Ragnar stopped walking and turned to face her, his blue eyes blazing. “I care.” He said, his hand lifting. “More than is probably wise,” he cupped her cheek with a gentleness that made her throat tight. “And I dinnae care what anyone says—ye dinnae make me weak.”
His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and Isolda’s pulse hammered so loudly against her ribs she was certain he could hear it.
“Ye make me want tae build somethin’ worth protectin’ instead of just survivin’, Isolda.”
She was suddenly acutely aware of how close he stood—she could see the pulse beating wildly at his throat and her own breath came faster as heat crawled up her neck and settled in her cheeks.
I should step back, I should…
“I ken ye didnae choose this, little wolf,” he said quietly. “Didnae choose me. But I’m tellin’ ye straight, Isolda—I choose ye. Every day I still have breath in me lungs I’ll choose ye.”
The words hit her like a fist to the sternum—quick, brutal. Isolda’s vision blurred at the edges and she had to concentrate to force air into her lungs.
Her eyes latched onto the tavern across the square and through the door she caught firelight and the rumble of rough voices, the kind of noise that was perfect for drowning out the thundering in her chest.
“I need a drink.”
Ragnar’s hand dropped from her face and he looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “What?”
“The tavern,” she nodded toward it, already moving forward before he could refuse. “’Tis been a long day, and I’m parched.”
“Isolda—”
“Unless ye’d rather have yer bride faint in the middle of the square?” she threw the words over her shoulder, not slowing.
His boots scuffed against the packed earth as he caught up. “That’s nae a place fer?—”
“If ye say ‘lady’ I’m goin’ tae kick ye.”
His hand caught her elbow, slowing her slightly. “Let me take ye back tae the keep, ye can?—”
“I want ale. And noise. And tae sit somewhere fer five minutes that’s nae that bloody castle!”
“It’ll be loud. And rough.” Ragnar said, his voice edged. “These folk dinnae mind their tongues after a few cups.”
“Good.” She pulled free and kept walking. “Maybe they’ll say somethin’ interestin’ fer once.”
“Isolda, I dinnae?—”
“Are ye comin’, or nae?” she said, still not looking back. “Because I’m goin’ either way, and ye can follow, or ye can try tae explain tae everyone why ye let me wander intae a tavern alone.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Ragnar made that low grunting sound he made when she’d successfully backed himinto a corner—half frustration, half admiration. “Ye’re a bloody menace, woman!”
“That I am.” She finally glanced back, catching his eye. “And ye choose it anyway.”
The tavern door swung open under her palm, releasing a blast of warmth and noise and the yeasty smell of fresh ale. Isolda stepped inside without hesitation, Ragnar a half-step behind her, and every conversation in the room died mid-sentence.
She felt the weight of their stares but all she could focus on was the wild hammering of her pulse and the impossible, inconceivable notion that for the first time in her life, someone had stood up for her, stood in her corner—and meant it.
The only question left was what she planned to do about it.