“Why nae?”
“Because I’m already hangin’ on tae me honor by a thread, and ye’re testin’ the strength of that thread wi’ every glance that comes me way.”
Her breath caught. “I didnae mean?—”
Ragnar shifted forward slightly, the movement sending ripples through the water. “Och, I think ye ken exactly what ye’re daein’ tae me… sittin’ there wi’ yer hair floatin’ around ye like ye’re some sort of siren from the old tales, lookin’ at me like…” he broke off, shaking his head. “I need tae go before I dae somethin’ we’ll both regret.”
“Would we?” the question burst out before she could think better of it. “Regret it?”
His eyes locked onto hers, devastatingly blue and molten. “Ask me that again tomorrow, little wolf. When I havenae got ye naked and wet within’ arm’s reach, and maybe I’ll give ye an honest answer.”
Then, he stood.
Water ran off him in sheets, the light catching on his wet skin and the hard lines of sculpted muscles. Scars mapped his body—some old and silvery, some newer and still pink. They spoke testament to every battle, every fight, every moment of violence that had shaped him into the man he was.
Her eyes drifted lower to where the shadows only partially hid his manhood and she wrenched her gaze away, gulping so hard she was certain he could hear hit.
“I have tae go.” He said, his voice strained, scraped raw as he reached for a cloth from the bench and wrapped it around his waist. The linen clung to his wet skin, outlining everything it was meant to hide.
“Ragnar—”
“Dinnae.” The single word came out sharp, and he softened his voice. “Dinnae say me name like that. Nae taenight.”
He was gone before she could respond, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed through the space like a death knell.
Isolda remained in the water, trembling despite the heat, her mind spinning with images she could never unsee—the shape of him, the strength, the barely leashed power and the pure, raw masculinity.
And then there was the way he’d looked at her—like a man on the edge of breaking.
She pressed her palms to her face, feeling the wild flutter of her own pulse.
They had crossed a line—perhaps not physically, but in every other way that mattered.
And there was no going back.