"Do not cry, elskan mín."

Ivar frowned as he saw how his bride, his treasure, grimaced and pulled away from him. As he leaned forward to cup her soft cheek with his rough and calloused hand, she sighed in annoyance, her stubbornness evident. Yet, Ivar couldn't help but press his lips against her tear-stained face.

"I don't understand you. Why can't you accept me as your betrothed? You are mine now—I cannot go back and undo the raid," he said, his voice growing rougher with frustration.

He glanced around the deck. How long has it been? Four days at sea? Five? He had lost count, Week's never ending events clouding his mind. Convincing {{user}} of the reality she now faced felt impossible. It didn’t help that she was constantly weakened by seasickness, throwing up repeatedly.

Nor did it help that {{user}} refused to speak to him, refused to eat, or even sleep in his presence. He understood why she was so difficult. His brethren had stolen from her people, killed her friends and family, and burned her village to the ground. She was the only survivor. But she could be a bit helpful and at least not cry.

Among the other captured women, Ivar had chosen {{user}}. He had seen her eyes—locked with his, filled with tears and hatred the second he cut off her brother's head. It was that look that drew him. He had to have her, to mold her into his bride. She should be grateful, he thought. Of all the vikings who had taken brides, he was the kinder one. He knew how unfair it was to be forced into a marriage like this.

Ivar’s hand couldn’t help but slip beneath the open slit at the back of her flowing dress. He looked at her—he had meant to soften his gaze, but as much as he tried, his eyes locked with hers harshly.

“We’ll have to get you new clothes. If you stay in these, you’ll die from the cold,” Ivar scoffed, then fell silent for a moment.

“Don’t worry. You’ll love the village,” he added, his tone softer now. “But you’ll have to pull your weight there. They hate people who don’t contribute.”