking, she steadied herself.

Voices started echoing from the main hall as more and more people entered, filling the walls with noise. Then, silence, before the church bells rang, until the priest's opening words in Latin, "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," reached her.

She held her breath as she perceived footsteps in the hallway from the church to the chapel.

A door opened, and Sigurd came in. He'd tied his long blonde hair back, and a terrible rage darkened his gaze. He always appeared well-groomed and proper, despite his savage nature.

Perhaps he saw it, but she felt he had never been aware of how deeply she feared him. Her instincts compelled her to stand against him when necessary, and she understood this only fueled his rage further. For no one else dared to challenge him, but she still could not stop.

"Stay on that side," she said as he strode toward the altar. Her voice rang out, echoing through the chamber.

Sigurd followed her instructions; he stood perfectly still, but she saw a malicious smile spread across his face.

He didn't enjoy being told.

"So, you're whoring yourself to the enemy."

"Don't give me ideas, Sigurd, then at least I won't have to marry that disgusting man because my reputation will be ruined."

"You should be grateful that Father and the Church look so down on honor killings, or I would skin you myself, little sister." He added a vile smile.

She had no doubts about that.

"Ha! I'd rather be skinned than marry him. You know me-I have always been good at taking my punishment."

"You are ungrateful and spoiled, and we are all so ashamed of you. Do you know how you make Mama and Åsmund feel when you behave like this?" The furrows in his forehead were bright red.

"Let them be ashamed. I'm guessing you haven't told Knut yet... that the wedding's off?"

He didn't answer the question. He just stood there, glaring at her with contempt. "I've always thought Father was too soft with you."

"And I have always thought you were manipulative to everyone around you. You don't care what he would do to me."

"I wouldn't care if he was the devil himself, Sigrid."

She knew she had pressed the correct buttons.

"I will get to you. You can be certain of that." He said with a deliberate and menacing step in her direction. "And when I do, I'll deliver you to Knut and let him drag you down to his torture cellar, if that's what he desires to do with you."

A cold, uncomfortable feeling spread through her body as he spoke, and she moved left, away from the doorway.

"And if you care for Åsmund, you will come home. For he is sick." He glared at her.

"Is that so?" she said, taken aback. She was unsure if she should trust him. Was he saying this only to lure her into a trap?

"If you could think of someone other than yourself, you would return home."

A loud crash from the main church building broke the silence. The sound was sharp and unexpected, and she understood it was her signal-time was up.

As he turned toward the sound, she made a swift move and left him there. She escaped from the suffocating room, quick and determined.

Carefully, she opened the door leading to the backyard, and with a trembling hand, she pulled it shut behind her. She got it locked just in time before he reached the spot where she had just been standing.

She could hear him pounding on the door as she moved through the narrow passageway, his desperation clear in the violent thuds. If he got to her, she knew he would tear her to shreds right there on the spot.

Inside the main church, there was still loud music and singing, as if nothing had happened.

She ran out of the church, the biting winter air striking her like a blow. The cold seeped through her clothes, and she gasped for breath as though she had only just escaped the suffocating silence of the encounter.

Her entire body trembled with cold and unease as she reached her horse, swung herself up, and directed him toward the forest.

Once within the shelter of the forest, she hesitated, stopped, and leapt off the horse. An impulse forced her to turn back toward the church. She wanted to see Åsmund and her mother one last time before she left.

Hidden behind a large spruce tree, she peered toward the church door, where people spilled out in groups.

It didn't take long before she spotted Ragnar. He stood there, happy and chatting with Thora's friend, the girl with the beautiful hair, and some others. Had he really changed?

Her infatuation with him was easy to see; she tossed her long, shining mane and laughed too loudly while leaning in close to him.

Ragnar himself wore a broad smile, pleased with the attention, though he seemed somewhat restrained. Perhaps it was because his father was somewhere nearby. She didn't appear unsuitable as a wife.

It was a painful reminder of how attractive and sought after he was among the opposite sex.

He exuded an irresistible charm, much like his mother.

Together, the two of them made a beautiful pair. Could this woman bring him happiness? Try as she might, she couldn't think of a single reason to believe otherwise.

A sharp pang stirred deep within her, unmistakable and relentless, as she watched them. It wasn't just the bitter sting of winter's chill cutting into her-it was something far more painful.

Then there was the undeniable chemistry between them. A powerful and intoxicating blend of love and hate, unlike anything she had ever experienced before.

The most dangerous kind of love, her grandmother had once said.

She shifted her focus to Sigurd as he emerged. He looked stressed, with his father and Thorstein trailing behind him, the ever-faithful shadow to Sigurd.

It was almost comical how he trailed Sigurd, mimicking him, as if he had no autonomy of his own.

Åsmund was nowhere to be seen. Could what Sigurd said be true?

Her eyes grew wet as her mother appeared in the crowd.

Were they ashamed of her? Her mother looked so thin and pale.

She made her way back to Fenris, who watched her with a gentle gaze. She stroked his forehead, resting her own head there before she climbed back on him. "I wish I was a horse like you," she whispered to him.

Now, after meeting Sigurd, she understood that time was running out. A decision was necessary.

She knew that decision wouldn't be easy.

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