The keep’s courtyard still bore evidence of chaos when they arrived—warriors checking weapons, torches already lit against the early dark.
Ragnar lifted her down from the saddle, his hands at her waist, and she let him hold her there for one breath longer than necessary. He led her to their chamber where the hearth still burned low and someone had left fresh water and linens on the table.
She reached for the water pitcher, the light catching across her knuckles and every other thought in his head went quiet. The skin over two knuckles had split open, dried blood crusting in the creases where she’d made fists and fought with everything she had. They were scraped raw and swollen at the joints.
He caught her wrist before she could pull away.
“Show me.”
“‘Tis naethin’, Ragnar.”
He turned her hand over in his, drawing them closer to the firelight. “Sit.”
“If ye say that tae me one more time like I’m a disobedient hound?—”
“Sit.Please.”
She sat and watched with wary eyes as he pulled the chair opposite and positioned it close enough that their knees brushed. He took the basin of clean water and the linen strips and set them between them.
“Ye dinnae have tae?—”
“I ken I dinnae have tae.” He took her right hand and began cleaning the first knuckle with slow, careful strokes, working the dried blood free. “But I’m goin’ tae anyway, and arguin’ will only make it take longer.”
Her voice held the ghost of a laugh, and the sound of it—after everything—loosened something knotted behind his ribs.
The water in the basin turned faintly pink. She hissed when the cloth found the deepest scrape but didn’t pull away.
“Ye fought well,” he said quietly, winding the first strip of linen around her knuckles. Each pass slow. Each layer pressed flat before the next began.
“I did what I had tae. All I could think of, was tae go limp and make it difficult fer them, just tae buy time.”
“That was smart. Goin’ fer the eyes was smarter.” He paused, his thumb tracing the edge of the bandage to check the tension. “’Tis?—”
“Disgustin’?”
“Effective.” His mouth curved.
She wrinkled her nose. “I can still feel it… me nails diggin’ intae…” she trailed off and swallowed hard. “I willnae be daein’ that again anytime soon.”
“Ye will if ye have tae. And I’ll be proud of ye fer it.”
She went quiet at that. He could feel her watching him when his fingers lingered too long against her wrist, the small tremor that ran through her hand when he moved to the left.
He cleaned each scrape with the same unhurried attention.
He then lifted her right hand and pressed his lips to her index finger—just below the first joint, where the linen ended and her bare skin began. The contact was barely anything—a brush of warmth—and the tremor that traveled through her hand and into the silence between them told him everything her words wouldn’t.
Then the second finger. His mouth lingered a half a breath longer, and she made a sound in the back of her throat that she clearly hadn’t meant to make.
“Ragnar—”
“Hush, little wolf.”
He turned her hand slightly, his lips finding the tender curve where her pulse beat frantic and exposed against his mouth, his thumb tracing the line of her palm while he kissed it.
Her breathing had gone shallow and unsteady, and heat pooled low and dangerous in his gut at the sound of it.
He held her hand there, his breath warm against her skin, his eyes finally finding hers.
