Bracing his body, he walked in.
The cold was blessedly violent.It stole his breath, seized his muscles, and drove the heat from his skin in an instant.He submerged himself to the chest, then lower, until the water lapped at his shoulders and the current pulled at his body like it wanted to take him somewhere dark and quiet and forgetful.
He stayed under until his lungs burned.
When he surfaced, gasping, the world had gone still.The chirping of birds had died, and the wind had hidden, leaving only the sound of his own laboured breaths.
It wasn't enough.
He ducked under again.Held longer this time.Let the cold seep into his bones, his blood, and the places where heat had taken root and refused to die.
Disgraceful.
The thought surfaced with him, sharper than the cold.He had woken in a tangle of sweat-damp furs, his body rigid with a fierce, aching tension that had become the bane of his existence.The dream had been too vivid—he could still taste it, still feel it, the line between fantasy and memory blurred beyond recognition.The scent of hemlock lingered in his nose, though she was nowhere near.
Could not be near.
Was days away, in a palace full of vipers; could his body truly not understand that?
He tried to deal with the physical manifestation of his weakness.A few passes of his own hand spilled into the darkness with a stifled groan that was equal parts relief and self-loathing.
It solved nothing.
He submerged again.
This time, he stayed under until his body screamed for air, until his vision darkened at the edges, until desperation clawed at his chest demanding release.Only then did he surge upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.
He was the Great Khan of the Valthorne.A blade of Ukhel's will.His focus was to be on conquest, on the security of his people, on the wars that waited for him beyond this quest.
Not on her.
He rose from the stream, water streaming from his hair, his shoulders, and the hard planes of his chest.He braced his hands on his knees, head bowed, breath steaming into the cold air.The heat in his blood had been subdued forcibly by sheer physical shock.
But the deeper craving, the one too deep to dig out of his heart, burned undimmed.
"Nine lashes."
Two lashes for the night past.Another for the morning's humiliating surrender.Nine in total, and counting.The debt to his god was mounting into an unpayable sum.
How many strokes of the horsehair cord would it take to flay this new, wretched need from his spirit?
The forest gave its answer in the form of an exquisite pair of golden eyes looking up at him from underwater.Ragnar stilled, the image rippling and translucent, simply a reflection of a woman who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t sure what else to do but laugh.From dreams to reality, she continued to haunt him.
Her appetite was simply ravenous, unwilling to leave him even a moment’s rest.
Nyraxa Varkesh lounged on a pile of cushions, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, her kohl-rimmed eyes gleaming with amusement.She had removed her bo?, as she always did in private company, and her sharp features were arranged in an expression similar to boredom.
"Great Khan," she drawled as Ragnar made his way into the central tent."You're late.Did the stream prove more entertaining than our company?"
Ragnar ignored her, crossing to the map table where Caius Zarnok stood, examining their position with mild irritation.The white-haired Khanvaari glanced up, his pale grey-blue eyes flickering with contempt.
"The water here is cold, I trust?"Caius scoffed."I suppose it must help, but Kemet is a better place for a bath."
Thane stood near the tent's entrance, arms crossed.He had not spoken more than necessary since their arrival, and the set of his shoulders suggested he was still waiting for his Khan to come to his senses.
Ragnar looked at the three of them—his Khanvaaris, his council, his most trusted weapons.Four of the eight, gathered in one tent, waiting on General Varok.
