“Later. Evenin’ maybe. I’ll nae be available in the mornin’.”
Freyr’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
Ragnar didn’t answer, couldn’t name the instinct driving him, the bone-deep certainty that letting her leave his sight would be as difficult as breathing under water.
“Just handle it, would ye?”
Ragnar skulked toward the battlements, needing air, needing space to think.
Below, the village sprawled along the coastline—small, exposed and mostly defenseless if Douglas decided to strike.
This is about protectin’ her, ‘tis all.
But his hand still burned where he’d touched her wrist, and he could still see the surprise in her eyes when he’d said that she mattered.
Tomorrow, she’d walk among his people, and he’d be there—not because he had to, but because the alternative was unthinkable.
The realization settled in his chest like an arrow finding it’s mark.
Aye. Ye’re well and truly done fer, Ragnar Ketilsson.
