Beside him, Isolda sat frozen—hands folded in her lap, staring at her empty plate like she was willing it to swallow her whole.
Ivar blinked. “I’m just?—”
“I ken what ye’re daein’.” Ragnar set the bread on his plate, then reached for the butter. “And ye’re done.” The table went silent. “She’s me wife,” he continued, his tone mild but his eyes hard. “What happens in our chamber is between us. Nae fodder fer yer entertainment, Raven.”
Ivar had the grace to look abashed. “I didnae mean?—”
“Aye, ye did.” Ragnar held his gaze until he looked away sheepishly. “Now eat yer breakfast and stop bein’ an arse.”
He turned his attention to Isolda, who’d gone so still she might as well have been petrified. Her hands still lay in her lap, but her knuckles were white. Ragnar tore off another piece of bread and balanced it on the side of his plate closest to her. “Ye need tae eat.”
She didn’t look up. “I’m nae hungry.”
“Ye will be later.” He buttered his bread, “Long day ahead of ye.”
Around them, conversation resumed—Erik asking Claricia what she needed before departing, Magnus checking in with baby Astrid who was fast asleep against Ada’s chest—the rhythms of normal life, as if Isolda’s mortification wasn’t sitting between them all like a living thing.
Ragnar ate his bread, focused on chewing, swallowing—but he remained aware of every breath Isolda took, every shift in her posture.
Then, so subtly he’d almost missed it, she leaned in, her hand flitting toward him. Ragnar froze as her fingers hovered over the thick slice of bread he’d set aside on the edge of his plate—the piece he had saved for last, the one with the crispiest crust.
Go on then, lass.
She glanced at him sideways, but Ragnar kept perfectly still, focused on his meal. Her fingers closed around the bread and she pulled it over to her plate quick as a thief—like she half expected him to snatch it back. Then she buttered it with steady hands, took a bite, and kept eating like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t just stolen bread from a Viking jarl who had killed men for less.
She’s comfortable enough tae steal from me now. That’s… somethin’, I guess.
Across the table, Freyr had gone still, his dark eyes flitting between Isolda’s plate and Ragnar’s face, lingering on the bread. One eyebrow climbed toward his hairline, and his mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close.
He lifted his cup in a small, private salute before taking a drink.
“So,” Ivar said. “Now that the deed is done and the alliance properly sealed, what’s next?”
“Harald and Enya are expectin’ their bairn any day now,” Erik said. “After that, there’s still one more union tae fulfill the Pact.”
“Aye, poor bastard.” Ivar shook his head mournfully. “Whoever the King chooses fer that particular sacrifice has me deepest sympathies.”
Magnus gave him a flat look. “Ye’rethe last one, Ivar.”
“Am I?” Ivar blinked with exaggerated innocence. “I hadnae noticed.”
Erik cut in, his tone carrying warning. “Ye’re nae goin’ tae wiggle yer way out if it, Ivar.”
Ivar reached for the pitcher with the expression of a man watching his own execution approach. “I could flee. I hear Ireland is?—”
“Ye’d be dragged back by yer ears.” Magnus observed.
“The Orkneys then. Very remote part?—”
“The King found Ragnar on Uist,” Ada pointed out. “He’ll find ye nae matter where ye go.”
“Hmmm.” Ivar’s finger tapped his chin. “I could fake me own death—very convincingly, mind ye. Theatrics come naturally tae?—”
“We’ve noticed.” Erik said, his tone dry.
Isolda made a small sound then—almost a laugh, though quickly stifled. When Ragnar glanced at her, she was pressing her lips together, eyes bright with suppressed amusement as Ivar’s suggestions became increasingly desperate.