“Aye, I can see that.” Isolda’s voice went quiet, almost distant, as her fingers traced the air above an old scar on his ribs—the one that curved beneath his heart like a crescent moon. “This one looks like it should’ve killed ye.”
“It tried.” Ragnar followed her eyes. “Blade went in durin’ a raid when I was a lad—deep enough that the man who gave it tae me thought it would.”
“But ye’re still here.”
“Disappointed?”
Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and bright. “Dinnae be daft.”
Ragnar grunted amusingly. “I let him think it fer long enough tae return the favor. Then stubbornness did the rest.” He glanced at Liv. “And a healer who refused tae let me die, even when I was fool enough tae want tae.”
Liv snorted from across the room. “Are we goin’ tae stand around discussin’ history or stitch ye up, me jarl? Ye dinnae have tae stay,” she then said, turning to Isolda.
Isolda straightened, her chin lifting. “Of course I’ll stay. I’ll help. Tell me what tae dae.”
Both Ragnar and Liv turned to stare at her.
“Me lady—” Liv began.
Isolda’s voice held steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. “Just tell me. I’m nae squeamish.”
“Isolda—” Ragnar’s voice came low, careful.
“What?” She swerved to face him, eyes blazing. “Ye think I cannae handle it?” a bitter laugh escaped her. “If I’m goin’ tae be married tae a Viking who’s determined tae get himself killed,I should ken how tae tend tae him.” She turned toward Liv. “Soteachme.”
Liv studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “All right then. But ye dae exactly as I say, and if ye cannae handle it, ye stop.”
“Aye.”
Ragnar watched as Liv moved to her side, guiding Isolda through the preparation. First, the cleaning—water from the fire, still warm, mixed with crushed yarrow and honey. Isolda dipped clean linen strips into the concoction, wringing it out carefully.
When the cloth touched his raw flesh, Ragnar’s eyes pressed shut. Pain bloomed white and vicious, spreading like fire across the gash.
“Now, take the whisky,” Liv said, handing her a flask. “Pour it directly intae the wound. It’ll burn worse than the yarrow, but ‘tis the best defense against fevered flesh.”
Isolda’s hands were steady as she poured, and this time, Ragnar couldn’t stop the sharp hiss that escaped through his teeth, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the bench.
“I’m sorry,” Isolda whispered, genuine distress flashing in her eyes.
“Dinnae be,” he managed. “Just dae what ye need tae dae.”
Liv threaded the needle—silk thread, fine and strong, waxed to slide through flesh. She showed Isolda the proper angle, the tension needed and the spacing between stiches.
“Small and even now, me lady,” Liv instructed. “Too tight and ye’ll tear the flesh. Too lose and it willnae hold.”
Isolda took a deep breath and watched as Liv pressed the needle to his skin.
The first puncture was sharp and clean, making Ragnar’s jaw clench, but he didn’t move—just kept his gaze fixed on Isolda’s face as Liv worked.
“There,” Liv murmured. “Just like that. Even tension, nae too tight.”
She repeated the motion. Ragnar felt every draw of the needle, the thread sliding through his skin, the pull and gather of flesh being knitted back together.
“How many more?” Isolda asked Liv, holding his hand.
“Three. Maybe four.” Liv handed her a fresh length of thread.
By the time Liv tied off the final stitch, Ragnar’s shoulder throbbed dully—a manageable ache rather than the startling burn from before.
