The morning of my wedding, Bjorn arrives while my attendants weave flowers through my hair.
"My beautiful bride," he says warmly, playing the devoted groom. "Might I have a moment alone with my almost-wife?"
The women giggle and curtsy, gathering their things. He maintains a smile until the door closes. Then, like watching ice crack across a frozen lake, his expression shifts.
"There's something different about you." He moves closer, studying my face with those cold blue eyes while reaching out, fingers trailing along my jaw. "You've changed, Astrid. These past days, something's shifted. You don't look at me the same way."
His grip tightens slightly on my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
My heart pounds, but I hold his stare.
"I've been watching you. The way you flinch when I touch you now. The distance in your eyes. The little comments about warriors seeking comfort."
He leans closer, and I smell wine on his breath though it's barely dawn.
This is it. The moment to choose silence or truth. "I know about Sigrid," I say quietly. "About the others."
He goes still. "What about them?"
"I saw you." The words pour out like poison. "That night. My cousin riding you like a common whore while two other women waited their turn. I heard you call me frigid. A broodmare. Something to break."
My voice rises, years of trained submission cracking apart. His face flushes dark red.
"At least now I understand why Sigrid's been so helpful with wedding preparations," I continue, reckless with rage. "Should I ask her for tips? Perhaps she can teach me that thing she did with her tongue that made you moan like a—"
His hand shoots out, gripping my throat, slamming me back against the wall. This time there's real fury behind it—not calculated intimidation but rage at being challenged.
I claw at his hand, but he only squeezes tighter.
"Let me explain how our marriage will work, since you seem confused. You will submit to me in all things. You will bear my heirs without complaint. And you will manage my household and warm my bed when I desire it."
"You said you loved me," I managed.
"I said what was necessary." His thumb presses against my pulse. "You were the most valuable bride—Ragnar's daughter, blessed with the sight, beautiful enough to display. A prize to cement my status. Love?"
He leans close enough that I smell last night's ale on his breath.
"Love is for shepherds and storytellers."
His free hand traces down my body, possessive and clinical. "Tonight, I'll teach you your place. You'll fight at first—they always do. But by morning, you'll understand. You'll beg for gentleness I won't give. You'll learn that submission hurts less than resistance."
I try to pull away, and he slams me harder against the stone.
"Every night," he continues, voice dropping to something worse than shouting. "I'll take what's mine. And eventually, you'll break so completely you'll think you want it. You'll convince yourself it's love just to survive."
Bile rises in my throat. This is the future spreading before me like spilled ink.
"Perform your role perfectly during the ceremony," he says, finally releasing me. "Smile. Blush. Play the eager bride. Embarrass me, and I'll make tonight educational in ways you can't imagine."
He leaves me gasping against the wall. The door closes behind him and I slide down, shaking. Nauseated. The marks on my throat throb with each pulse.
This is what Father sold me to.
* * *
The ceremony unfolds like a nightmare dressed in flowers.
I stand before the gothi in white silk that feels like burial shrouds. Bjorn beside me plays the devoted groom—tender touches, soft smiles, every gesture calculated for our audience.
Father beams with pride at his successful transaction. Mother dabs at tears she probably believes are real.
The words of binding pour over me like ice water. Each vow another bar in my cage.
"Do you, Astrid Ragnardóttir, take this man as your husband, to honor and obey, to bear his children and keep his hearth?"
"I do," I lie.
The words taste like ash.
The feast erupts around us. Music, laughter, endless toasts. Bjorn plays his part perfectly—touching my hand, whispering sweet lies for witnesses. His eyes promise violence.
I die inside with each smile. Each pretense that this is anything but a cage.
The gothi raises his hands for the final blessing that will seal us before gods and law. "By the power vested in me, I call upon—"
The hall doors explode inward.
Úlfheim warriors flood in like a black tide, weapons drawn, moving with the precision of a planned attack. Women scream. Men scramble for weapons. Tables overturn, mead and blood mixing on the floor.
Bjorn's hand clamps on my wrist. "Stay behind me—"
But the northern warriors move with precision, cutting through defenders like a blade through flesh. They're here for something specific.
A broad-shouldered warrior strides to the center. Gunnar.
"Jarl Ragnar," his voice cuts through the chaos. "We've come to collect what was promised."
"How dare you!" Father surges to his feet. "This is a wedding feast! Sacred ground!"
"Sacred?" Gunnar laughs. "Like the oath you swore to our previous jarl? The one where you promised him your daughter over two years ago?"
The hall goes silent. Every eye turns to my father.
"That agreement died with your jarl," Father says, but his voice wavers.
"Oaths don't die with men," Gunnar says. "They pass to successors. And the new Jarl of Úlfheim has come to collect his bride—the one you sold to Bjornheim after already promising her to us."
"I made a better arrangement—"
"You made an oath-breaker of yourself." Gunnar's men fan out, controlling exits. "The girl comes with us. Payment for your dishonor and to prevent an alliance that threatens Úlfheim's borders."
Bjorn draws his sword. "She's my wife!"
"The blessing wasn't completed," Gunnar observes mildly. "She's no one's wife."
What follows is swift and brutal. The Úlfheim warriors are ready; ours are drunk and scattered. They cut through resistance like wind through wheat.
Someone grabs me—dragging me toward the doors while Father screams about wars and consequences. The last thing I see is Bjorn on his knees, Gunnar's blade at his throat, rage and humiliation twisting his pretty features into something monstrous.
They bundle me onto a dragon-prowed ship. I'm left on deck, wedding dress salt-stained and ruined, watching my home burn with Viking efficiency.
The man guides me to the ship's stern where a figure stands cloaked in shadow, watching the flames.
"I've brought her as commanded, Jarl Grimsson," Gunnar announces formally.
The figure turns and the world tilts off its axis.
Storm-gray eyes meet mine, a slight smile playing at his lips. The same hands that held me in the boathouse now wear rings of authority. The same voice that whispered my name like prayer now carries command.
"Hello, little seer," Erik says softly. "I told you everything would change after your wedding. I just didn't specify I'd be the one changing it."
Understanding crashes through me.
Not just a warrior. The jarl. The Bloodwolf.
Rage ignites in my chest—white-hot and blinding. The betrayal hits like a physical blow. I strike him across the face with all my strength, feeling his head snap to the side, leaving my handprint blazing across his cheek.
"You're the Bloodwolf." I spit the name like a curse. "You're the monster—"
He catches my wrists as I swing again, pulling me against him with controlled force. Around us, his men suddenly find other places to be.
"I'm the man who was promised a bride and had her stolen." His eyes hold mine as his hand slides to my waist. "You were always mine. You were taken from me before we ever met. I've simply come to claim what the gods themselves ordained."
"By kidnapping me?" I struggle against his hold. "By attacking my home?"
"By saving you from a man who would have broken you." His jaw tightens. "I saw the marks on your throat, Astrid. I know what Bjorn promised you this morning."
The words steal my breath.
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
"The difference between Bjorn and me?" He backs me against the ship's rail, close enough that I feel his heat. "I'll make you choose to stay."