ASTRID’S POV

His words hit me like a physical blow. “You are mine.” The way he said it, so quiet and certain, made my skin crawl. I could feel his presence behind me, tall and intimidating, filling the small room with his darkness.

I kept staring out the window at the moonlight dancing on the water, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. Trying to pretend that those three simple words hadn’t just changed everything. But I could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell that mixture of leather and steel that seemed to follow him everywhere.

When his hand moved toward my face, I saw the reflection in the window glass. His fingers were reaching out to touch my cheek, probably thinking he could just take whatever he wanted from me like he had taken everything else.

I moved away from the window quickly, stepping to the side and putting distance between us. His hand dropped back to his side, and I saw surprise flicker across his features. He probably wasn’t used to women pulling away from him. He probably wasn’t used to anyone saying no.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice shakier than I wanted it to be.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle he needed to solve. “You are my wife now, Astrid. I have every right to touch you.”

The word ‘wife’ made my stomach turn. Yes, there had been some kind of ceremony earlier in the evening, before the feast. A quick ritual where we had been bound together with rope while some old woman chanted words in their language. But it hadn’t felt real. It had felt like another nightmare.

“Where was my father?” I asked suddenly, the question bursting out of me before I could stop it. “Where was he during the feast? During the ceremony? Why wasn’t he there?”

Ragnar’s expression didn’t change, but something cold moved behind his eyes. “Your father is back in his village, probably trying to rebuild what we burned.”

“You said this was a marriage alliance,” I said, my voice getting stronger. “You said it would bring peace between our peoples. So why wasn’t he invited? Why wasn’t my family there to see me married?”

He was quiet for a long moment, just watching me with those ice-blue eyes. Then he smiled, and it wasn’t a kind smile at all.

“Because you are not here as an honored bride, Astrid. You are here as a prize of war. A spoil of conquest. Your father offered you as payment for his village’s survival, and I accepted. That makes you my property, not my equal.”

His words felt like a slap across the face. Property. That’s all I was to him. That’s all I had ever been.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, that’s not true. You married me. You had a ceremony. You presented me to your people as your wife.”

“I did those things because tradition demanded it,” he said, taking a step closer to me. “Because my people expect their jarl to follow the old ways. But don’t mistake ceremony for reality, little bird. You are here because I willed it. You will stay because I allow it. And you will do as I command because you have no other choice.”

The casual cruelty in his voice made my chest tight with anger. How dare he speak to me like I was nothing? How dare he reduce me to just another possession in his collection of stolen goods?

“You’re wrong,” I said, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze directly. “I am your wife now, not your slave. The ceremony might have been just tradition to you, but it means something. It changes things.”

He laughed then, a low sound that had no humor in it at all. “Does it? And what exactly do you think has changed, my dear wife?”

“I’m not a prisoner of war anymore,” I said, even though part of me knew I was grasping at straws. “I have rights now. I have a position in your household.”

“You have whatever rights I choose to give you,” he said, moving closer again. “And right now, I’m choosing to be generous.”

His hand reached out toward my face again, fingers aiming for my cheek. This time he moved slower, more deliberately, like he was testing me. Like he wanted to see what I would do.

I should have just let him touch me. I should have stood there and accepted it like a good little captive bride. But something inside me snapped.

Maybe it was the way he’d dismissed my father’s absence so casually. Maybe it was the word ‘property’ still echoing in my ears. Maybe it was just the accumulation of everything that had happened to me in the past two days.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop myself.

My hand moved before my brain could catch up with what I was doing. The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek echoed through the small room like a thunderclap.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ragnar’s head had turned slightly from the force of the slap, and for a moment he just stood there, perfectly still. I could see the red mark spreading across his cheek where my hand had hit him. I could see the muscle in his jaw twitching.

Oh gods. What had I done?

The regret hit me immediately, washing over me like a wave of ice water. I had just struck the most feared Viking King in the northern seas. I had just hit a man who could snap my neck with his bare hands. A man who had killed people for far less than what I had just done.

My hand was still stinging from the impact, and I pulled it against my chest, staring at him in horror. He was going to kill me. He was going to wrap those massive hands around my throat and squeeze until there was nothing left of me but a memory.

But he didn’t move. He just stood there, his face turned slightly away, his breathing very controlled and measured.

When he finally looked back at me, I expected to see rage. I expected to see the cold fury of a man who had been challenged and disrespected in his own home. Instead, I saw something I couldn’t quite identify. Something that looked almost like surprise.

“You hit me,” he said quietly, and his voice was different now. Not angry, exactly, but not calm either. There was something underneath the words that I couldn’t read.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, even though part of me wasn’t sorry at all. “I didn’t mean to. I just…”

“You just what?” he asked, and now he was the one taking a step back from me.

“You were treating me like I was nothing,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Like I was just some object you could touch whenever you wanted.”

He stared at me for what felt like forever. I could see him thinking, processing what had just happened. His hand came up to touch his cheek where I had hit him, his fingers tracing the spot gently.

“No one has struck me in ten years,” he said finally.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, because I didn’t know what else to say.

But he shook his head.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I couldn’t read his expression at all.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. His movements were different now, less sure than they had been when he entered. There was something in his posture that looked almost… shaken.

At the doorway, he paused with his hand on the wooden frame. For a moment I thought he was going to turn around and say something else. Maybe threaten me, maybe promise punishment for what I had done.

But he didn’t turn around. He just stood there for a few seconds, his broad shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed.

Then he stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the dark hallway beyond, leaving me alone with the echo of that slap and the terrifying certainty that I had just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.