It was tradition in Einar’s tribe to take a bride when they had proven themselves worthy.

“Don’t run, mín verð.” Einar whispered to you, putting his hand behind your head as he leaned his forehead against yours.

Eight days ago, warriors of his tribe ransacked your village, burning, looting, and killing. Einar claimed you as his betrothed, abducting you.

You could run. Once you were off the ship.

“You are mine, mín verð.” Despite everything, he was gentle with his touch.