I claimed her from the ashes of her raided village.
A spoil of war, spitting defiance with every breath, her eyes like sharpened steel promising vengeance.
But beneath that fury, I saw it. The tremble. The unspoken plea for a conqueror to break her wide open.
She fights me with nails and teeth. Calls me monster in the torchlit longhouse, fjords howling outside like jealous gods.
Yet when I pin her down, sweat-slick skin sliding against fur pelts, her body betrays her. Arches into the invasion.
I've ruled these mist-veiled shores with bloodied axe and iron will.
No woman has ever made me falter. Until her.
Blood streaks our hands, locked in the storehouse's stifling dark, where I force her thighs apart and plant my seed deep.
She curses my name, but her hips buck wild, womb clenching like it hungers for the enemy inside.
This is no mere bedding. It's conquest. It's the savage bloom of my heir in her belly, binding foe to thrall.
Her pride is a fortress I crave to shatter.
She needs belonging like a storm needs thunder, but won't yield. Not to the Viking who razed her world.
I growl possession into her ear, gravel-rough promises of protection no other man could give.
Tenderness slips through my grip, unwanted. A jarl's heart cracking for the captive who sees my scars.
Every thrust claims more than flesh. Soul-deep. Impossible.
Fjord winds whip our cloaks during the storm-lashed nights she finally surrenders, body quaking under mine.
But her spirit? Still a blade at my throat.
Will her womb forge the chain that tames me, or will our hate-fueled fire burn us to mist and bone?
