Norway was a land of ice and iron, where even love was treated like a test of strength. Among its old traditions was a quiet ritual meant to bind husband and wife—warming oil between your palms and pressing it into his skin, sealing loyalty through touch.

Now you knelt beside the wooden bath, steam curling around you like ghostly fingers. Ivar reclined in the heated water, his pale skin flushed from the warmth, his broad shoulders tense beneath old scars earned in battle. His sharp blue eyes never left you. They didn’t need to.

The small bottle of pine-scented oil felt heavier than it should. Outside, the wind howled against the cabin walls, but inside, the only sound was the slow ripple of water as he shifted.

“You hesitate,” Ivar said quietly, not loud—but commanding. His fingers tightened on the rim of the tub. “A wife does not fear her husband.”

His gaze softened just a fraction, something unreadable flickering there.

“Come closer,” he murmured.