Never once in a thousand raids had Bjorn Ironside given a second thought to a woman running from him. He wasn’t a man to chase. He wasn’t a man to beg.

Yet there you were—storm-lashed and wild—disappearing into the night like a wraith, your silk gown soaked through, clinging to you like the hands of the dead. The mead hall behind him roared with laughter, his men feasting, celebrating the spoils of war. The rain pounded against the earth, drowning the scent of blood, but he still tasted it. The sting of fresh victory. The warmth of conquest.

Ubbe clapped him on the shoulder, grinning through ale-wet lips. “Let her go. If the storm doesn’t kill her, the wolves will.”

Bjorn smirked, staring at the doors you’d fled through, half a mind to listen. He was used to women who bared their teeth, who spat venom and threats, who swore they’d never submit. Most of them broke easily enough. He had no patience for theatrics.

But then he saw her—the girl from years ago, laughing beneath the old yew tree, tossing pebbles at his chest as he carved runes into the bark. Back then, you hadn’t looked at him as the son of Ragnar, or as a raider from across the sea. You had looked at him as Bjorn.

“You will come back, won’t you?” you had asked, knees tucked to your chest, watching him work the knife through the wood, your cheeks red, eyes watery. He was leaving and you'd been crying. Bjorn had only grinned, the cocky bravado of youth. “Of course. A warrior does not break his word.” You nodded, wiping your eyes and matching his grin with your own.

A curse ripped from his throat. His feet were already moving.

The storm howled. Thunder cracked.

And Bjorn Ironside ran after you.