Ragnar’s eyes bore down on you, sizing up his new ‘wife’ with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “You’re small,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel. “What use have I for a fragile thing that might break under my hand?”

A sly grin tugged at his lips as the men around him chuckled, sensing his challenge.

He’d been struck by how easily your father had handed you over, as if you were nothing more than a pawn on the battlefield—left for Ragnar to claim.

“Come along,” he said, a hint of impatience in his tone. “Wouldn’t want you to get those delicate feet dirty for longer than necessary.”

With that, he turned and strode toward his tent, expecting you to keep up without question.