“Och, dinnae be so dramatic. Just… breathe through it.”
“Iambreathin’.”
“Ye’re huffin’ and puffin’ at me, and it isnae helpin’.”
His shoulders dropped fractionally, and a long exhale left his chest.
She worked in silence for a time, weaving the sections over and under with care, keeping the braid close to his scalp the way she’d seen the other Norse warriors wear theirs. The rhythm was soothing—repetitive, intimate, the kind of quiet, domestic closeness she’d never imagined sharing with anyone, let alone a man like him.
Her fingers grazed the skin behind his ear, and he shivered. “I’ve never let anyone touch me like this.”
The words came out low, barely above a breath, and the raw honesty in them made her hands go still.
“After me faither.” He swallowed. “I couldnae—” He stopped, swallowed hard, then started again. “When people touched me it felt like somethin’ was about tae be taken from me that I couldnae get back. I dinnae ken how tae explain it.”
She resumed her braiding slowly. Each pass deliberate and unhurried, a quiet answer to the fear he’d carried alone for half his life.
“Ye’re safe with me, Ragnar.” she said. It was the simplest truth she had.
His head bowed forward slightly, and for a terrible, beautiful moment, she felt the tremor that ran through him—a single, involuntary shudder, like a wall cracking under the weight of something it had held too long.
She finished the braid and tied it off with a leather cord from the nightstand, securing it properly so it would hold through whatever the day threw at him. Then she pressed her lips to the crown of his head, lingering there, breathing him in.
He turned. His hands found her hips, drawing her between his parted knees, and when he looked up at her, his blue eyes were stripped of every defense he’d ever built, heartbreaking in their tenderness.
“Ye’re the family I prayed fer,” she whispered. “When I was a wee lass, I’d spend days prayin’ fer someone tae belong tae. Someone who’d let themselves belong tae me.” Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze. “I prayed fer ye, Ragnar. I just didnae ken it yet.”
His grip tightened on her hips. His jaw worked once, twice, and then he pulled her closer and kissed her.
It was not the wild, consuming kiss of the night before. It was tender and slow and devastating in a way that felt more intimate than anything their bodies had done in the dark. His mouth moved over hers with careful intent, one hand rising to cup herjaw. She felt the brush of his lashes against her skin when he pressed his forehead to hers.
Isolda pulled back before the heat building between them could reroute the entire morning.
“Come.” She tugged his hand. “Before Cook feeds our breakfast tae the dogs.”
He stood, caught her waist, pressed his mouth to her temple. “Ye ken there’ll be talk about this.”
“About what?”
He touched the braid with a look of mild resignation.
“Aye, well.” She straightened his tunic with a briskness that belied the tremor in her fingers. “Let’s go hear what everyone has tae say about it then.”
The Great Hall was already bustling with noise when they arrived—warriors packed along the benches, the din of voices ricocheting off stone and high timber. The smell of peat smoke and salted herring hung in the air, and morning light cut through the high windows in hazy shafts.
Ragnar walked in and felt every pair of eyes in the room land on his head.
Freyr saw it first.
He had been mid-drink, cup raised, some conversation with Gunnar dying on his lips. He froze and his gray eyes traveled from Ragnar’s face to the braid, lingered there, then returned to his face with the slow, deliberate precision of a man who wanted to make absolutely certain he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Then his mouth split into a grin so wide it threatened to crack his jaw.
“Well,” Freyr said, loud enough to carry. “Would ye look at that.”
Ragnar pulled Isolda’s chair out, waited until she was seated, and took his own place at the high table without acknowledging the comment.
“New style, me laird?” Freyr leaned back, arms folded. “Very... refined.”