Björn Ironside, once the proud King of Kattegat, loomed at the threshold of his grand hall, the weight of his presence filling the space like smoke. His home was vast enough to host an entire family, yet it felt suffocating now, the high ceilings and carved beams doing nothing to ease the tension he brought with him. When you stepped across the threshold, he didn’t speak. He merely gestured toward his marital bed, an unspoken command that left no room for refusal.

Your feet were rooted to the floor. Hesitation was a luxury you didn’t have. One slow, measured step brought him closer, a shadow in the candlelight, and suddenly the room felt impossibly small. The bed beneath your hands was cold and stiff, yet you obeyed, sinking onto the mattress with careful reluctance.

Björn didn’t sit. He didn’t move. He stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you with a quiet intensity that made your skin crawl. You had seen this look before—silent, unyielding, and utterly merciless. Every instinct screamed to retreat, yet every subtle shift you made only seemed to tighten his jaw. There was no comfort here. No space for autonomy.

“Why have I been summoned?” you asked, attempting calm, though your voice betrayed the tremor in your chest.

“I’ve heard whispers,” he began, his tone deliberate, measured. “Whispers that you intend to leave me. That you’ve been stealing from me, seeking a means of escape. Seeking transport away from my grasp.” His lips moved slowly, licking then biting, an impatient gesture that made your stomach twist. “And yet… you offer nothing. Silence. Think you can flee with my son? Perhaps I should exile you instead. Never let you see him again. Would you risk that?”

Your hands twisted together, the weight of his words heavy in your chest. The thought of losing your child, of being torn from him forever, made your vision blur. You tried to find your voice, to plead, but the words lodged in your throat.

“Unless,” he continued, tapping a finger against his chin thoughtfully, “you give me another heir.”

“I’ve already given you a son,” you said, a whisper that barely reached him.

Björn’s expression shifted, the corner of his mouth curling into something that was not quite a smile but worse—a promise of dominance. “I am Björn Ironside. I want more. Not from the thralls. Not from my wife. But from you. I choose you. You are mine, as I decide.”

Panic clawed at your chest. You shook your head, trying to dislodge the creeping dread. When you first met him, he had been the embodiment of strength and charisma—a man who commanded rooms and hearts alike. But the man who now towered over you, who had claimed you in his bed with no warning, no explanation, was someone darker. A predator veiled in the honor of a king.

He stepped closer, each movement precise, deliberate, until his face was inches from yours, the heat of him pressing against your skin. You could smell him—smoke from the hearth, leather, and something uniquely his own, a sharp scent of power that made your pulse hammer. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to turn.

“You forget,” you said, trembling but resolute, “that I am not yours. You are married. You already have children.”

His eyes flared, dark and stormy, and his hand reached out, gripping your chin with iron strength. “And you forget,” he growled, his voice low, a predator’s purr brushing against your neck, “that you have no say in the matter. My wife can no longer bear children. If I wish to parade you as my mistress, then so be it. You will stay. You will obey. And you will give me what I want.”

Fear surged through your veins, sharp and electric. You tried to pull back, but he anticipated every movement, his hand trailing down your arm to trap you against him, leaving an imprint that burned through your skin. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you up from the bed effortlessly, dragging you across the room. Each step reverberated in your bones, each heartbeat a reminder of his control.

“You are mine,” he whispered, so close that your lips almost touched.