“I was goin’ tae—” she managed.
“Didnae seem like ye were plannin’ on daein’ anythin’ of the sort.”
“—before ye burst in here without knockin’ like the savage ye are!”
“I knocked.”
“Nae, ye didnae.”
“‘Tis nae me fault ye were too busy admirin’ yerself tae hear it.” His teasing tone did little to mask the heat still simmering in his eyes. “Though I cannae exactly blame ye. I’d stare at meself too, if I looked likethatin it.”
“Ye’re terrible.”
“So I’ve been told.” He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. “Meet me in the courtyard after ye’ve broken yer fast and dressed more… appropriately. I’ll show ye the library if ye’re done gawkin’ at yerself, that is.”
He left before she could respond, pulling the door closed with a soft click that felt loud in the sudden silence.
Isolda stood alone in her chamber, still wearing Ragnar’s tunic, her skin on fire and her pulse racing. She pressed her palms flat against her cheeks and tried to steady herself.
Something fundamental and undeniable had shifted between them when he’d caught her, when his hands gripped her waist and his voice had gone so rough with desire.
She stared down at the tunic and felt a smile tug at her lips.
What are we daein’?
But deep down, she already knew the answer… that this was becoming exactly what she’d sworn to herself it never would—real.
