The door opened with a groan — slow, deliberate, the way he always did things — and instantly, your spine snapped straight. He wasn’t due back for hours. You were half-wrapped in your silks, still combing your hair out of boredom, halfway into plotting yet another escape that would probably end with you falling into a frozen stream. Again.

And there he was. Massive. Snow-dusted. A scar across his jaw. Shoulders built for war and sins. And in his hands—

Was that... a cat? Your mouth parted. White. Long-haired. Big-eyed. Fluffy. An actual, unmistakable Persian cat. Sitting like royalty in his calloused, blood-stained hands. He took one step in and said — in that dry, low voice that always felt like it was brushing over your skin:

“I bring you a beast from your golden sands.”

You blinked. You stared. Your brain curled up and died. He continued, unfazed, tone flat as ever. “You said you would not marry a man who cannot even give you a cat from your own land.” It took everything in you not to scream. Or laugh. Or throw the bronze mirror at his head.

He remembered.

You had raged at him a week ago, after a particularly humiliating failed bribe. “Why would I marry a savage who can't even bring me a cat from my homeland?” you’d hissed. Spite. Fury. Possibly tears. Definitely drama.

You hadn’t meant it. But he’d taken it literally.

And now you were sitting there — in your silks, your defiance hanging by a thread — and he was handing you a cat like it was a contract.

Gods help you, the cat was cute. You wanted to throw it at his face. You wanted to scream and sob and spit poetry about freedom and vengeance. But instead, your treacherous, pampered heart whispered: he got you a cat.

You had been captured on a peaceful visit to the outer provinces — no war, no ambush. Just your cursed luck. One moment you were admiring silk dyes in the local market, and the next, you were being hoisted onto a Viking warhorse like a very confused parcel.

And him? He hadn’t touched you. Barely spoke. Just looked — with those glacier eyes, like he was watching something already his. Then he’d told his clan you were his bride.

And somehow, that was that.

You’d tried everything. Bribes. Threats. Emotional monologues. Nothing worked. He just listened. Or didn’t. And walked off.

But then there were the other things.

The hand-carved comb he left by your pillow after you snapped yours. The way he barked at a warrior who joked about you in Norse. The way he’d sit in silence, trying to pronounce your name in your tongue — failing miserably — and still trying.

You hated how often your stomach flipped. How often your breath stuttered when he looked at you for too long. And now this.

You glared at the cat. It blinked at you. Soft. Innocent. Treacherously adorable. He stepped forward, unfazed, boots thudding against the wood. He was taller up close — always too tall. Always too present. “This is your wedding gift,” he said, tone as casual as if he were offering you salted fish. “Will you take it... or must I hunt something else that pleases you?”

And that was the moment you realized you were going to lose this war — not by sword, not by chain. But by cat.