The fire crackled, its orange glow painting the inside of your rough-hewn cabin in restless light. The scent of blood and smoke mingled in the air, and the massive boar you'd slain earlier lay slumped near the hearth—its tusks still glinting, its body a testament to your strength.

You crouched beside the fire, your body tense, your mind sharper than your axe. You were brooding, yes, but not in sorrow—in suspicion.

Your thoughts had turned, as they often did, to him.

The Viking king.

Ragnar Lothbrok.

A man with the scent of seawater and death clinging to him. A conqueror, a storm of violence in human form. And yet—since the day he'd found you during his raid, blood-spattered and feral and very much alive—he had not left you alone.

He had fought you. And when you’d struck him—when you’d actually drawn blood—he’d laughed.

Not with anger.

With delight.

Since then, he visited you every week. Always at twilight. Always alone. Always demanding the same thing:

"Come with me."

And always, your answer had been the same:

"No."

He didn’t ask nicely. He didn’t beg. He claimed—with hands and words and eyes that burned.

You thought of the way he reached for you like you were some wild treasure he meant to steal and keep hidden in his hall. The way he looked at you. As if he would devour you whole.

And then—

CRACK.

The door exploded inward. Wood shattered against the walls, and before you could even blink, you were on your feet, your axe already drawn.

Your nostrils flared. Your bare feet shifted on the floor. Your fingers tightened on the handle.

But it was him.

Again.

He stood framed in the doorway like a god of war: tall, broad, carved from muscle and shadow. His platinum braid hung over one shoulder, glinting silver in the firelight. His tunic, half-open, exposed the hardened lines of his chest and abdomen. His arms were smeared with dirt, blood, and seawater—but his eyes…

Those ice-blue eyes were locked on you like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.

And gods—he was smiling.

Not a nice smile.

A wolf’s smile.

“Still killing boars with your bare hands?” he rasped, voice thick with lust and pride.