The ride back to Skálholt passes in exhausted silence.
I keep Ivar pressed against my chest, unwilling to let him out of my arms even for a moment. His small body fits against mine like it was made to rest there.
He sleeps fitfully, whimpering at shadows, and I soothe him with murmured words and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
"You are safe now," I whisper against his hair. "Nothing will hurt you."
Ragnar rides at my left, Leif at my right. Neither speaks, but their presence wraps around me like armor.
Occasionally their eyes meet across the space above my head, and something passes between them—that silent communication I have come to recognize, decisions made without words.
I am too weary to wonder what they are planning. Too grateful for their solid warmth flanking me through the frozen wilderness.
We reach Skálholt on the third day, and the castle gates open to reveal Bjorn and Erik waiting in the courtyard.
Ivar slides from the saddle before I can stop him, his legs unsteady but his purpose clear. He runs to his brothers, and the three boys collide in a tangle of arms and sobs and fierce whispered promises.
"I knew you would come back," Erik says, his voice muffled against Ivar's shoulder. "I told Bjorn. I told him Mother would bring you home."
"She did." Ivar's voice is stronger than I expected, steadier. "She killed the queen. She came through the window like a Valkyrie and she saved me."
Bjorn says nothing. He simply holds his brothers, his ice-blue eyes finding mine over their heads, and in them I see something that was not there before. Not just acceptance—pride.
I watch them hold each other and feel something crack open in my chest. Not pain. Release.
Solveig guides me toward the bathhouse, pressing warm food into my hands, fussing over my wounds.
"The boys are settled," she says, steering me through corridors I barely see. "Fed and bathed and tucked into their beds. You need the same."
"I need to stay with them."
"You need to rest, or you will be no good to anyone." Her voice is firm but gentle. "They are safe. You are safe. Let yourself believe it."
***
Night falls before the twins come to me.
They find me in my chambers, dressed simply in a soft linen shift, my damp hair loose around my shoulders. I have been staring at the fire, watching flames dance and thinking of nothing at all.
Ragnar enters first, his ice-blue eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Leif follows, closing the door behind him with deliberate care.
"Astrid's death dissolves all legal ties," Ragnar says without preamble, crossing to where I sit. His voice is low, rough with emotion he rarely shows. "I am free to take another wife."
He stops before me, close enough that I feel the heat of him.
"I want that wife to be you."
Before I can respond, Leif drops to one knee beside me—a gesture so unexpected that my heart stutters in my chest. His green eyes shine raw and unguarded, stripped of their usual playful armor.
"I love you," he says simply. "I did not know what that word meant until you. I thought I understood passion, desire, wanting. But this…"
He takes my hand, pressing it against his chest where his heart pounds. "This is something else entirely."
"Leif…"
"Stay with us," he continues, his voice fierce. "Not as a captive. Not as a concubine or a prize or a political arrangement. Stay as our queen. Our equal. Our heart."
I look between them—ice and fire, shadow and flame—and feel the last of my walls crumble into dust.
"My sons," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "They must be legitimized. As princes. As heirs. I will not have them live as bastards when their fathers sit on thrones."
"They are my blood," Ragnar answers without hesitation. "They will have my name and my throne. That was never in question."
"They are our family," Leif adds, rising to stand beside his brother. "From the moment we learned of them, they were ours. All three of them. As are you."
"Yes," I whisper, drawing them both close. "Yes."
The word has barely left my lips before Ragnar's mouth claims mine.
Not with the controlled patience of their courtship. Not with the careful reverence of men afraid to break something precious.
This kiss burns with hunger that speaks of fear released, of almost-loss transformed into desperate need.
His hands frame my face, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I melt into him with a sound that is half sob, half surrender.
Leif presses against my back, his lips finding the curve of my neck, my shoulder, the sensitive place behind my ear that makes me shiver.
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him while Ragnar continues his assault on my mouth.
"We almost lost you," Leif breathes against my skin. "When we saw you climb that wall, when you disappeared through the window…"
His voice breaks. "I have never known fear like that. Not in battle. Not facing death. Nothing."
"I am here," I gasp as Ragnar's mouth travels down my throat. "I am here, I am yours, I am…"
The words dissolve into a moan as four hands begin to undress me with urgent reverence. My simple shift falls away, and then I am bare between them, my skin flushed and wanting, my body arching into every touch.
They guide me to the bed, laying me across the furs like an offering. Ragnar kneels between my thighs, his ice-blue eyes burning as he spreads me open, studying me with an intensity that makes heat flood my cheeks.
"Perfect," he murmurs. "Every inch of you."
When his mouth descends, tasting me with deliberate strokes, I cry out and fist my hands in the bedding. His tongue works me with devastating precision, circling and stroking until my thighs tremble.
Leif stretches beside me, capturing my sounds with kisses, his fingers finding my breasts and teasing my nipples into aching peaks.
I come with a broken cry, my back arching off the bed, pleasure crashing through me in waves that leave me trembling.
They do not let me rest.
Ragnar rises over me, his tunic discarded, the hard planes of his body gilded by firelight.
He enters me slowly, watching my face, savoring every inch of the joining. When he is fully seated, stretching me deliciously full, he stills.
And then I feel Leif behind his brother, his hands gripping my hips beneath Ragnar's weight, positioning himself at my entrance alongside his brother.
"Together," Leif murmurs.
Ragnar withdraws just enough to allow his brother to slide in beside him.
The stretch is overwhelming—fullness beyond anything I have known, two men claiming me at once.
Their bodies move in a rhythm that speaks of years of sharing, of knowing each other as intimately as they now know me. I cannot think, cannot breathe, can only surrender to the sensation of being utterly possessed.
"Ours," Ragnar growls against my throat, his thrusts deepening.
"Ours," Leif echoes, his teeth grazing my shoulder.
"Yours," I sob, and mean it—mean it with every fiber of my being, every scar on my body, every year of loneliness that is finally, finally ending.