In the longhouse, Ewan stood alone, still before the hearth. The scent of her still clung faintly to the furs. He shouldn't have touched her.
But he did.
And worse, her scent wasn't fading.
The door creaked behind him.
He turned, expecting Rollo, or maybe a messenger.
Draped in a burgundy robe, Freya's hair was intricately braided and fell over her shoulder like woven gold. Her cheeks were flushed, lips painted with crushed berries.
Every inch of her was the kind of beauty men sang about in the mead halls. The kind of woman a leader was expected to take to their bed and make sons with.
"Jarl," she said softly, stepping forward.
He watched her in silence.
I came to see if you needed anything." she whispered.
He didn't move.
"You've carried a lot on your shoulders lately," she murmured, trailing her fingers up toward his throat. "Maybe you need something to warm your blood."
He caught her wrist.
"Freya."
"Yes?" she breathed, lips parting slightly.
"Not tonight."
The words cut like cold steel.
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
She searched his face and saw the wall already rebuilt between them.
The next morning, the hall was filled with heavy silence. The great oak doors creaked open as Ewan entered, cloaked in black and bearing the weight of leadership with every step. His warriors stood at attention. The war chiefs were already present, including Hrothgar, his eyes colder than ice, his fur-lined mantle draped with silent arrogance.
But it wasn't Hrothgar who caught Ewan's attention.
It was the man beside him.
Tall, scarred. Eyes like wolves.
And familiar.
Too familiar.
The hall stirred, confused murmurs rising as the Ewan froze mid-step. The man stepped forward, grinning like a dog let off a chain.
"My Jarl," he said with mock warmth. "Did you miss me?"
Ewan's eyes darken like a gathering storm. "You dare set foot in this hall?"
The Elders looked among themselves, unsure if they were watching a reckoning or a coup.
Hrothgar stepped in calmly, voice like smoke.
"Jarl...he comes not as a threat, but as a son of this clan. One who has paid for his crimes in exile. He returns now, not in defiance, but in claim."
"Claim?" Ewan growled.
"He's one of your blood," Hrothgar said. "And blood does not disappear with banishment."
"You forget," Ewan said through clenched teeth. "he raped a woman and murdered her husband in cold blood."
"Aye," Eirik said, grinning. "And I've paid for it with years of frost and hunger, while you grew fat on a throne that should've been ours."
The room pulsed with tension. Hands hovered near blades.
"Let the Elders decide if banishment is eternal, or if redemption is still a right." Hrothgar declared.
Ewan's jaw tightened. "You planned this."
Hrothgar didn't blink. "You left yourself open, Jarl. Hearts don't stay loyal when they see you carried away with a noble woman who is not like us like a lovesick boy."
Ewan's knuckles turned white.
"I thought I'd never say this," Hrothgar continued smoothly. "but it is time for the clan to consider... other heirs."
Eirik turned and nodded at Freya, who had just entered the hall. She was dressed like a bride in ivory furs, silver bands on her wrist, her golden hair braided like a queen.
"Freya," Hrothgar said with quiet pride, "meet your future husband."
She bowed, though her lips twitched with cruel satisfaction.
"She'll be the crown beside him," he added, turning back to the chiefs. "And I, of course, will pledge the full strength of my men to this union."
The room stirred. Some murmuring, some nodding in thought.
Ewan stood silent.
The fire was the only light in the Jarl's chamber. He stood heavy with thought when the door opened.
Isabelle stepped in.
Her breath was visible in the cold, her cheeks flushed, not just from the air. She wore no cloak, just her tunic and dark hair tumbling down her waist.
Ewan's eyes met hers.
And the storm in him broke.
He didn't speak. Just stepped forward, towering over her, slowly like a man walking into a fire he knew would burn him.
"You're cold."
She took a shaky breath as he stopped in front of her. "I heard about your brother," she said softly. "They say it's because of me."
His jaw twitched. "It's not you."
He reached for her, not like a man kissing a woman, but like a drowning man finding air. He crushed her against him, one arm locked tight around her waist, the other tangling into her hair as his mouth found hers.
It was fire and hunger and everything they'd both tried to bury. His lips moved over hers fiercely, hungrily, parting her mouth like he had to prove she was real.
She gasped into him, hands fisting into his silk shirt. Her back hit the nearest post as he pinned her there, his hands sliding down her waist, gripping her hip with need that made her knees buckle.
"Holy gods, Isabelle." he muttered against her lips, dragging in a breath, forehead resting against hers. "I shouldn't..."
She kissed him this time.
His mouth met hers again, a collision of fear and desire, her fingers threading into his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He growled low in his throat, like the beast he'd been holding back for days. His hands cupped the back of her neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse there as if to make sure she was alive.
"You make me mad." he whispered, lips brushing hers. "burning me like this."
"Then, stop me." she said.
He kissed her again. Slower and deeper like he was tasting her soul. His lips moved across her mouth, then down to her jaw. He pressed a kiss there gently and reverently.
She closed her eyes, chest rising and falling, her legs trembling from what he made her feel.
"If Eirik takes the throne," he said, voice husky. "you'll never be safe. Not as a noble. Not as anything."
She stared up at him. "You have to choose, Isabelle. Stay with me, or return to your noble blood."
She swallowed. "What do I need to do?"
"Marry me. Tonight. In front of the chiefs who still stand with me. In front of the gods. I'll summon them to the shrine. Eirik won't know. But they will swear loyalty to us both."
Her eyes shimmered.
And then she smiled slowly.
"Yes."
He kissed her with the possessive stillness of a man who had finally found what was his.
The shrine pulsed with quiet power. Ancient and cold, it was carved into stone that had known both sacrifice and oaths.
Isabelle stepped through the torchlit corridor with Rollo at her side. Her sisters stood by her side, smiling. Tonight she moved like a queen, dark hair braided with silver rings, black dress sweeping the ground.
Ewan turned the moment he saw her and for a moment, his world stopped.
He took her hand. "You honor me." he said, turning to the ten chieftains gathered near the altar, men who had bled for the clan.
"You know why we meet under stars and not the high sun." Ewan began. "My brother seeks the throne not by honor, but through shadow. He believes I'm distracted."
He looked at Isabelle. "But we are not weakened."
He faced the altar again. "She's not a chain, she's my steel. So, I bind myself to her tonight in blood. So the gods will witness it."
He motioned towards a small iron bowl filled with embers and a curved ceremonial dagger resting beside it.
Isabelle stepped to him without hesitation. Together, they picked up the blade, his hand over hers, and drew the edge across each other palms. Blood welled up, warm and bright beneath the firelight.
Rollo stepped forward with the binding cord, he wound it around their joined hands. One by one, the Elders stepped forward, striking their fists over their chests.
"We follow Jarl," each one repeated the vow. "And his queen."
When the last had spoken, Ewan turned to Isabelle.
The kiss was not for heat, but for claim. A bond sealed with fire and blood. His hands held her waist as his mouth moved slowly over hers, like a storm promising to return again and again.
And when they parted, their bound hands still together, he turned back to the gathered warriors.
"Let it be known before the gods and men that she is your queen."