“Aye. Though in yer case, I believe the word used was ‘exhaustin’.”
“Hah! The lady daesnae just have teeth—she’s got venom tae go with them. I’m almost jealous, Ragnar—most men only get one or the other.”
Ragnar’s mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”
Ivar leaned back in his chair. “Are ye certain ye didnae accidentally wed a Valkyrie instead of a Highland lass?”
“If I had,” Ragnar said mildly, “ye’d be the first she’d claim.”
Erik choked on his mead. Magnus’s mouth twitched.
Servants appeared with laden trenchers, but Isolda only picked at her food. Beside her, Ragnar ate leisurely, but she caught him glancing at her untouched plate more than once.
“That fish isnae goin’ tae eat itself,” he said quietly.
“I’m nae hungry.”
“Ye picked like a wee bird at breakfast too.”
“Must ye noticeeverythin’?” She stabbed a turnip.
“I try.” He took a sip of ale, then added, “Ye’ve quite the death grip on that fork, little wolf.”
Isolda stared at her white knuckles.
“Here.” Ragnar reached past her for the mead flagon, refilling her cup. “Might help settle yer nerves.”
She drained half the cup, painfully aware of him tracking the movement of her throat. When she set it down, she found him watching her with an expression that made her pulse race.
“Why are ye lookin’ at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like...” She gestured vaguely. “Like ye’re thinkin’ somethin’ ye shouldnae be.”
His mouth curved. “Who says I shouldnae be thinkin’ it?”
“Ye’restarin’. I ken Vikings have terrible manners, but ‘tis still rude.”
“I’mmemorizin’.” His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the noise around them. “Every detail of ye. The way yer pulse races in that hollow at the base of yer throat, beatin’ wild.” His gaze traced deliberately down, then back up. “The way yer breath catches when I get too close—that little hitch that tells me yer body kens what’s comin’ even if yer mind daesnae want tae admit it yet.” His attention fixed on her mouth. “How ye keep bitin’ that lower lip. Makes me wonder what it’ll taste like when I finally get me mouth on it.”
Isolda’s breath caught audibly.
“So aye, little wolf, I’m starin’. Because ye’re mine. And I intend tae ken every inch of ye.”
Heat pooled low in her belly—that strange, restless aching that made her want to squirm in her seat.
Handsome as sin. And twice as bloody dangerous.
The feast continued while warriors challenged each other to drinking contests and the music grew wilder, the tempo picking up until Isolda could feel it in her skull. She endured it all, her practiced smile firmly in place while her fingers twisted in her lap.
The sun had set by the time they rose from the table. As they made their way from the Great Hall, Isolda kept her focus fixed on the torches lining the corridor. Every step felt heavier than the last. Each face they passed beamed with knowing grins that made her face burn.
Ragnar walked beside her, his arm brushing hers with each stride.
This is really happenin’. I’m nae ready... I’ll never be ready fer?—
“Ye’re scowlin’,” Ragnar said quietly as they turned down the final corridor.