To say Thorfinn was upset would be a laughable understatement.

He was seething.

Watching from a short distance, fists clenched and jaw tight, he stared as you gently tended to Prince Canute’s hand—his hand, which had barely been scratched by a stray branch. A wound so shallow it didn’t deserve a second glance, let alone your soft voice and careful touch.

And yet, there you were. Smiling.

Thorfinn’s breath hitched.

That smile was supposed to be his. That tenderness, that warmth, that quiet comfort you offered so freely—it belonged to him. Not to that stiff, stammering prince who looked at you like you were the sun itself.

It was unbearable.

A dagger to the chest.

Thorfinn had never been good with words, never needed them. But right now, he wished he had something sharp to say—something that would cut deeper than any blade. Because watching you laugh softly at Canute’s awkwardness, watching the prince’s eyes soften with affection, made something primal twist inside him.

You were his.

Even if he hadn’t said it aloud. Even if he hadn’t dared to claim it. You were his.

And if you stayed by that prince’s side one moment longer, Thorfinn didn’t know what he’d do. He wasn’t sure if he’d walk away or walk straight into the scene and make it clear—without words, without hesitation—who you truly belonged to.

Because jealousy wasn’t just a feeling.

It was a fire.

And right now, it was burning through him.