“Once more,” he said roughly.
“Och… Ragnar… aye,aye!” she cried out his name with so much passion that he nearly broke the bed in half.
Isolda threw her head back, crying out with such genuine-sounding pleasure that for one dangerous moment, he forgot it was all pretend, forgot she was terrified—forgot everything except the sound of his name on her lips and the way every muscle in his body had gone taut with desire he couldn’t act on.
Then, silence fell. They stood there, both breathing hard, staring at one another across the charged space.
Ragnar’s heart hammered and heat blazed through him like wildfire, his body half-mad with need that had nowhere to go, no outlet, no release.
“That should…” he cleared his throat and forced his hands to release the bed. “That should dae it.”
“Aye.” Her voice was barely above a breathless whisper.
He seized the pitcher of water and drank deeply, needing something—anything—to cool the fire burning underneath his skin.
When he turned back, Isolda had retreated to the far side of the room, putting as much distance between them as the chamber allowed.
“We should try tae get some sleep.” He gestured toward the bed. “’Tis been a long day.”
“Sleep.” She looked at the bed as if it might swallow her hole. “Both of us? Taegether?”
“I’m nae sleepin’ on the ground.” At her expression, he added, “I’ll stay on me side. Ye stay on yers.”
“And ye’ll nae––”
“I’ll nae touch ye. Unless ye ask me tae. Ye have me word.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
Ragnar stayed fully clothed except for his boots, as did Isolda. They maintained a careful gap between them that could have fit another person as they settled into the bed.
The candles had burned low. Outside, the wind had died, but inside, silence pressed heavy.
Ragnar stared at the ceiling beams, trying to force his body to relax. Trying not to think about how the mattress dipped slightly toward her weight, how he could smell lavender in her hair—that same scent that had been driving him mad all day. Or about how close she was, closer than any woman had been to him in years, and yet entirely untouchable.
“Ragnar?” Her voice came soft in the darkness.
“Aye?”
“Why did ye agree tae this? Tae the marriage, I mean.”
“Nay one refuses the King and lives.” He kept his voice flat. “And me clan needs this peace.”
“So ye sacrificed what ye wanted fer them.”
“‘Tis nae a sacrifice when ye never wanted it in the first place.” The words came out harsher than he intended. “I never planned tae marry, Isolda. Never wanted a wife tae worry about, tae protect, tae...” He trailed off.
“Tae care about?”
The perception in those words hit too close and before he could stop it, or think better of it, the confession tore from somewhere deep within him.
“I watched me faither die when I was fourteen. He was badly wounded in a raid—naethin’ anyone could dae. But he was still alive when our enemies closed in.” Ragnar’s throat tightened. “He asked me tae end it. Tae give him an honorable death rather than let them torture him fer information.”
Isolda’s sharp intake of breath was audible in the quiet.
“So, I did it. Put me blade through his heart quick and clean. Held him while he died.” The words felt like stones in his mouth. “And then I became jarl, because there was nay one else. Every decision I’ve made since has been about protectin’ this clan. And I learned that day that carin’ about people—lettin’ them matter—means eventually watchin’ them die. Or bein’ the one who has tae choose.”
“So ye chose nae tae care,” she said quietly.
