The way she looked at me like I was something worth trusting.
Gods.
That last part nearly undid me.
I moved automatically when she tried to walk away, stepping sideways to block her retreat before I consciously realized I was doing it.
It shouldn’t have mattered this much.
I knew better than to get my head turned by some female.
Especially not after Ingrid.
The old humiliation curled ugly inside my ribs at the memory.
Young.
Stupid.
Hopelessly devoted to someone who had never once looked at me the way I’d looked at her.
My brother Erik’s mate.
Even now the memory tasted bitter.
Back then I’d mistaken obsession for destiny. Convinced myself the violent ache in my chest meant something eternal.
When Ingrid chose Erik instead, my control fractured so badly my family—Ivan especially—shipped me across realms to Runevald before I tore apart half the lunar observatories in Asgard.
That was the official reason I was here.
Control.
Discipline.
Recovery.
Usually, it consumed every waking thought I had. How to reclaim my power.
How to stabilize my magic before I lost my birthright entirely.
How to fill the gnawing void inside me before it swallowed what remained of my sanity.
But standing there in my cluttered quarters looking at Amrin wrapped in my hoodie?
None of that felt important.
Not compared to her.
Not compared to finding out who had hurt her badly enough to make her fear something as harmless as a moth.
I wanted names.
Faces.
I wanted blood.
The possessive rage that surged through me was immediate and vicious enough that a low growl vibrated through my chest before I could suppress it.
