“Ye’re goin’ tae rip it clean out if ye keep at it like that.”
“I dinnae recall askin’ fer commentary.”
The bed creaked. She heard his bare feet tapping on the stone floor, felt the air shift as he moved behind her.
“Let me.”
It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a request, either. It lived somewhere in between, the way most things did with Ragnar—offered like a choice, delivered like a certainty.
She let go of the brush.
He started at the ends, working through the smallest tangles first with a patience that bordered on reverence. His fingers separated sections carefully, holding the hair above the knot so the pull didn’t reach her scalp.
“I’ll admit ye’re good at this,” she said, watching his reflection. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his jaw set with focus.
He freed a stubborn knot and moved higher. “I’ve untangled enough rope and riggin’ tae ken the principle—same patience, same trick. Ye just work from the outside in, never force the center.”
“Ye’re comparin’ me hair taeship rope,now?”
“I wouldnae dare.” He worked another section loose, his knuckles brushing the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh raced down her arms. “Though if it helps, theHuldra’shair was said tae be finer than any rope ever spun. The skalds wrote that the threads of it could bind a god intae submission.”
“Is that so.”
“Mmhm.” The brush moved through a long, smooth section without catching.
He set the brush down on the shelf and gathered her hair in both hands, smoothing it over her shoulders. It fell in dark waves, tamed at last, and his palms lingered at the curve of her neck.
“There.” He set the brush down and smoothed the dark waves over her shoulders. “Done.”
She turned to face him, and the words she’d been preparing—something sharp, something deflecting—dissolved as her eyes flicked upward and she saw his hair. It had grown past his jaw now, the dark blond gone shaggy and unruly in a way that made him look less like a jarl and more like the savage raider chieftain he’d descended from. It fell across his forehead, half-obscuring one eye, and the ends were rough and split from wind and salt.
“Sit down,” she said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Yer hair.” She reached up and tugged a strand that had fallen across his cheek. “‘Tis growin’ wild. Ye need it braided back before it gets intae yer eyes durin’ a fight and gets ye killed, and I willnae have that on me conscience.”
His entire body went rigid. “Nay”
“Ragnar—”
“I dinnae need?—”
“One stray gust in a skirmish, it falls across yer eyes, ye get stabbed with the pointy end of somethin’.” She folded her arms. “So, sit. Down.”
The stillness that came over him was different from his usual composure.
“Ragnar.” She softened her voice because she understood what it cost him to let someone close enough to touch the parts he’d kept sealed for years. “Let me dae this fer ye. Please.”
He held her gaze for three long heartbeats before he walked to the edge of the bed and sat.
He kept his back straight, his hands braced on his thighs, every line of his body taut.
Isolda moved behind him and gathered his hair in her hands.
It was thick and coarse between her fingers, the dark blond lightened at the ends by wind and salt. She began to separate it into three sections, her fingers working from his forehead back, and felt the muscles in his shoulders lock.
She kept the weave tight. The first pass was easy. The second pulled slightly, and his shoulders locked.
