Ragnar remained in the study, staring at maps that offered no answers. Every possible scenario ended the same way—with Isolda in danger.
He couldn’t send her away. Couldn’t lock her up. But he could make damn sure Douglas never got close enough to try.
“Freyr.”
“Aye?”
“Double the guards on Lady Isolda’s chambers. Station men at every corridor between her rooms and the Great Hall. I want eyes on her movements at all times—but discreet. Dinnae make it obvious.”
Freyr’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Understanding. “How many men?”
“As many as it takes. And Freyr?” Ragnar met his gaze. “I want yer best. Men who willnae hesitate if it comes tae it.”
Freyr nodded slowly. “I’ll see it done.” He turned to leave, then paused. “She’ll notice, ye ken. The lass misses naethin’.”
“Aye.” Ragnar’s jaw tightened. “But she willnae ken why. Nae yet.”
“And when she asks?”
“She willnae.” Ragnar forced himself to believe it. “Isolda’s nae one tae demand explanations when she can figure things out on her own.”
Freyr studied him for a long moment. “Ye care about her.”
“She’s under me protection.”
“That’s nae what I said.”
Ragnar turned back to the map, dismissing him. But Freyr’s words lingered long after his footsteps faded.
Isolda noticed the additional guards before supper.
Two men stationed outside her chamber where there had been one. Another at the corridor’s end who pretended to inspect a wall torch but whose eyes never left her door. A third near the stairwell, positioned with perfect sight lines.
She remembered the messenger that had arrived at the training yard. Watched Ragnar’s expression shift from calm to something lethal. Seen him dismiss everyone—even her and the other women—without explanation.
And now this.
Dead bairns,would rattle anyone.
She’d overheard whispers in the corridors, caught enough fragments of hushed conversations between servants. An attack on a village. People slaughtered. Douglas Graham’s name spoken like a curse.
The same Douglas Graham who’d tried to take her on that rain-soaked road.
Isolda stepped into her chamber and closed the door. Leaned against it, eyes fixed on nothing.
He’s is comin’ fer me.
She wasn’t naive enough to believe otherwise. She was a symbol—a pawn in whatever twisted game Douglas was playing with the Pact. Taking her would hurt Ragnar, hurt the alliance, hurt everything the King’s decree stood for.
She walked to her window and peered over to the battlements where Ragnar and Freyr stood discussing something. She should march out there. Demand answers. Force him to tell her what the extra guards meant.
He’d just tell me I’m safe, that he’s handlin’ it. That I shouldnae worry.
The thought made her chest tighten with something she didn’t want to name. Fear, yes. But also something else—something warm and terrifying that had been growing steadily ever since he’d looked at her in the training yard like she was more than just a political obligation.
Unless I’m just imaginin’ things.
Her traitorous body chose that precise moment to remember their lesson with the dagger—his hand on her waist adjusting her stance so gently, his deep voice rumbling near her ear in a way that made her knees weak.
