“Are ye hurt?”
She flinched at his voice but didn’t pull away.
“Lass.” He kept his voice low. “Are ye hurt?”
“I…” her breath hitched. “I dinnae ken… I dinnae think?—”
His hands found her shoulders, gently. The wet wool of her cloak was cold beneath his palms, but under that, he could feel warmth. Life. Her pulse hammering like a trapped bird’s wings. He had to check her for injuries, but his hands felt suddenly too large, too rough.
Made fer killin’. Nae fer… this.
His hands moved carefully, checking her arms for breaks, her shoulders for dislocations. Dark bruises were already blooming on her throat where someone had grabbed her—finger-shaped marks that made something violent and possessive twist behind his ribs.
Whoever did that is dead now.
It didn’t feel like enough.
“Yer hands.”
She held them toward him wordlessly, and he turned them over. Mud caked under her nails. Bloody scrapes ran along her palms. Bruises splotched on her wrists.
The sight of those marks on her perfect, pale skin threatened the careful control he’d spent years building, brick by brick.
“Can ye stand?”
She nodded, but when she tried to get up, her legs buckled beneath her like a newborn foal’s. Ragnar caught her before she could fall, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her against his chest.
“Easy now.Stille.” The Norse slipped out—an old habit from childhood, his mother’s voice in his ear when he’d wake from night terrors. “I have ye. Ye’re safe.”
“Safe? Ye just killed four men before me eyes.
“Aye.”
For a moment she just stood there encircled in his arms, her forehead pressed against his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Ragnar stood very still, one arm around her waist keeping her upright, the other coming up almost of its own accord to rest against the back of her head. She barely reached his shoulder, this slip of a woman who’d tried to outrun all of them.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, rain streaming down her face, her eyes blazing even through the fear and exhaustion. “Why did ye come fer me?”
“Because ye’re mine.” He said, keeping his voice flat. “By royal decree. By the Pact. And I protect what’s mine.”
Something flickered in her eyes—anger, maybe? But she didn’t pull away from where his arm still held her, didn’t try to run, even though the road stretched dark and empty behind her.
“Even if what’s yers daesnaewanttae be?”
“Aye,lítil úlfr.”
“What daes that mean?”
“Little wolf.” His mouth curved slightly. “Seems fittin’ fer a lass who bites her attackers.”
They stared at each other, rain streaming down between them, the storm swallowing all sound except their breathing.
Then, Freyr’s voice shattered the moment. “Ragnar. We need tae move.”
He glanced at Freyr, who’d appeared from the trees leading two horses, their coats dark and streaming in the rain. “How far tae the cove?”
“Half an hour if we ride hard,” Freyr said, his eyes flicking to the bodies scattered across the muddy road, then to Isolda with suspicion. “Maybe less.”
