ASTRID’S POV

The road to the royal court was nothing like the peaceful paths around Ragnar’s stronghold.

Every mile we traveled felt more dangerous than the last, as if we were moving deeper into enemy territory with each step our horses took.

The trees seemed to lean in closer, their branches reaching across the path like gnarled fingers trying to snatch us from our mounts.

I rode beside Ragnar, my mare keeping pace with his massive warhorse. Behind us came our small guard – only six men, handpicked by Jovna for their loyalty and skill. It wasn’t much protection if we ran into serious trouble, but Ragnar had insisted on keeping our party small.

Too many warriors would look like a threat to the king, he said. Too few would make us easy targets for bandits.

The balance between those two dangers was razor-thin, and I could see the tension in every line of Ragnar’s body as we rode. His hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, and his eyes constantly scanned the road ahead and the forest on either side of us. He was expecting trouble, and his wariness was making me nervous too.

We had been traveling for three days now, stopping at small villages and roadside inns when we needed rest or supplies.

Each place we visited felt more hostile than the last. The people would stare at us with suspicious eyes, whispering among themselves when they thought we couldn’t hear.

Some recognized Ragnar – I could see it in the way they stepped back when he approached, the fear that flickered across their faces.

But it wasn’t the kind of respectful fear I had seen in his own stronghold. This was different. This was the fear people felt when they thought they were looking at a dead man walking.

“How much further?” I asked, keeping my voice low so the guards behind us wouldn’t hear.

“Two days, maybe three if the weather turns bad,” Ragnar replied. His voice was steady, but I could hear the underlying tension. “We’ll reach the king’s lands by tomorrow evening.”

I nodded, trying to project confidence I didn’t feel. The closer we got to our destination, the more convinced I became that we were riding into a trap.

But there was no turning back now. Ragnar was right – refusing the king’s summons would be even more dangerous than answering it.

That afternoon, we stopped at a larger town than the previous villages we had passed through.

The inn was more substantial too, with multiple stories and a stable large enough for our horses. But even here, I could feel the weight of watching eyes as we dismounted and entered the common room.

The innkeeper was a nervous man with thinning hair and hands that shook slightly as he served us. He kept glancing at Ragnar like he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing the famous Wolf of the Northern Seas in his establishment.

“We’ll need rooms for the night,” Ragnar said, placing a handful of silver coins on the wooden bar. “And feed for our horses.”

“Of course, my lord,” the innkeeper stammered. “Right away. I’ll have my best rooms prepared for you and your lady.”

He scurried away, shouting orders to his servants. Within minutes, we were shown to a large room on the second floor, with a smaller adjoining chamber for our guards.

The accommodations were better than I had expected, with clean bedding and a fire already crackling in the hearth.

Ragnar helped me into our own and before I could admire the room, he grabbed me from behind and I laughed.

A genuine throaty laughter.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it softly, his eyes never leaving mine. In that moment, despite the danger surrounding us, despite the enemies closing in from all sides, I felt something settle into place between us.

Ragnar’s calloused fingers wrapped around my wrist like a vice—firm, unyielding, but not cruel. It was the kind of grip that said, You’re mine. And God help me, my body answered to it before my mind could even catch up. My breath hitched, and between my legs, that aching throb bloomed like wildfire. One touch from him and I was already unraveling.

He brought my hand to his mouth, and that kiss? That wasn’t just lips on skin. That was a goddamn vow. The press of his mouth was hot, a little rough from the scrape of his chapped lips. And when his tongue flicked the center of my palm—wet, teasing, filthy—it was like he was mapping out where he wanted to taste next. The phantom of that tongue between my thighs had me squeezing my legs together in instinctual desperation.

His gaze never wavered. Those obsidian eyes burned right through me. They weren’t soft. They were scorching. Unapologetically male, feral, and fixed like I was already pinned beneath him. Like every breath I took was his to own.

“Ragnar…” I barely managed his name. My throat was dry. My pulse thundered in my ears.

But he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His eyes did the talking. They told me I was prey. And fuck, I wanted to be hunted. I wanted to be thrown down and devoured, fucked so thoroughly the gods themselves would turn their heads.

The tension in the air? It crackled, thick enough to choke on. Enemies be damned. The danger that had stalked us all night faded like smoke. The only thing that mattered was the man in front of me. His breath washed over my neck, heavy and hot, and my nipples tightened beneath the thin tunic I wore. Every inch of me pulsed, ready, wet.

And I knew—I knew—he could smell it. The scent of me. Of need. It hit him like a drug. His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched. I saw the flash of restraint before he crushed it.

He didn’t release my hand. No. Instead, he dragged it slowly down his chest, over the hard ridges of muscle, until it rested at the thick bulge in his trousers. My fingers brushed the head of his cock—hot and hard—and I nearly lost it. I squeezed, just slightly. Enough to make him groan deep in his throat. The sound went straight to my clit.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice low and dangerous, like thunder wrapped in silk. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me with those hungry little eyes.”

I could barely speak. My voice caught in my throat as I stared at him, breathless, trembling.

He stepped closer, crowding me until my back hit the stone wall of the fortress hallway. One hand braced beside my head while the other slipped under my tunic, his palm sliding up my thigh, fingers greedy and firm.

“No panties,” he rasped, discovering the bare heat between my legs. “You came to me like this?”

I nodded, barely breathing. “I didn’t know—”

“Bullshit.” His finger slid through my slick folds. “You knew exactly what you wanted.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

There, in the shadows, with enemies beyond the walls, Ragnar spread my legs and pressed his mouth to my cunt like a man starved. His tongue was all hunger, sweeping between my lips, teasing my clit, then plunging into me with obscene pleasure. My hands flew to his hair, anchoring myself as I moaned loud and raw.

“Ragnar—fuck—oh my god—”

He didn’t slow. Didn’t speak. Just devoured. His beard scratched my thighs, his tongue curled inside me, and when he sucked my clit into his mouth, I saw stars. My legs shook. My vision blurred. And when I came, it ripped out of me with a scream I couldn’t stop.

Before I could even breathe, he stood, lifted me off the ground, and slammed me against the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. He unfastened his trousers in one brutal motion, his cock springing free, thick and furious.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled. “Now.”

I grabbed his face, kissed him hard—tasting myself on his tongue—and moaned into his mouth. “Then do it. Fucking take me.”

He didn’t hesitate. With one powerful thrust, he filled me to the hilt. My scream was swallowed by his kiss. My back scraped the wall as he drove into me, again and again, each stroke deep and punishing and perfect.

“You’re mine,” he snarled. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasped, nails clawing at his shoulders. “Yours, Ragnar.”

His cock slammed into my sweet spot again and again until I was sobbing with pleasure, body trembling in his arms. The sound of our skin slapping echoed through the stone corridor. I didn’t care who heard.

When I came again, it was violent—my body convulsing, clenching around him, holding him tight as he groaned into my neck and spilled inside me. Hot and thick and claiming.

We stayed like that—tangled, sweating, breathless. His forehead pressed to mine. His cock still inside me.

“After this war,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I’m going to fuck you every night until you forget who you used to be.”

I laughed, weakly. “That already happened.”

He kissed me again, slower this time. Sweeter.

But the hunger in his eyes?

It said he wasn’t nearly finished.