Between her shoulder blades. The full, flat press of his palm, pressing her down into the grass, his weight behind the hand, her body held flat against the ground with the absolute certainty of something that cannot be moved.
She tried to push up.
Her arms under her. Her hands pressing against the grass. Her back muscles engaging — the fifty years of dragon-slayer strength, the dense, Viking-built power of her.
She did not move.
His hand pressed harder.
"Lay down," he said.
His voice was warm. Not angry. Not threatening. The particular warmth of a man making a simple statement of fact.
"Or," he continued, pleasantly, "I will kill your grandson."
The words landed in the air with the weight of absolute certainty.
Edda went still.
Not her breathing. Her breathing continued — harsh, ragged, her chest pressing against the grass with each inhale. But her body. The tension in her arms. The push against the ground. The intention to rise.
It all stopped.
