The fortress was not made for comfort. It was built to withstand sieges and storms, carved from black stone and bone-chilling silence. As Rorik carried her through the gate, Aella memorized every torch, every stair, every watchtower. Not out of fear. Out of strategy.
The hall they entered smelled of smoke and iron. Men turned to look — hard-eyed warriors, their faces marked with scars and inked with runes. She was thrown over Rorik’s shoulder like plunder, and she hated how no one questioned it.
He set her down inside a massive chamber lit by a hearth the size of a cart. Furs lay thick across the stone floor, and weapons hung like trophies on the walls.
“This is my space,” he said. “Yours, now.”
She looked around slowly. “Not yours to give.”
Rorik smiled. “Everything is mine to give.”
She crossed her arms. “Then give me my freedom.”
It wasn’t cruel. It was final. The way a cliff denies flight.
He moved to the fire, pulled off his furs, leaving only a sleeveless tunic beneath. His arms were marked with swirling tattoos — not decorative, but ritualistic. She couldn’t read them, but she felt them watching.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
He turned. “Because I saw you in flame and wanted you.”
“That’s not reason. That’s madness.”
He stepped close, and she backed up until her spine met the wall.
His hand came up, fingers tracing her collar.
“Madness is kissing the fire,” he said, “and asking it to love you back.”
She shoved his hand away.
He only smiled. “Still burning.”
That night, she tried to run.
She slipped through the outer door, barefoot, wrapped in furs stolen from the floor. The cold hit like a slap. Snow rose to her knees. The wind sliced through her skin.
She made it as far as the stables before he found her.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t strike her. He stepped into her path and said, “You would die before the trees. You know this.”
“I’d rather freeze than be your pet.”
“Then what?” she snarled. “A prize? A trophy?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, backed her into the stable wall.
Her heart thundered. But she didn’t look away.
“I am not afraid of you,” she whispered.
“You should be,” he said.
It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and tongue and fury. It was a clash of will and need. She bit his lip, tasted blood, and he growled like a wolf and pressed harder.
His hands found her waist, dragged her against him. She felt the heat of him even through the cold.
And when he lifted her — arms beneath her thighs, back against the wall — she didn’t protest.
He pulled back, breathing hard. “Say stop.”
He reached under the furs, found bare skin, and she gasped as his fingers slid along her heat.
“Still burning,” he whispered.
He took her there — in the stables, against cold stone and old hay. She clung to him, not because she was weak, but because she didn’t want to fall.
And when it was over, he carried her back like she weighed nothing.
