I came to these craggy fjords as a prisoner, chains biting my wrists, my outcast blood the key to their sacred prophecy.
They needed a vessel for their future warriors, someone foreign enough to taint the ritual with forbidden seed. Me.
Defiance burned in my gut, a snarl against the mist-veiled longhouse where fate decided to break me.
He was the one chosen to do it.
This Viking warrior, all stoic muscle and clan-bound duty, his gravelly voice vowing to fill me under firelit haze.
I spat curses at first, fought every unyielding grip, but his touch cracked something deep, turning hate into a reckless hunger I couldn't name.
Sweat-glistened skin sliding together in ritual rhythm, anger exploding into releases that bridged our worlds.
Duty chained him as much as my irons chained me.
His loyalty to gods and kin clashed with the vulnerability he hid, braiding my hair at dawn like quiet possession won.
Every breeding thrust a blasphemy, pleasure twisting my pride into obsessive surrender, his seed a profane mark no rival could erase.
One jealous clansman whispers of betrayal already.
Prophecy demands purity; I've defiled it with my fire.
Freedom slips away, my self-respect fractures under his gaze, and his life hangs if they discover how his soul bends toward mine.
I fought it hard, but now his claim owns every defiant beat of my heart.
What if surrender dooms us both before I can steal his loyalty for keeps?
