The tree line blurs through my tears, but I keep running, crashing through underbrush, branches tearing at my ceremonial dress.
I don't care. Can't care. Can't breathe through the humiliation crushing my ribs.
They all knew. That's the worst part. The way those women lounged so casually in his bed, like this was routine… How long?
How many times did he kiss me sweetly while tasting them on his lips?
How many times did Sigrid smile at me while wearing his marks under her dress?
Frigid little virgin. Broodmare. Too coy to please.
The words loop through my mind like a curse, each repetition carving deeper into my chest. The image sears behind my eyelids, refusing to fade: Bjorn's hands on Sigrid's naked body, on those other women.
Claiming them while I stood frozen in the doorway, too shocked to move or scream. The same hands that held mine so gently just days ago.
Promising me forever with lies on his lips.
I choke on a sob, the sound raw and animal, before I collide hard with something solid.
Hard chest, warm and strong hands catch my arms before I fall, steadying me with surprising reverence. I gasp, try to pull away, but the grip gentles immediately—strong enough to hold but careful not to hurt.
"Easy there." The voice is low, accented with the rough edges of the northern territories. "You're safe."
I look up through my tears to find storm-gray eyes. Erik.
His face shifted from surprise to sharp concern as he took in my state—the tears, the trembling, the way I can't catch my breath.
"What happened?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Who did this?"
But I can't answer, even take a single whole breath. My whole body shakes with the effort of holding back screams.
His jaw tightens, and something violent flashes in those pale eyes. "Come."
Without another word, he guides me away from the compound, one arm steady around my waist. There's a storage building near the tree line—empty, forgotten, smelling of grain and old wood.
He leads me inside, and I collapse against grain sacks, my legs finally giving out. The sobs come harder now, tearing out of me like something dying.
"Astrid." He crouches before me, not touching but close. "Tell me."
The story pours out between sobs, unstoppable now that it's started. The betrayal. Bjorn with Sigrid, with others. The cruel words—how I'm nothing but a vessel for heirs, how he'll seek pleasure elsewhere because I'm… not enough.
How he'll teach me my place.
The realization that everything I believed about love was a lie constructed to make me compliant, grateful for scraps of affection that were never real.
Erik goes very still. The kind of stillness that precedes violence. His fury is palpable, controlled but barely. In the moonlight streaming through the slats, his face looks carved from stone.
When he speaks, his voice is low and steady. "Say the word."
I blink at him through my tears, startled. "What?"
"One word from you," he continues, "and he never makes it to your wedding.”
The casual certainty in his voice sends a shiver through me.
"I've killed men for less than making a beautiful woman cry like this." His hand flexes, and I notice the dagger at his belt. "Say the word, and they'll find him gutted by morning. I'm not afraid to spill blood for your honor."
He means it. He would kill for me without hesitation, without question. Would spill blood in my name and not lose a moment's sleep over it.
Erik’s standing as if saw something in my eyes and I grab his hands before I can think better of it. His skin is warm, calloused from weapons and work. Real.
"No. Please, I… I don't want more violence. I just..." My voice cracks, splits open. "I don't want to be alone right now."
Erik studies me for a long moment before his expression softens, then nods. He settles beside me against the grain sacks, close enough that I feel his warmth.
We sit in silence while my breathing steadies. My world seemed to narrow only to him—the controlled power in his stillness and how he smells. How when I shiver, he shifts closer, and I find myself leaning into his chest.
"For years," I whisper, "I waited for him. Turned down other matches because I believed..." I laugh bitterly. "I'm such a fool."
"No." His thumb strokes across my wrist where he still holds my hand—when did that happen? "You're not a fool for expecting decency from someone who promised it to you."
The air between us changes, and I'm suddenly aware of everywhere we're touching. His hand on my, his chest against my shoulder, the heat of his thigh pressed against mine.
My heart pounds so hard I'm almost sure he can hear it.
"Talk to me," I say. "About anything. I need to think about something else."
So he does. He tells me about Úlfheim—the black sand beaches where the ocean crashes against volcanic rock. The northern lights that dance green and violet across winter skies like the gods themselves are painting.
His voice is deep and rhythmic, almost hypnotic. His accent turns familiar words into strange and beautiful. I find myself leaning toward comfort from his solid presence, from the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His breathing changes when I settle against him. Becomes careful. Controlled.
This dangerous stranger offers me more kindness in one moment than my betrothed has in months. Maybe ever.
"You deserve better," Erik says quietly.
I laugh, hollow. "I'm a Jarl's daughter. I don't get to ‘deserve’ anything. I get what secures alliances and gets married in two days."
"That's not an answer to what you deserve." His free hand comes up, fingertips barely grazing my jaw. "Is that really the future you want?"
His voice makes me look up at his face and he's already watching me, those storm-gray eyes intense in the moonlight.
My breath catches. "I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice."
"Easy for you to say. You're a man. A warrior. You can go wherever you want, be whoever—"
"Can I?" Something dark flickers across his face. "We all have cages, Astrid. Some are just harder to see."
I should ask what he means. Should pull away. Should remember that I don't know this man, don't know why he's here, why he cares what happens to me.
Instead, driven by pain and inexplicable need, I press my lips to his.
It's clumsy, tearstained, desperate. I've never kissed anyone but Bjorn, and those were chaste things, controlled. This is nothing like those.
This is me throwing myself off a cliff and hoping he'll catch me.
For a heartbeat, he goes completely still and I jerk back, horrified. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I don't know what I was thinking. You must think I'm…"
He growls something in his northern dialect and then he's hauling me against him, claiming my mouth with a ferocity that turns my bones to water.
This isn't a kiss—it's a claim. His mouth moves against mine like he's been starving for the taste of me. One hand on the back of my neck, tangled in hair, the other at my waist, holding me like I might disappear.
I gasp, and he deepens the kiss, teaching me without words what real hunger feels like. And I've never felt anything like this.
Every nerve ending ignites. My hands find his chest, his shoulders, mapping the solid strength of him. He tastes like winter nights and fire, and I want to drown in it.
When he nips my bottom lip, I make a sound I've never made before—
"Astrid! Where are you, cousin?"
Sigrid's voice shatters the moment like breaking ice.
Erik pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. We're both breathing hard, and his hand is still tangled in my hair.
"After your wedding," he whispers urgently against my lips, "everything changes. Remember that."
"What do you mean?"
Then he's gone, melting into shadows so quickly I might have imagined him.