The longhouse is silent now. The feast is over. The torches dim. Outside, the wind hums low through the trees, but in here—it’s warm, golden, quiet.
I can feel him behind me.
His eyes haven't left me since the vows. Since I promised my fire to his, bound in front of gods and kin. Now, I feel him watching as I remove the last of my wedding braid, fingers trembling at the ends.
I turn.
He's standing across the room, bare-chested, his tunic tossed aside, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a storm.
“You’re staring,” I murmur, voice softer than battle but sharper than any blade.
“You’re mine now,” he replies. “I’m allowed.”
I step toward him slowly, the thin linen of my dress brushing my skin with every step. His chest rises—once, hard—like he’s holding back instinct. I stop just before him, gaze locked.
“You waited,” I whisper.
“I would’ve waited a thousand nights more if it meant this one would be ours.”
I press a kiss to his chest, just over his heart. “Then take me.”
That’s all it takes.
He lifts me, one arm under my thighs, the other bracing my back as he carries me to the furs like something sacred. Like a prize. Like I’m the first warmth he’s ever known.
He lays me down—carefully, reverently—like I’ll break. I won’t. But I let him pretend.
He kneels over me, eyes drinking me in. Fingers reach for the knot at my shoulder. With a gentle tug, the dress slips down, baring one breast, then the other. His breath hitches as the fabric falls to my waist.
I feel his hands first—rough from war, but slow now. One palm cups my breast, thumb grazing over the tip until I arch into him. He groans. The sound is low, deep in his throat.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, like a curse. Like he’s angry it hurts to want me this much.
I reach up, threading my fingers into his hair. “Then worship me.”
His mouth finds my nipple, hot and soft, tongue curling around it before sucking gently, then harder. I moan, hips shifting beneath him. He moves lower, lips trailing fire along my ribs, my stomach, lower…
When his mouth reaches the top of my thigh, I feel the breath leave my lungs. He parts my legs slowly, kissing the inside of each thigh before he reaches me.
When his tongue finally touches me—I break. It’s slow at first. Explorative. Reverent. But when I whimper and grab his hair—he growls.
He devours me.
My thighs tremble. My fingers dig into his shoulders. I cry out once—then again. And when I come, it’s sharp and helpless and everything I’ve been holding back.
He kisses my thigh before rising above me. His cock presses against me—hard, thick, ready—but he waits.
“Still sure?” he asks, voice rough, eyes locked on mine.
I wrap my legs around his hips. “I’ve never been more sure.”
He pushes into me—slow, deep, inch by inch—and it feels like everything.
Like I’m being filled by something ancient. Something that belongs.
We move slowly at first—rolling hips, tangled hands, lips brushing between moans. He whispers things against my skin—soft, filthy, sweet. And I answer in breathless yeses, in arches and gasps and cries only he gets to hear.
When we both come—bodies tight, hearts racing—it’s not fast. It’s a breaking. A surrender.
We don’t separate.
We stay locked, bodies tangled, his hand over my stomach again, thumb brushing the space just beneath my navel like he’s blessing it.
Like he’s hoping.
After, the world is small: his breath on my neck, the hearth drowsing, our clothes pretending to be a new country on the floor. I map his shoulder with a fingertip; he pretends not to shiver. We smell like pine and smoke.
He ruins the silence first. “I am afraid,” he says into my hair, as if words work better near skin.
I tilt to see him. “Of what, Bloodwolf? Running out of smugness?”
His smile flickers. “Of failing you.”
The words land heavier than he does. I lay my palm on his chest, where the beat betrays him. “You won’t,” I say—and remember our promise to treat truth like bread. “Sometimes you will. So will I. We can fail each other and still not quit.”
His eyes soften. “Say it again.”
“We won’t quit,” I repeat, kissing the corner of his mouth where he keeps his stubbornness.
“Your turn,” he says.
“All right. I’m afraid of losing you.” The saying takes the spear out of my ribs. “To war, to duty, to any hungry thing that thinks it can make a meal of you.”
He tucks me closer like an argument he refuses to lose. “I will try to be less edible,” he says solemnly.
“That will disappoint admirers.”
“A tragedy,” he mutters, and I laugh into his throat.
I poke what’s left of the quiet. “Earlier, when I said I saw children—two—your face did something interesting.”
He goes still. “Did it.”
“It looked like you’d just noticed the sea is large.”
“I have always known the sea is large.” He shifts; the sheets complain. “I am not ready for children, Astrid.” The words tumble, honest and awkward. “I never thought I would live long enough to have them or want them. I don’t know what to do with them. They are small and loud and breakable.”
He grimaces. “And if they are ours, I will want to be with you and with them—always. But the jarl’s chair is greedy. It will steal hours I want to spend teaching a child to throw a knife safely, to fish badly, to nap.”
I stare, stunned, then bright with relief. “Oh. Your expression had me convinced you hated children.”
He looks appalled. “I do not hate children. I find them… alarming.”
“Because they could break.”
“Because I could,” he says, quieter. “They might make me soft in places a blade could find.”
My heart climbs ribs like a reckless thing. “You already are, a little. It hasn’t killed you yet.”
He exhales. “I want what you saw. Just not before I know how to be the man who deserves to be their father.” He searches my face. “Does that make me a coward?”
“It makes you careful.” I rub the notch at his throat with my thumb. “We’re allowed to grow into a future. It isn’t a door we have to sprint through.”
His mouth lifts. “I have never been good at walking.”
“I’ve noticed. Good thing I am.” I poke his sternum. “We’ll pace it. When the time is right, you can panic gracefully and I will pretend not to notice.”
“Thank you,” he says dryly. “Your mercy is famous.”
“It will be—once I paint it on the hall.” I grin. “For now, I’m pleased you want to be there. That was the only answer I needed.”
“Wanting terrifies me,” he admits.
“Me too.” I bump his nose with mine. “Lucky we’ve practiced being brave while terrified.”
A knock interrupts, urgent. Erik groans into the pillow. I pull the blanket up and call, “Yes?”
Runa’s voice answers through wood. “Lady Astrid? Your father asks to speak with you before he rides for Ravnfjord.”
I look at Erik; he looks at me.
“Armor or words?” he asks.
“Both,” I say, and swing my feet to the floor.