I needed to get a letter to Cillian before he got it in his thick skull to pay Askeladd's settlement a visit.
Because if that happened, blood would spill—no question about it. The men here wouldn't stop to ask if Cillian's warriors were friend or foe. A dozen armed men rowing up to shore? They'd assume the worst. And honestly, I wouldn't blame them. Cillian's men looked every bit as ruthless as the Jomsvikings, all steel and shadowed eyes, the kind of men who carried the weight of war on their shoulders and didn't much mind the burden. If I saw them approaching, bristling with weapons and the promise of violence, I'd probably have a blade, or bow in my case, at the ready, too.
I wanted to avoid that. Not because this settlement didn't have it coming (it did), but because there were children here. And no matter what nightmares their fathers dragged home, the children shouldn't have to wake up to real ones.
And knowing Cillian, if a single sword so much as glinted in his direction, he'd take it as an invitation to burn this place to the ground.
Because Cillian was a bastard like that.
So, once we sailed into Askeladd's settlement and the dust settled—because there was always dust with these men, whether from battle or sheer incompetence—I planned to sit down, ink out my whereabouts, and then spell out in bold, unambiguous words: Do not come near me, Cillian.
Because if I didn't, he would.
And while I was perfectly capable of dealing with Cillian, I wasn't in the mood for another war, or men wanting something from me. Not today, or for the entire winter season.
I wanted my rest.
But, of course, the gods had a sense of humor, and men had an even worse sense of timing. No sooner had my boots touched solid ground that I found myself saddled with another problem.
Gorm. Feudal lord of the area. Askeladd's uncle.
A man with all the charm of an unwashed bear and the patience of a starving hawk. He wanted to talk; desperately, urgently, like the fate of his entire miserable existence hinged on it. The moment we docked, he was on me, circling like a vulture that had sniffed out something worth tearing into.
Well, technically, he called me over and stared daggers at me as I took my time. Tomato tomato.
Predictably, he was surprised I was a woman. Even a little offended by the sheer audacity of my existence. I met it with a perfectly placed jab, so light and effortless it floated past his thick skull, but it hit Askeladd hard enough to send him reeling.
Not that he minded, even if I was a little worried he'd take offense for his uncle's honor.
He was playing his role again, slipping into that carefully crafted persona of a cunning, self-assured leader, the kind who wore wit like armor and secrets like a second skin. But, like always, I wasn't fooled. It was a mask.
He hated his uncle. That much was obvious.
Not that anyone else seemed to notice. The world, I was convinced, was populated mostly by idiots.
Well. Maybe not entirely.
Bjorn, I suspected, had caught on. He had the look of a man who saw the cracks in Askeladd's façade but chose to keep his mouth shut. Smart of him.
Too bad Bjorn was a battle-starved Viking bastard with all the charm of a particularly grumpy thundercloud, or I might've started to like him as an equal.
Then again, that would make me a hypocrite, wouldn't it? I wasn't any better than the men I surrounded myself with, if I was being honest.
In truth, I was probably worse. They only turned their blades on their own when honor demanded blood, when pride curdled into vengeance. A slight, a betrayal. That was their excuse. But me? I had done it for less. For something as nebulous as survival, as fleeting as power. Or maybe it was for Cillian. Maybe it had always been for him. The lines blurred, smudged like ink in the rain, until I wasn't sure where my choices ended and his began.
But Gorm wanted to talk business.
A feudal lord first, a shrewd businessman second—though I suspected he saw them as one and the same—he had a mind like a set of well-laid snares, always waiting for the right prey to stumble in.
Much like Askeladd wielded war like a well-honed craft, Gorm did the same with coin. Battle was Askeladd's art, strategy his brushstrokes; for Gorm, wealth was the battlefield, and silver was his weapon of choice. Both men carved their empires from something relentless and unforgiving. One from blood, the other from silver.
I'd humored Gorm once before, tossing out a few casual remarks on standard economics, the allure of incentives, the brilliance of a rewards system. And when spring came, business boomed, it'd seemed. Trade flourished, deals were struck, and Gorm's already weighty purse grew even heavier, a silver-stuffed testament to his newfound enlightenment.
Now, he wanted to run more ideas by me.
Which meant I was officially in the dubious position of being Gorm's business consultant.
Gods, or god, help us all.
And, as if the god, or god, had personally decided I hadn't suffered enough, he commandeered my entire day to talk business.
Not just that. No, that would've been too kind. He walked me through his longhouse as we spoke, a tour disguised as conversation, no doubt meant to impress me with his wealth. Every step, every turn, was an unspoken declaration. Look at what I've built. Look at what I own. Look at how important I am.
Look, look, look. Me, me, me.
To his credit, it was a fine longhouse. Thoughtfully constructed, solid, with clear signs of new additions. Proof that when he wanted more space, more status, more anything, he simply made it happen. Here, the size of one's longhouse wasn't just about comfort; it was a measuring stick, a way to broadcast power and prosperity without saying a single word.
Not that I cared.
I knew exactly what he was doing.
After our grand tour—his not-so-subtle display of wealth and status—we ended up in the heart of the longhouse, the bustling kitchen where servants and slaves scrambled to prepare a feast fit for kings. A celebration for Askeladd's men, who had returned triumphantly, dragging their spoils behind them like war-hardened wolves.
And then, ever the gracious host, Gorm offered me a room.
An invitation, of sorts.
Did this man not realize I was far too young for him? Or did he simply not care?
He hadn't outright declared his interest, but when he made his offer, the way his hand curled around my shoulder, fingers just a little too familiar, it became painfully clear—he was offering me more than just a warm bed for the winter.
Too bad for him, I had no interest in being anyone's mistress. Least of all an old fart with a spine so soft it was practically jelly.
So, when he guided me into his great hall—no doubt another attempt to impress me, as if I hadn't already seen the place—I finally had enough.
I had tried to be patient. Truly. Even as he paraded me through his longhouse like a prize he hadn't yet won, I made it a point to keep our conversation strictly about business. I laced my words with barbed hints, sharp and deliberate, but like everything else I said, they soared right over his thick skull.
And so did my very obvious lack of interest.
So, I smacked his hand away. Hard.
A message, crystal clear. One he finally received, if the wide-eyed look he gave me was anything to go by.
But I let my sweetest smile bloom, soft as spun silk, warm as the glow of firelight.
The kind of smile that made men mistake poison for honey.
"Oh, my lord," I crooned, tilting my head just so, as if I were grateful for his attention. "I do hope I haven't given you the wrong impression. You see, I'm terribly independent. A restless spirit, really. It would be such a shame to settle into a life of… comfort." I let the word drag, curling it around my tongue like a cat toying with its prey.
Then, I stepped back, out of his reach, smoothing down my gambeson as if brushing away something distasteful. "But I must say, I so admire your generosity. The way you open your home—your arms—to those who might benefit you most."
I could see the gears in his head turning, trying to decide whether I'd just complimented him or not.
Before he could fumble his way to an answer, I dipped into a graceful nod, eyes brimming with faux delight. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I wouldn't want to take up any more of your valuable time. A man of your stature must have so many… important matters to attend to."
And with that, I turned on my heel, leaving him with the lingering taste of praise that, if he were any smarter, would have soured in his mouth.
I didn't have to wander far into the great hall before stumbling upon my next source of entertainment.
Atli and Torgrim spotted me the moment I spotted them, waving me over from where they lounged near the doors leading outside, feasting and drinking and making merry. The grin on Atli's face was already expectant, his voice carrying over the din. "You bring the goods?"
The goods.
I lifted the sack for them to see, the weight of it familiar in my grip. A bundle of my infamous spicy sausages—retrieved from my small chest of belongings before Gorm had dragged me off for his long-winded, self-important tour at the request of one of Askeladd's men. I had been carrying it around all day, waiting for the right moment.
As much as I longed to scrub the day off my skin and sink into the oblivion of sleep, this mattered just as much. Perhaps more.
"Right here, boys," I said, striding toward their table.
With a flick of my wrist, I turned the sack over, spilling the sausages onto the wooden surface. They landed with satisfying little thuds, each one a promise of impending chaos.
Delicious, scrumptious chaos.
Atli and Torgrim's eyes lit up, a glint of mischief sharpening their grins. They hadn't been on Thorfinn's ship a few months back, on one of the three other ships in Askeladd's pirate band. They hadn't seen what happened last time. But they'd heard the stories.
Oh, had they heard them.
And like me, they couldn't wait to watch history repeat itself.
And it always did.
After Atli snatched up one of the sausages and made a grand show of laying out the terms—same rules as on the ship—I rounded the table and dropped into the seat beside him. He flopped back down with the same theatrical air, tossing the sausage onto the growing pile like some kind of offering to the gods of gluttony. Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips, he turned to me.
"Heh, so you gonna pull off that little trick everyone's been yappin' about?"
I grinned, wide and wicked, as Torgrim leaned in from the other side of Atli, a herb covered sausage dangling from his own lips as he chewed, his eyes gleaming with the same eager anticipation as Atli's.
"Of course."
As men stepped forward—only one from my own ship, the four other poor souls from the other two ships who hadn't yet witnessed the mayhem these sausages could unleash—I leaned forward, plucking up one of the sausages between my fingers. Then, with a languid ease, I kicked my feet up, reclined back, and, with a flick of my wrist, tossed the sausage past my lips.
No chewing. No hesitation.
One fluid, sinfully suggestive motion. Head tilting back, throat working, the entire thing vanishing in a single, obscene swallow.
"And look—no powder. Just the sausage this time," I announced, lacing my fingers behind my head as I leaned back, watching the men in front of me with careless expectation.
And just like that, the table erupted.
Greedy, grubby hands lunged for the last of my sausages, ravenous and thoughtless. I'd have to make more this winter, there were only two left now.
Then, like wheat cut at the stalk, they dropped after devouring my sausages. One by one, writhing, groaning, clutching their stomachs, necks, mouths, as if their gods had cursed their guts.
Atli and Torgrim were howling, half out of their seats, fists slamming against the table in gasping fits of laughter. I sat back, a chuckle rolling from my lips, taking in the glorious sight. The mighty, terrible Danes reduced to groaning heaps on the floor, undone by their own hunger. In more ways than one.
This would never get old.
Atli's hand came down on my back with the force of a war hammer, damn near knocking me clean out of my seat.
"Well, damn, Fiadh! Thought they were yankin' my chain about your sausages—but that? That was a show worth waitin' for!"
I barely had time to recover before the real assault hit me. A wave of body odor; thick, pungent, the kind that could peel the paint off a longship. I wrinkled my nose, side-eyeing Atli like he was a personal offense to my existence.
"Atli, you had all day to scrub those pits. How many times do I have to spell it out for you? Do a girl a favor and stop waging war on my senses, yeah?"
Five days at sea, sure, but we'd arrived early this morning. The feast hadn't kicked off until sundown. Plenty of time to find some water and stop smelling like a rotting bear carcass. I'd told him before—countless times—that his stench ranked worse than what was normal. At least one wash every other day. That was all I asked.
Lazy bastard.
He just laughed, landing another few hearty smacks on my back, mercifully lighter this time. I swallowed down the urge to gag, batting his arm away with a light slap of my own, the kind that said I don't mean offense, but 'gods' help me, I should.
Had to be careful with the Danes. Their tempers were as fickle as the sea, and the wrong joke could turn a feast into a bloodbath. Not that I cared much for any of them. But as long as Thorfinn remained in their ranks, I needed to keep a few friends among my enemies. Thorfinn's enemies.
But only a few.
Thorfinn… Hopefully, he wasn't freezing his ass off somewhere.
Once I figured out where I'd be sleeping for the next week or so, the real challenge would be convincing Thorfinn to join me.
After I dealt with his lice. Again.
Movement—unexpected, yet unmistakable—caught my attention.
At the head of the hall, a body stirred, one I could recognize anywhere by now.
I'd kept my distance since our little incident. Not out of fear of whatever retribution Askeladd might think I deserved; if anything, I half-expected him to find the whole thing amusing. No, I stayed away because Thorfinn, ever the brooding storm cloud, had caught wind of it. And because these Danes, for all their bloodlust and bravado, gossiped like old fishwives.
Did I ever mention that? Probably. But it bore repeating; especially when their chief was involved.
Naturally, Thorfinn had been fed the most dramatic, salacious version of events. Getting him to believe that Askeladd hadn't taken advantage of me in a moment of… indisposition had been a battle in itself.
Thorfinn. He acted indifferent, scowled like he couldn't care less... but he did. He couldn't help himself.
He would have been a good kid. If his father hadn't been… well…
And there he was... the root of all my current problems. The man who had killed Thors all those years ago. Standing before the table I occupied, draped in that lazy, self-assured amusement like it was some royal cloak, as if he hadn't a care in the world. As if he hadn't left ruin in his wake. As if he weren't the reason a boy who should have been chasing summer winds now chased revenge.
My lips pressed into a thin line as I stared at him.
Both of his scarred hands rested on his hips, calloused fingers flexing idly against the worn fabric of his red gambeson; the one he favored when winter made your tits colder than witches. It fit him well, a touch too well, stretched taut over the broad frame of a man who wore confidence like armor. He regarded me from beneath heavy-lidded blue eyes. Even the extra bit of skin between his brows, the one that creased when he was scheming about something for too long, remained unbothered. Relaxed. Unfurrowed.
He looked like he had not a single weight upon his shoulders, like the cold of the hall didn't touch him, like nothing I thought—nothing I felt—could reach him.
He was in a good mood.
And that, more than anything, annoyed the hell out of me.
He didn't say a word. Just stood there, eyes fixed on me like a wolf considering its next move. But then—so casually, so unpredictably—those sharp blue eyes flicked down to the sausages in front of me.
His hand lifted from his hip, fingers curling with the slow, deliberate ease of a man who already knew the outcome of the game before it even began. And I knew exactly what he was planning.
If anyone could endure the fire, the sheer pain of those sausages, it would be Askeladd (and maybe Bjorn). Even if he'd never tasted a single spicy thing in his life, I doubted it would so much as make him flinch. He'd chew through it like he did everything else in life; with the patience of a man who had suffered far worse and come out grinning.
And that was precisely why he shouldn't play my game.
Because he'd win. Easily.
And I'd have to—
"Those aren't for you—" I started, but it was already too late.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, he snapped one of the sausages into three pieces. His gaze met mine, and for a brief moment, something wicked flickered behind his eyes. Then, with all the exaggerated flair of a man who enjoyed pissing me off, he mimicked me exactly: tilting his head back, mouth open wide, tongue extended like he was putting on a show, and shoved each piece down his throat, swallowing them whole.
Of course, he couldn't manage it in one go like I had, but he adapted, breaking them into manageable pieces. And just like that, the bastard copied my trick, making sure the sausages barely touched his tongue before sliding down.
Fucking Askeladd had been taking notes.
Not that he needed to. My earlier thoughts still stood. If anyone could take the heat, it was him.
But if he didn't have to? He'd always take the easiest route.
Bastard.
When his eyes returned to mine, I felt the frown pull at my lips before I could stop it. Because, truly—undeniably—I was fucked.
In more ways than one, apparently.
Damn…
The hall erupted—cheers, laughter, the thunderous sound of hands clapping against Askeladd's back and shoulders. Men swarmed him, roaring their approval, celebrating the first to ever best me at my own game. But through it all, his eyes never wavered.
They stayed locked on me, steady, unblinking—bored into me with an intensity that slithered beneath my skin, made my breath hitch in ways I didn't appreciate.
Damn it.
He leaned in, hands settling back on his hips like he was getting comfortable. Like he owned the moment.
"Looks like that's my win," he drawled, smug and infuriating. "But I'm a fair man—why don't you decide how I claim my spoils?"
I needed to think fast. Something to get me out of this mess.
And preferably before that glint in his eyes turned into something even more dangerous.
If I played this wrong, I'd lose more than just a game; I'd lose footing, leverage, control. And Askeladd? He was the kind of man who'd take an inch and turn it into a mile, all while flashing that lazy, knowing smirk like he'd planned it from the start.
I couldn't let him have that.
The hall still roared around us, men slapping him on the back, their laughter ringing off the walls. But beneath it all, his eyes stayed locked on me, assessing, waiting to see what I'd do next.
I needed a way out—one that wouldn't make me look like I was running. No, I had to turn the board before he could make the next move.
Think. Think.
The game had been mine, the stage set by my own hand. If I bent now, it would be seen as submission. And Askeladd? He wasn't a man who let his victories go to waste.
I had to reframe the win. Make it look like he'd only played into my hands, not against them.
But before I could come up with something, he shrugged his shoulders, closing his eyes momentarily. "Guess your generosity knows no bounds," he said, smirking. "We'll do it my way then."
What, no!
He began to walk around the table, keeping his eyes locked on me and I quickly stood up, my leg taking a step back toward Atli like it wanted to flee, but I scolded myself, especially when Askeladd's eyes flicked toward the movement fueling his amusement.
Double dammit.
Stale, Fiadh. At least until you could think of a way out of this.
"I'll be more than happy to deliver on my promise, but fir—"
Before I could finish, he moved. Fast. Closer. Too close.
Then he bent down.
I blinked. Was he… bowing?
"What are yo—"
I never got to finish that sentence, because in the next instant, he drove his shoulder into my stomach with all the grace of a battering ram. His arm hooked around my waist, yanking me forward before my brain had even caught up.
My hands smacked against his shoulders, his head too close to my body, fingers gripping tight in stunned reflex, just as he straightened. Shit. The world tilted, gravity did its thing, and before I could so much as curse him properly, his other arm locked around my legs, hoisting me clean off my feet.
I pitched forward, my hands releasing his shoulders only to slap against the middle of his back. Desperately stopping my nose from making full, violent contact with his spine.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" I hissed, my voice low but brimming with sheer indignation.
Still, I had to give myself credit. I hadn't screamed.
But I had sure as hell wanted to.
As Askeladd turned, the entire hall erupted again. Cheers, laughter, the rhythmic pounding of fists against wooden tables. Every man in the room was watching, reveling in the spectacle he was making of me.
Every man except Bjorn.
He sat at the head of the hall, eyes wide, his expression caught somewhere between What the hell am I witnessing? and Do I even want to know?
But I didn't have time to dwell on it, because Askeladd was already moving—straight for the door. And when he kicked it open, the bitter night air slammed into my back, slicing through my clothes and making me flinch.
This wasn't happening.
"Ahh, breathe it in, Fiadh," Askeladd said, sounding disgustingly pleased with himself. "Nothing like fresh air to clear the head. You'll need it."
This wasn't happening.
And yet, here I was. Draped over his shoulder like a sack of stolen goods, my mind still lagging behind, utterly failing to produce a single plan to get me out of this mess. What the hell was wrong with me?
Then, just to make sure my dignity was well and truly trampled, he gave a little hop; adjusting my position so I fit better over his shoulder, his arm tightening around my waist.
I hissed through my teeth. If he did that again, I was going to bite him.
"Now," he mused, his voice all sugary amusement, "seeing as I'm the generous sort, I'll give you a choice—willing or not, we're settling my winnings. How painful that is, though…" He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against my thigh. I even felt the smirk that followed. "That's up to you."
What a fucking asshole.
"Fuck you, Askeladd," I spat. "You won't be laughing when that sausage comes back to haunt you tomorrow."
Because it would. Just because he hadn't burned when it made its way in didn't mean he wouldn't suffer when it made its way out.
I knew. I'd been there.
And I wanted no part of whatever hell awaited me when that realization hit.
"Oh, Fiadh," Askeladd drawled, that insufferable, mocking lilt curling around my name like a cat playing with its prey. "I plan to take this world for all it's worth—and that includes every bit of fucking it has to offer."
…What?
I barely had time to process before his grip shifted, his arms tightening around my legs as he let go of my waist.
Then—smack.
My breath hitched. Not out of shock, not even out of indignation, but out of sheer, unfiltered disbelief.
Did he—?
Did he just—?
"And wouldn't you know it?" His voice dripped with amusement, thick with the kind of arrogance only Askeladd could pull off. "You've got the perfect, willing body to help me get it."
Willing?!
Oh, I was about to make him regret every single choice that led to this moment.
He took a step forward, then veered right, following a narrow path that ran along the longhouse. His boots crunched through the fresh layer of snow, each step deliberate, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to parade me around like some prize he'd won at a festival. The light snowfall dusted his gambeson, settled in his hair, but he didn't seem to notice. Or care.
I, on the other hand, cared very much.
"Let me down, Askeladd."
"Now, what in this world would make you think I'd do that?" Askeladd drawled, his amusement as lazy as the smirk curling his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing, which only made it worse. Or better. Depending on the angle.Hisangle.
"Don't forget, I did ask nicely," I said at last, though there wasn't much weight behind it.
If I had any sense, I'd be taking advantage of this moment. Letting Askeladd lead me wherever he intended, letting him—well, have his way with me. But there was a catch-22 in that. Because once he had his way, what then? Would I be discarded, like a plundered village left smoldering in the aftermath? Would he never take me seriously again, having already taken what he wanted? Or would he want to come back for more?
Askeladd didn't seem the type to fall in love. That much was clear. But I could make him care enough to want to use me. And if he wanted to use me, that meant keeping me around. That meant staying in my good graces. That meant I could protect Thorfinn.
Still, there was the matter of appearances. I didn't want to look easy. But then again, after our last encounter, I was fairly sure I'd shattered that illusion, if there was even one to begin with. That, and the way I treated his men—playing with them like a cat pawing at mice before growing bored. If we did this, he'd know he was the only one. That it wasn't a game with him.
Bjorn once told me, in a rare moment of honesty, that he'd never really seen Askeladd interested in women. That had stuck with me. When I'd made an offhand comment about Askeladd taking whatever he pleased from raided villages—wealth, women—Bjorn had shrugged, unconcerned. "Never seen him care much for that," he'd said.
It made me wonder.
Then again, there was always the alternative. I could order Cillian to ambush Askeladd's men, take Thorfinn far, far away from all this.
But that wouldn't be good for Thorfinn's head. And like it or not, I needed him in one piece. And that included his mind—his tattered, war-torn mind—even if, with each passing day, I wondered if there was anything left to salvage. If what had been broken could ever be pieced back together, or if I was simply trying to gather water with my hands, watching it slip through my fingers no matter how tightly I held on.
With Askeladd, the groundwork had already been laid—my bow work, my so-called "intelligence," the way I moved through a battlefield like I belonged there, the way I refused to be just another woman. All pieces of a game I played carefully, deliberately. I could only hope it was enough to make him…want to come back for more.
Then again, Askeladd did say he liked to have his fun. And men like him? They were always looking for the next game worth playing.
My elbow was already in motion, primed to drive into the back of his skull. I had asked nicely, after all, a rare courtesy from me, and one he damn well should've appreciated. But before I could follow through, Askeladd did what Askeladd did best. He adapted. One moment, he had my legs secured, and the next, he let them go—no doubt sensing what I was about to do before I even did it.
Gravity, as always, was eager to play its part. But I had a choice—one split second to decide whether to let it take me or to turn it into my accomplice. And like the idiot I was, I chose the latter, Askeladd's temper be damned.
I twisted mid-fall, my legs snapping around his head in a vice grip. And before he could pry me off, I used the nearest leverage point available—his own damn ass. A push, a shift, and suddenly, I was perpendicular to him, my weight dragging him down with me.
His hands flew up, fingers clamping onto my shins like iron, and I bit back a wince at the pressure. He was strong—strong enough to bruise, strong enough to make me regret this if I let up even for a second. But even Askeladd was subject to gravity, and I wasn't about to loosen my hold. Not enough to choke him out—though the thought had crossed my mind—but enough to ensure that when I fell, he was coming with me.
And he did.
We crashed into a mound of snow—one I could only pray hadn't been repurposed as a latrine by half-drunk men with no sense of shame. The cold bit through my clothes, but I barely noticed, too focused on the fact that my legs were still locked around Askeladd's neck.
So, with a deliberate ease, I loosened my hold; not to let him go entirely, but just enough to make a point. See? I wasn't going to choke him out. Not today, anyway.
There was a heartbeat of silence. His grip on my shins had not loosened, but they also had not tightened either.
Askeladd was the first to shatter the silence, his voice as lazy as the smirk curling at the edge of his lips.
"Well now," he drawled, tilting his head back just enough to look up at me—between my legs, no less, as I propped myself up slightly. His gaze, utterly amused, flicked over me with the kind of deliberate slowness that made it clear he was enjoying this far more than he should.
"That's certainly one way to get a man on his back," he mused, like he was filing this little incident away for future reference, already deciding how he'd make me regret it.
Jackass.
I let out a slow, dramatic sigh, propping myself up further, just enough to give him a pointed look. "Well, you know me, Askeladd. If I'm gonna be on top, I prefer to make it memorable." My lips curled as I tilted my head.
Then, with a shift of my hips, his head pushing up against my inner thigh—just enough to remind him exactly where he was—I leaned down slightly, lowering my voice to something almost conspiratorial. "Though, really, you of all people should've seen this coming. Considering how much you watch me." I grinned, all teeth, all challenge. "Or am I wrong?"
There it was—that damn smirk. Good. That meant I hadn't pissed him off too much.
He pushed himself up, brushing snow from his back and backside with a lazy sweep of his hands before turning back to me. And then—of all things—he offered his hand, his other hand in his hip as he waited for me to take his hand with an expectant tilt of an eyebrow.
I didn't think much of it. Took it without hesitation. And in one smooth motion, he hauled me to my feet. Too smooth. Too effortless. Usually, when someone hoisted another person up, there was tension, a bracing of muscles, a shift in weight. But Askeladd? His body didn't so much as stiffen.
Was I really that light?
But before the thought had even fully formed, I realized—too late—that his hand hadn't let go, only tightening. My spine went rigid, my instincts kicking in just as I caught the flash of his lopsided smirk.
And then, in one sharp pull, I was yanked forward—straight into Askeladd's chest.
A step. Then another. And another still. His pace was measured, easy, even as my feet stumbled back as he pushed me, using his body to move me back until my back met the cold, unyielding wood of the longhouse. A grunt of a breath escaped just as his knee nudged between mine—a very deliberate motion, a silent statement in the language of games we were both fluent in.
Askeladd leaned in, close enough that the warmth of him cut through the chill in the air. One hand braced against the longhouse beside my head, the other settling firm on my shoulder; a grip that wasn't quite restraining, but wasn't letting me slip away either.
His smirk came slow, lazy, the kind of expression that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or merely indulging himself. One eye cracked slightly wider than the other, his gaze dragging over me with that ever-calculating sharpness.
Assessing. Measuring.
The space between his brows pinched, the smallest furrow of thought. Whatever he was mulling over, I wasn't sure if I'd like the conclusion.
In that moment, I sent up a silent prayer—to whatever god or gods had seen fit to drop me a thousand years into the past like some cruel joke—that Thorfinn was nowhere nearby.
The last thing I needed was for him to come charging in, all righteous fury and misguided heroics, forcing me to explain… this, so he didn't try to force another duel on Askeladd to try and save me.
Because explaining this? Yeah. I'd rather take my chances with the gods, or god, who stranded me here in the first place.
Askeladd didn't move. He didn't need to.
The pressure of him against me—knee slotted between mine, hand heavy on my shoulder, his body a quiet, unyielding pressure—did all the work for him. There was no force, no threat, just presence. Just a trap laid so skillfully it didn't need to spring shut.
Not yet.
His smirk was there, of course—because it was always there—but the look in his eyes was something else entirely. That assessing calculation that was all too familiar to me now. Because that's what this was to him. An evaluation. A game. A lesson he already knew the answer to but wanted me to speak aloud.
I was getting tired of games. Somehow, despite everything he was doing—every deliberate press, every inch stolen—I managed to keep my face neutral. As if being pinned against a wall by him was no more inconvenient than a stray breeze. As if my pulse wasn't hammering traitorously against my ribs, begging to be noticed.
"We had a wager," he said, voice as smooth as the edge of a well-worn blade, dangerous not in its sharpness but in its precision. "And you strike me as a woman of your word." A pause. Just long enough to let it sink in, for me to know he was choosing those words carefully, deliberately. "But you also strike me as a woman who values control."
His fingers flexed, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the fabric of my sleeve as he let his gaze drag over my face, slow, lingering, like he was drinking in every flicker of thought before I could even give them shape.
"So tell me," he continued, voice dipping lower, silkier, "is that why you're hesitating? Not because you're unwilling—but because you don't like that it's on my terms? That I took something from you that you were waiting to give on your own time?"
His smirk widened just a fraction, his thumb ghosting over the fabric at my shoulder. "It's an awful thing, isn't it? Losing before you've even decided if you want to play?"
He let the words settle, his amusement sharp, cunning, knowing. Because Askeladd—of course Askeladd—would pick me apart like this. Would see every hesitation, every flicker of defiance, every ounce of pride I was trying to hold onto and test just how far he could push before I either snapped or stepped forward willingly.
And then, as if that wasn't enough, he twisted the knife.
"Or maybe," he mused, tilting his head, "you're wondering what happens if you do follow through. If you give in. If I get what I want…" His smirk curled, teasing, taunting.
His hand slid up, just a fraction, fingers barely grazing my jaw before pulling away. Leaving me with nothing but the ghost of a touch, a whisper of heat.
"So, Fiadh," he murmured, voice all smooth provocation now, all quiet, wicked intent. "What's it going to be? Will you go back on your word? Or will you prove to me that you're just as bold as you like to pretend?"
He didn't move. Didn't pull away.
No, Askeladd was waiting.
For me.
But why was he even bothering with the illusion of choice? We both knew I couldn't go back, couldn't say no without unraveling everything I'd worked for. If I pushed him away now, that would be the end of it—not the end of this, but the end of the game on my terms. The rules would change. The teasing would shift from flirtation to mockery, a smug, I bested you glint in his eye every time he looked at me. My pride, my leverage—gone. And Askeladd? He'd never let me live it down.
He wouldn't let me in again.
But this was Askeladd. Predictable in his cunning, yet slippery in his intent. I could anticipate his moves, but never all of them. Not fully. He was always just a step ahead, just out of reach, dangling something in front of me only to snatch it away when I reached for it.
So I tilted my head slightly, my gaze locking onto his, searching. His eyes—blue like a winter morning, cold and knowing—watched me right back.
And then, like a spark catching in dry kindling, a thought struck me.
Did I even find Askeladd attractive?
The realization caught me off guard. I had never looked at him that way before. He had always been an obstacle, a war-hungry, bloodstained chieftain standing between me and what I wanted. A man I had to outmaneuver, outlast, outlive, if I wanted to help Thorfinn. I had known that playing this game with him could lead here—had even accepted it as a strong possibility—but I had never stopped to consider what that actually meant.
And now that I was here, backed against the longhouse, his warmth pressing into me, his breath teasing my skin, I realized—I had never taken the time to see Askeladd as just… a man.
Not a chieftain.
Not a murderer.
Not a warlord whose mind was a labyrinth of plots and calculations.
Just a man.
A man with needs. A man with wants.
A man who, in his own twisted way, was showing me exactly what he wanted.
So, I lifted my hands between us. His gaze flicked down, the smirk he wore like a second skin shifting, softening, slipping into something unreadable as my fingers ghosted along his jawline, skimming over the rough bristle of his beard. The coarse strands caught against my fingertips—not brittle, not straw-like. He must have used something to keep it from turning to wiry knots. Some natural oil, perhaps.
I followed the path of my own touch, but I felt his eyes more than I saw them—watching, assessing, waiting. Still, he said nothing as I traced him, as I looked at him, really looked at him.
My fingers drifted upward, palms cradling his face, thumbs sweeping beneath his bottom lip, pressing lightly into the dip above his mustache. Then, to the hollows of his cheeks. To the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Slow, deliberate, like I was mapping the landscape of a man I had never bothered to study this way before.
I hasn't studied before…
Then my thumbs moved higher, skimming just beneath his eyes. And it was there, in this closeness, that I saw the fine-lined wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Angel-hair wrinkles, people from my time used to call them. I wouldn't have noticed them if I hadn't been this close, if I hadn't taken the time to truly see him.
And his eyes…
They had never looked at me like this before. Not so deeply. Not so… I want to say openly, but this wasn't open for Askeladd.
I lifted my right thumb to his eyelid, pressing down gently. He let me. Let me touch the delicate skin there, let me test the weight of it beneath my thumb as I lightly wiggled it over his eyeball, while his other eye remained locked on my face. His gaze darted over mine, searching, reading me as much as I was reading him.
Then my thumbs moved to his eyebrows, pressing down near the slight furrow between them, smoothing across their shape. And there—finally—he reacted. A small frown. A flicker of something unreadable.
But he remained quiet.
Letting me explore.
Letting me decide what I would find.
He didn't look like a man in his forties. Not here, not in this time. If I had met him in my own world, a thousand years ahead, he would have definitely looked his age. But here? In a world where time gnawed at people like a starving beast, where men aged fast and hard under the weight of war and winter, he could still pass for his thirties. Maybe even his late twenties on a generous day.
My gaze traveled up to his hair, to the slight recession at his hairline—not uncommon, not surprising. Time had a way of marking everyone, no matter how sharp their mind or steady their hands. But beyond that? His genetics were remarkable.
And the color of it—
It caught in the scattered firelight, the glow from the firelight scattered outside the longhouse for the feast flickering against the strands, turning them into something almost ethereal. A shade too light, too rare. I had seen many Danes, many men with sun-bleached strands and flaxen locks, but this—this near-platinum blonde—stood out.
Unusual. Distinct. Like a mark of something other. Something untamed. Something meant to be remembered.
And that was when it hit me.
A quiet, undeniable realization settling into my bones.
Askeladd was handsome. Not in the polished, effortless way of men born into beauty, but in something rougher, something carved by time and sharpened by cunning.
And, whatever gods, or god, were out there please help me, I found him attractive.
When my hands drifted back down to cup his jaw, he finally spoke, the suddenness of it making me jolt ever so slightly. If he noticed, he didn't let on.
"What's running through that head of yours right now?"
The frown that had settled on his lips when my thumbs had traced his brows remained, lingering like an afterthought. But his voice? Smooth. Neutral. Inquiring.
I let the silence stretch for a beat, tilting my head slightly, dragging my gaze from where my thumbs rested against his skin, against the hollow of his cheeks—down to his mouth, the subtle downturn of it, then back up to his searching eyes.
"How," I began, drawing out the word like a thread unraveling, "much you've aged since the first time I met you."
His frown deepened.
I grinned, lopsided, teasing.
"You were far more handsome back then."
A sharp reminder that, no matter the moment, no matter the game we played, a part of me still thought about that—the day he killed Thors.
His lips parted, the beginnings of a response forming, but I didn't give him the chance.
I cut him off before the words could take shape.
I let my smirk linger, let the fingers of my right hand trail down the sharp edge of his jaw, slow and deliberate.
"You talk too much," I murmured, voice low, teasing. My thumb traced the corner of his mouth, barely a ghost of pressure, just enough to feel the warmth of him, the way his lips parted slightly beneath my touch. "For a man who wins his games by thinking three steps ahead, you should already know how this plays out."
I tilted my head up, letting my breath brush against his skin, close enough to kiss, but not yet; not quite.
"Or," I continued, my smirk deepening as my hand dropped, fingers curled just slightly into the fabric of his tunic, "should I show you? That I…don't pretend."
I didn't wait for an answer.
I tilted my head up again, the space between us dissolving into something weightless, something inevitable.
And... I kissed him.
My lips brushed against his, a mere ghost of contact, just enough to feel; to register the roughness of winter's touch on him. The chapped, weathered texture of his lips, the faint ridges where the cold had stolen softness.
His breath fanned against my mouth, warm despite the chill in the air, despite the ice that clung to the world around us. But here, in this sliver of space where only we existed, there was nothing cold about him.
His eyes flickered between mine as he let me kiss him—let me move my lips against his. Like he was studying the moment, dissecting it, waiting to see if I'd flinch, if I'd waver. But I didn't. Wouldn't.
My lips parted, the movement slow, deliberate, and his bottom lip fit between mine as if it had always belonged there. Not forced, not claimed—just settled, just taken in. His mouth was still, not a quiver to be felt, but his eyes—half-lidded, locked onto mine—held something dark, something waiting.
A slow inhale. A pulse of silence.
Then, with agonizing slowness, my tongue flicked out, tracing over the cracks, smoothing over the roughened skin. A tease, a promise. The briefest taste of salt, of warmth, of something wholly him.
Soft pressure. Lingering.
I traced him again, my tongue pressing just a little firmer, coaxing, warming, testing. The faintest shift of his breath, a twitch of his fingers against my shoulder—small, barely-there reactions that spoke volumes.
A game of patience, of control, of waiting to see who would give in first.
And Askeladd? He hadn't moved. Hadn't taken. Hadn't claimed.
Not yet.
But I felt it—the tension, the stillness, the quiet waiting.
And gods, or god, help me, I wanted to push him past it.
I took the corner of his lip between mine, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth of him melt against me. He let me—let his lip slide past mine, unhurried, unresisting, until the damp heat of his mouth brushed my upper lip, wetting it with the barest, teasing stroke.
His breath deepened, his eyes darkening further, lids lowering into fine, slivered slants—watchful, waiting. The air between us thickened, charged with something unspoken, something heavier than just a game.
Then, I bit down.
Not hard enough to break skin, but just enough to sting, to remind him I had teeth. My canines pressed in, a fleeting moment of sharpness against his softness, a contrast of pleasure edged with warning.
His breath hitched, sharp and sudden, and I felt the shift in him more than I saw it; the heat in his half-lidded gaze dipping into something deeper, something shadowed. Something that looked an awful lot like restraint as his whole body went rigid.
I let him go just as easily as I had taken him, leaning my head back against the wall, tilting slightly to the side in challenge, my lips curling slow and wicked.
A silent dare.
Your turn.
And Askeladd?
He was watching me with slightly widened eyes. But exhaled a slow, measured breath, his smirk returning—but it was different now. Darker. Sharper. A decision made.
His tongue flicked out, sweeping over the spot where my teeth had been, my eyes flicking to the movement, like he was committing the sting to memory, tasting the proof of my boldness. Then, his head tilted, a soft hum escaping him, something amused, something sounding almost appreciative.
"Well, aren't you just a little fox, dancing on the edge of the flames."
His hand lifted, fingers curling beneath my jaw, tilting my face toward him with the kind of quiet authority that left no room for second thoughts. His thumb pressed lightly into one cheek, his forefinger mirroring the motion on the other, keeping me exactly where he wanted me.
"But it seems you've settled on your choice," he murmured, his voice a smooth, dark drawl. "Good."
His eyes deepened, shadow pooling in the blue, a silent promise—or maybe a warning.
"I'm through with waiting."
He was waiting?
The thought barely had time to form before his fingers flexed, firm against my cheeks, tightening just enough to open my mouth slightly keep my lips parted. I barely had time to react, to question, to speak—before he moved.
A flash of his tongue—quick, a glimpse of something reckless before the impact.
Then his lips met mine, the hairs atop his lips smashing into my upper lip, and my breath caught. My eyes widened.
Heat. Pressure. The taste of something different, something heady.
And Askeladd? He took exactly what he wanted.
His tongue was in my mouth, fully there, claiming, exploring, tasting me as if he had all the time in the world. He didn't hesitate, didn't ease into it—he took, and I felt it in every slow, deliberate swirl of his tongue against mine.
I could taste him—something warm, something dark, something wholly him. The sensation of him moving inside my mouth sent a shiver down my spine, a heat curling low in my stomach.
He stepped forward, pressing into me, his narrowed, smoldering gaze locking onto mine even as his mouth continued its slow, wicked invasion. He was drinking me in, watching my every reaction, feeling the way I responded before I even knew I was responding at all.
His chest met mine, the weight of him caging me against the longhouse, solid and unyielding. My fingers dug into his shoulders—hard, muscled beneath my grip, every inch of him honed for battle.
But… were my hands pulling him closer?
A fresh surge of heat coiled through me, a warmth I didn't recognize, something unfamiliar and all-consuming.
And Askeladd?
He knew exactly what he was doing. Doing to me.
In my past life, I had kissed men before. Taken them to bed, too—because duty demanded it, because my family needed another pawn in whatever scheme they were weaving. It was all business.
No heat. No pleasure. Just an exchange. A transaction.
Mostly, it was just pain.
But this…
This was something else entirely.
I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the sensation of him. Of Askeladd consuming me, tasting me, moving against me with a precision that was both calculated and wild.
His tongue flicked against mine, coaxing, teasing, testing—and I… I let myself respond. Slowly, cautiously at first, but then bolder, twirling my tongue around his, feeling the way his twitched and wove, the way he took his time learning me.
Tasting me.
Then, on impulse, I sucked. Just lightly—not enough to hurt, not enough to claim, but enough to press, to draw his tongue deeper, to feel him in every corner of my mouth.
Because god… it felt too good not to.
His knee, still nestled between my legs, lifted—slow, deliberate—pressing up into me as my back slid higher against the longhouse wall. The rough wood scraped against my clothes, grounding me even as the heat curling through my body made everything else feel weightless.
His tongue retreated from my mouth just as I gasped, and the shift was almost unbearable—his lips now only grazing mine, teasing, barely there, a phantom touch that sent shivers dancing down my spine.
And then, his leg—his thigh—pushed further into me, a firm, unyielding pressure that stole my breath as it lifted me, as it brought me to his height.
His hand, once braced against the wall near my head, slid downward, slow and measured, tracing the curve of my side until it found its new destination—beneath my thigh. His fingers dug in, pressing into the soft curve of my ass, securing me, claiming the hold.
My legs curled around his waist on instinct, locking there, my body fitting against his as if it had always belonged in this space, in this moment.
And still—still—he showed no sign of strain. No tremor in his muscles, no shift in his weight to compensate.
He held me like it cost him nothing.
His other hand had somehow found its way up my back, threading through the tightly woven strands of my braid, fingers sinking into my scalp with a grip that sent shivers racing down my spine. He held me there, firm, as if he had no intention of letting me slip away; not from this, not from him.
His lips pressed into mine, but it wasn't soft, wasn't delicate—it was teeth, biting, taking. He sucked my bottom lip into his mouth, sinking his teeth in just enough to sting.
So I took his upper lip in return, my tongue sweeping over the curve of it, smoothing over the roughness of his lip, tasting him. The bristle of his mustache tickled my skin, a sensation so foreign yet intoxicating, a brush of roughness against something delicate.
And then—his tongue returned.
His hand tightened in my hair, tilting my head, directing me exactly how he wanted. The kiss deepened, his mouth pressing harder, taking more, demanding everything I had to give. He kissed me like he was claiming something, like this had always been his to take.
My hands, still clutching at his shoulders, moved instinctively up, cupping his face again, unsure of where they needed to be, unsure of anything except the heat rolling through me like a fever.
His breath ghosted over my cheek, our exhales mingling as he breathed through his nose, every inhale and exhale pulling me deeper under. My fingers slipped down, past his jaw, to his bare neck, sliding under the hood of his gambeson, pressing against the warmth of his skin.
It was…
It was…
Too much.
And not enough.
A sound escaped me—something breathy, something desperate, a quiet moan that I barely recognized as my own.
His mouth curved against mine at the sound, a smirk I felt more than saw. And then—
I froze.
My eyes flew open.
His mouth was still on mine, his body still pressed against me, heat sinking through every layer between us. But his own eyes—those sharp, knowing blue eyes—were open.
Watching me.
Dripping in smug satisfaction.
And then, with a sharp, deliberate smack, his lips finally released mine. That smirk—wicked, insufferable—hadn't budged, still resting easy on his face, stretched just enough to let me know he knew.
Knew exactly what he had done to me.
Knew exactly what I had let him do.
His lips, the skin around his mouth, gleamed in the dim light, slick with spit.
My spit.
Our spit.
The evidence of a kiss that had taken far more than I ever intended to give.
And I—breathless, panting, still perched atop his leg, my thighs snug around his waist—slowly closed my mouth.
I could feel it. The slight swell of my lips, tender and oversensitized, a lingering ache from the way he had kissed me—hard, relentless, as if he had been waiting for this far longer than he'd ever admit. How the rough tickling of his mustache and beard made the skin on my face feel raw and vulnerable.
The ghost of him still lingered there, on my lips, on my skin, in the space between us that felt thinner now, more fragile.
And yet, he hadn't moved.
Neither had I.
And then…
"Aw! Don't stop now! It was just getting good!"
The voice slurred through the night air, thick with ale and wicked amusement. Both of our eyes snapped toward the source.
There they were—Askeladd's men, a small, swaying cluster of them, grinning like fools, barely able to stand upright as they soaked in the scene before them. Drunk, clearly drunk, their laughter rolling over us like the tide, unsteady and relentless.
Heat surged through me—half frustration, half something I didn't want to name. My hands shot to Askeladd's chest, fingers pressing into the firm muscle beneath his gambeson as I pushed.
He didn't move.
I pushed harder.
Still, nothing.
I tipped my head back, glaring up at him. "Let me down, Askeladd." I aimed for stern, for determination, for something that carried weight.
But what left my mouth was nothing but breathy.
His smirk deepened.
Fuck.
Askeladd didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't so much as pretend to acknowledge my struggle.
Instead, his smirk curled slowly, his head tilting ever so slightly as he took me in—the breathlessness in my voice, the way my fingers curled against his chest, the way my legs were still snug around his waist despite my demands.
And then, with a voice as smooth as honey laced with something undeniably wicked, something cruel, he murmured:
"Now, is that really what you want? Because from where I'm standing…" His hands flexed, tightening just slightly where they held me, pressing me against him in a way that sent heat licking up my spine again. "You seem quite comfortable right where you are."
A beat. A pause just long enough for the laughter from his men to swell, for the moment to stretch unbearably taut between us.
Then, with a sharp, mocking little tilt of his head toward his men, he added, "Shame, really. They were enjoying the show."
His smirk turned wicked.
"As was I."
Bastard.
"Never said I wasn't," he replied smoothly, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
I had said that out loud.
I straightened, pressing my palms against his chest, willing strength into my voice. "Let me down, Askeladd." This time, it came out exactly how I wanted: steady, firm, edged with a warning.
A beat. His gaze lingered, searching. Then, just as easily—"Fine."
He let go. Just like that. No hesitation, no resistance. One moment I was wrapped around him, and the next, he stepped back, releasing me, forcing me to unbind my legs from his waist and land, slightly unsteady, on my feet.
As if he hadn't just spent the last few minutes holding me against him like he owned me.
But Askeladd didn't step away. Instead, his arm curled around me, steering me forward with a push that was just shy of rough, just shy of possessive. His breath, warm and laced with amusement, ghosted against my ear as we walked.
"Ignore them. Odds are, they'll forget all about you draping yourself over me like a common tavern wench soon enough."
My teeth clicked together as I swallowed down the urge to elbow him. "Insults now, Askeladd? Thought we were past that."
I let him push me along anyway.
Askeladd huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that barely moved his chest but dripped with amusement all the same.
"Insulting you?" His grip on my shoulder loosened, but he didn't let go. "Now, now, don't go twisting my words. I'm merely offering you a place to sleep for the night."
He never said anything of the sort!
He titled his head further into me, the curve of his lip brushing against my cheek along with his mustache. "Unless, of course, you'd rather take your chances out here. Plenty of men who'd be happy to make room for you in their bed."
He tilted his head, gaze flicking back toward the watching eyes before settling back on me, expectant. "What'll it be, then?"
I snorted, rolling my shoulders just enough to try and shake off his grip, but he only tightened it again. "If it's your bed you're planning on me warming, I hope you're ready for disappointment. I tend to steal the covers and take up all the space."
Then, with a glance his way, I added, "But if you're just offering a place to sleep, I suppose I can suffer your hospitality, so long as snoring like a dying ox isn't part of the deal."
Askeladd scoffed, shaking his head. "Steal the covers, huh? Bold of you to assume you'd last long enough in my bed to get that comfortable."
His smirk tugged higher, eyes glinting with something that wasn't quite amusement, wasn't quite challenge—but lived somewhere in the space between. "And here I thought you'd be more concerned about who wakes up breathing."
I let out a laugh at that, sharp and unbidden.
He gave me a sideways glance, satisfied. "But if you're that worried about my sleeping habits, don't fret. I'll be sure to put you somewhere cozy. Far enough away that you won't hear a thing."
He started walking again, pushing me along with him, and I could still hear the grin in his voice when he muttered, "No promises on the dying ox, though."
That… caught me off guard. "And you have a separate room for me?"
Strange. But then again, as we rounded the longhouse and veered toward the additions Gorm had barely acknowledged during our tour, maybe they did have the space. If so, that was very… European of them. Royal European. No—English. That was the proper term for the time period.
Two structures jutted from the back of the longhouse like afterthoughts, smaller versions of the main hall, perpendicular to it. They weren't much to look at—just more timber and thatch slapped together—but that was my modern bias talking.
Askeladd kept steering me toward the nearest one, straight to a door at the far end. When he finally let go of my shoulder, I instinctively rolled it back, resisting the urge to rub away the lingering warmth from his grip.
"That's strange," I mused, watching as he pulled the door open and stepped aside, expectant.
His brow lifted. "What is?"
"The door, I guess." I peered inside, taking in the dim hallway beyond, the two doors lining the left side with firelight leaking from within them, barely lighting the hallway. "A separate living space? Not exactly what I'd expect in… these parts. And a door at the end?"
Still, I stepped forward. And the moment I did, a sharp gust of wind lashed against my back, sending my braid whipping behind me, the chill biting straight through my ears.
I shivered, and Askeladd, damn him, smirked. "By all means, stay out here and ponder it."
I sneered but stepped past him anyway, the warmth of the room already tugging at my resolve. The door shut with a solid thud behind me, sealing out the bitter wind, darkening my vision slightly, and only then did I turn to face him again.
Askeladd, unbothered as ever, was dusting the snow from his shoulders, raking a hand through his hair to shake free the lingering flakes. The movement was easy, practiced, like this was just another night, another room, another battle with the cold that he'd long since stopped caring about.
As if nothing had happened between us just moments ago. Typical. A man's specialty: convenient amnesia when it suited him.
Askeladd huffed, shaking the last bit of snow from his sleeve before leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Uncommon you said? Sure. But I had it built when I came back from a long stay abroad in my younger years."
He glanced at the walls, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before his sly smile returned. "Funny thing, though—this part of the longhouse burned down before I left. No cause, no explanation." The way his eyes flickered when he said that told me he knew more about the burning than he let on, but I didn't question it, for now.
"Just up in flames one night." He shrugged, like the whole thing was an amusing coincidence rather than something worth questioning.
"Figured when I came back, I'd rather not sleep under someone else's roof, even if it was mine. So, I had this built just for me. Right over the burned down portion." His grin deepened, his gaze flicking to me, assessing. "Needed my own space. You can imagine why."
"It's got a very… English feel to it," I mused, tilting my head as I took it in. "Bit surprising, considering you despise the English."
Askeladd let out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Hate's a strong word. I prefer to call it a healthy, well-earned disdain."
He shifted his weight against the doorframe, his head tilting to one side. "But even I can admit they know a thing or two about comfort. Doesn't mean I'd piss on one if they were on fire, but I'll take the good where I find it."
"So, which room am I staying in for the night?" I asked, wanting to get this over with. To see if he really intended to leave me alone.
It didn't add up. Why would he? This was his space, not some common sleeping hall. A man like Askeladd didn't offer things freely, especially not his own roof. So why let me stay, even for one night?
Askeladd pushed off the door with the easy grace of a man who never seemed to try too hard. His arms unfolded as he strode past me, still wearing that ever-present smirk, like he was in on some joke I hadn't been told yet.
He stopped at the nearest doorway, grabbed the fabric covering it, and yanked it aside with a lazy flick of his arm. "Here you go."
I walked forward, peering inside. The room was bigger than I expected, its own little space carved out from the longhouse. A firepit sat at the center, a very small fire flickering inside. A sturdy chest, a coffer, rested near a bed, the kind that looked functional rather than comfortable. Dirt flooring, dirt walls.
I stepped beneath his outstretched arm, ducking into the space as the fabric brushed against my shoulder. He didn't move, letting me slip past him as I took in the room.
Spacious. Practical. A little too generous.
I glanced back at him, brow arching. "Didn't take you for such a gracious host."
Askeladd leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing again as he watched me take in the room. His smirk hadn't budged.
"I'll have a servant come by to grow that fire," he said, like it was nothing, like he wasn't offering me more comfort than I had any right to expect.
"No need. I can tend to it myself." Then I turned to him fully. "But why, Askeladd? Why are you offering me this?"
"Thought that'd be obvious. Consider it my way of showing gratitude—rare as that is."
"Gratitude for what?"
Askeladd scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "For being a damn good distraction, of course. That feast was dragging on, and you gave me the perfect excuse to slip out early."
I let out a dry hum, crossing my arms. "Well, glad to know I could be of such invaluable service to you," I said, voice flat. "Truly, it's an honor to be your personal excuse to avoid a feast. Should I start charging for the favor, or am I expected to do this out of the kindness of my heart?"
Askeladd's smirk didn't waver—if anything, it sharpened. "Pretty sure I've already settled that debt, haven't I?" His gaze flicked to my lips, then back up. "Considering how much you seemed to enjoy yourself earlier, I'd say we're more than even. As for the room? Call it a reward for a job well done."
He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by his own words, watching for my reaction. "Unless, of course, you're saying that wasn't enough."
I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head as I decided to cut that conversation off before he got any more smug.
"Goodnight, Askeladd," I said, flat but firm. Then, with a pointed glance at the room, I added, "And… thanks for the room."
No need to feed his ego any more than necessary.
I expected a smirk, a lazy goodnight, and for him to be on his way. Simple. Predictable.
What I got instead was far from it.
Askeladd stepped inside, the blanket over the doorway swaying shut behind him, cutting us off from the rest of the world. His stride was smooth—measured. Not rushed, but not hesitant either. His eyes never wavered from mine, holding that usual unreadable look to thrm, like he'd already made a decision I hadn't been let in on.
And then he was close. Too close. Looking down at me.
His hand slid behind my head, fingers threading into my hair before I could even think to move. Then—before I could part my lips to ask what the hell he thought he was doing—he pulled me forward.
My breath hitched as his mouth met mine, firm, unhurried. He caught my bottom lip between his own, wetting it, stealing something I hadn't even offered, eyes staring into my own, not once blinking as he watched me, before letting go with a soft, maddening pop.
"Goodnight, Fiadh."
His voice was a low drawl, far too satisfied with himself.
Then, just as smoothly as he had entered, he let me go, straightened, and turned on his heel—vanishing through the door without so much as a backward glance.
I stood there, breath unsteady, mind racing.
Well.
Fuck.