“How many more of ye are on me island?”
Cormac’s answer was to spit at his feet.
Ragnar looked at him for one unhurried moment. Then he took a fistful of the man’s collar, pivoted, and reintroduced his face to the wall with a sickening thud.
He stood there a moment in the narrow space, his breathing even, looking at the man on the ground with a flat expression. Then, he let out one slow breath through his nose and turned.
His eyes found her face and stayed there.
It lasted less than a breath.
Then his hands were at her face—broad and warm and slightly rough with dried ash—tilting her chin toward what pale light filtered between the buildings, moving carefully over her cheekbone, her jaw, searching.
His thumb found the graze on her cheek with a steadiness that didn’t quite match the muscle working in his jaw. “How bad?”
“‘Tis naethin’.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
“Isolda.”
His hands came up—both palms framing her jaw, broad and warm and careful. He tilted her face toward the pale light above the alley wall.
“Ragnar, ‘tis all right,” she said quietly, when he’d finished. “I’m still here.”
The tightness in his shoulders eased, but only slightly.
“I’ll survive.”
“I’m aware,” he said, very quietly. “I’d simply prefer ye didnaehavetae.”
He released her slowly, and for a moment neither of them moved. The sounds of the village filled the space between them, the water chain, shouting, the settling groan of cooling timber.
Then he stepped back and reached for her satchel, where it had fallen in the dirt. He turned it over in his hands. The latch had bent where it hit the ground and he began working it back with his thumb—methodical, unhurried, as if this was the only thing in the world that mattered.
This is how it happens.Nae all at once. Just… one wee latch at a time, until ye look up and realize ye’re somewhere ye never meant tae be, and ye find ye’ve nay interest in leavin’.
“‘Tis fine,” she said.
“‘Tis bent.” He didn’t look up.
“I can see that.”
“Then ye can see ‘tisnaefine.” After a few more seconds of careful work, he held it out, the latch perfectly restored.
Isolda took it, and when the backs of his fingers found hers in the exchange, slow and deliberate, heat shot up her arm.
“Proper little wolf, arenae ye,” he said quietly. “Gave ‘em a real fight.”
“I almost scratchedhiseyes out.” She nodded toward the man slumped in the corner.
“Aye.” The corner of his mouth moved—barely, but she caught it. “The screechin’ sounds he made were difficult tae miss, lass.”
“Well, I didnae have any of me wee knives with me, so I had tae improvise.”
Ragnar made a soft, low grunting sound. When he spoke next, his voice was gentle. “Ye held on long enough. That’s all ye needed tae dae.”
“Dinnae sound so surprised.”
“I’m nae.” He held her gaze a moment longer, something unspoken settling in the space between them, heavy and warm.
