Chapter One: Vikings in Love

The plane touched down at Copenhagen Airport with a gentle shudder, the wheels skimming the tarmac before settling into a steady roll. Helga Jensen pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the gray expanse of runway blur past. She exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the pane for just a moment. Finally. After years of dreaming, of sketching fjords and longships in the margins of her notebooks, she was here. The weight of her camera bag dug into her shoulder, but she didn’t adjust it. The discomfort was a small price to pay for the anticipation humming beneath her skin.

She had dressed carefully for the journey—a loose-fitting linen shirt in a muted sage green, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark jeans that had softened with wear, and her sturdiest boots, the leather scuffed from years of studio work and city streets. A silver cuff, one of her own designs, glinted at her wrist, its surface etched with delicate, knot-like patterns inspired by the Viking artifacts she’d studied in books. Her hair, that stubborn reddish-brown mass, had been tamed into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, though tendrils had already escaped, curling against her temples.

The cabin lights flickered on, and the chorus of seatbelts unclicking filled the air. Helga gathered her things methodically—her sketchbook, tucked into the pocket of her bag; her passport, its pages now stamped with the ink of arrival; a crumpled receipt from the café in Reykjavik where she’d stopped for coffee during her layover. She slung the camera bag over her shoulder and hoisted her backpack, the straps digging into her palms. The weight was familiar, comforting. It grounded her.

Stepping into the terminal was like walking into a gust of wind. The air was cool and dry, carrying the scent of polished floors and something faintly metallic, the hum of voices bouncing off the high ceilings. She followed the signs toward baggage claim, her boots thudding softly against the tile. The airport was a symphony of movement—rolling suitcases, hurried strides, the occasional laugh cutting through the murmur. Helga kept to the side, her gaze flicking over the signs until she spotted the one she’d been waiting for: Scandinavian Heritage Tours. A cluster of people had already gathered beneath it, their postures varying from the slouch of exhaustion to the eager straightness of anticipation.

And then she saw him.

He stood slightly apart from the group, one shoulder leaning against a pillar as if he’d been carved into the space. Tall—easily a head taller than most of the others—and broad-shouldered, his frame filled out with the kind of strength that spoke of labor, of wind and water and weight lifted without hesitation. His hair was blond, short but thick, the waves tousled as though he’d just removed a hat, and his beard, neatly trimmed, framed a mouth that seemed built for smiling. He was wearing a dark wool sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, and a leather jacket that had seen years of use, its creases telling stories she itched to know. Around his neck, a silver pendant caught the light—a twisted knot of metal, intricate and deliberate.

Helga’s fingers twitched at her sides. She wanted to sketch him. Not just the lines of his face, but the way he held himself, the quiet confidence in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes—blue, she realized as he glanced up—scanned the crowd with a mix of warmth and assessment.

A woman nearby shifted, her suitcase rolling into Helga’s path. The interruption broke her stare, and she stepped forward, adjusting the strap of her bag. The group was a mix of ages and nationalities, their voices weaving together in a patchwork of accents. A middle-aged couple murmured to each other in German, their hands clasped. A young man with a camera nearly as large as his torso fiddled with the lens, his excitement palpable. And then there was the guide.

He pushed off from the pillar as she approached, his boots—sturdy, dark leather, well-worn—carrying him toward the group with an easy stride. “Velkommen,” he said, his voice rich and smooth, the kind of timbre that made you lean in without realizing it. “Or, for those who don’t speak Danish—welcome to Copenhagen. I’m Bjorn Bergesen, and I’ll be your guide for the next two weeks.”

Helga’s name was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back, listening instead as he began to speak. His English was flawless, his words punctuated with the occasional roll of an r or the soft lilt of his native tongue. He explained the itinerary with the ease of someone who had done this many times before, but there was no rote recitation in his tone. When he spoke of the Viking ship replica they’d sail on tomorrow, his eyes lit up, the blue deepening like the sea before a storm. “It’s as close as you can get to the real thing,” he said, his hand resting briefly on the pendant at his chest. “Built by craftsmen using the same techniques our ancestors did. You’ll feel the wind in the sails, the pull of the oars. It’s not just history—it’s alive.”

Helga’s pulse jumped. She had read about the ship, had seen photographs, but hearing him describe it made it real in a way she hadn’t expected. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into skin. She wanted to ask him questions—about the wood, the sails, the way the ship would cut through the water—but the words tangled in her throat.

Bjorn finished his introduction and gestured toward the exit. “Our bus is waiting. We’ll drop your bags at the hotel, then head to dinner. You’ll want to try real Danish food your first night here—none of that tourist trap smørrebrød.” A few people chuckled, and the group began to move, a slow tide of rolling bags and murmured conversation.

Helga hung back slightly, letting the others filter ahead of her. She didn’t want to be jostled, didn’t want to lose the thread of her thoughts. Bjorn noticed. Of course he did. He turned, his gaze finding hers with an ease that made her breath catch. “You’re Helga, right?” he asked, his voice dropping just enough to feel intimate amidst the noise.

She nodded, suddenly hyperaware of the way her hair had come loose, the way her shirt was probably wrinkled from the flight. “Yeah. Helga Jensen.”

His smile was slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring the sound of her name. “I saw your registration. Artist, yes?”

“Sculptor. Mostly.” She shifted her weight, the camera bag suddenly feeling heavier. “And painter, when the mood strikes.”

“A woman of many talents.” His eyes flicked to her cuff, the silver catching the light. “Did you make that?”

She touched it instinctively, her thumb tracing the etched lines. “Yeah. It’s… inspired by the Jelling stones.”

His eyebrows lifted, pleasure flashing across his features. “You know your history.”

“Enough to be dangerous.” The words came out lighter than she’d intended, and she found herself smiling back at him.

He laughed, a warm, rich sound that made something in her chest tighten. “Dangerous is good. Keeps things interesting.” He gestured for her to walk beside him as they followed the group. “Tell me, Helga Jensen, what made you choose this tour? Most people come for the castles or the fairy tales. Not many ask to sail on a Viking ship their first day.”

She glanced at him, then away, her gaze landing on the back of the young man with the camera. “I’ve always been obsessed with the sagas. The way they tell stories—not just the words, but the weight of them. The way history feels alive in those pages.” She hesitated, then added, quieter, “I wanted to feel that. Not just read about it.”

Bjorn was silent for a long moment. When she risked a look at him, his expression was thoughtful, his fingers tapping lightly against his thigh. “You’re not just here to sightsee,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” she admitted. “I’m here to see. There’s a difference.”

He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then nodded, as if she’d passed some unspoken test. “Then you’re in the right place.”

---

The restaurant was a narrow, timber-framed building tucked into a cobblestone street, its windows glowing with warm light. The sign above the door read Kødbyens Fiskebar in elegant, faded lettering, and the scent of butter and herbs and something briny and fresh wrapped around them as they stepped inside. The interior was a mix of rustic and refined—exposed beams, whitewashed walls, tables set with heavy ceramic plates and linen napkins. A chalkboard listed the day’s catch in looping Danish script.

Bjorn led them to a long table near the back, already set for their group. Helga slid into a seat near the end, her back to the wall so she could take in the room. The others settled around her, the murmur of conversation rising as menus were passed out. Bjorn took the seat at the head of the table, but his attention kept flickering toward her, as if he were checking to make sure she was still there.

A waiter appeared, his apron stained with what looked like years of service, and began reciting the specials in rapid Danish. Bjorn translated effortlessly, his voice weaving between the two languages with practiced ease. “Today’s stew is made with cod from the North Sea, caught this morning. The rye bread is baked in-house, and if you don’t try the pickled herring, I’ll have to revoke your Scandinavian privileges.”

Helga laughed, the sound surprising her. She hadn’t expected to feel this at ease, not so quickly. But there was something about the way he spoke, the way his hands moved when he described the food—broad, expressive gestures that made her think of an artist at work, though his medium was words and history rather than clay or paint.

She ordered the cod stew, along with a side of the herring, just to prove she could. Bjorn watched her with amusement, then turned to the waiter and added, “And bring us a round of snaps to start. The good stuff.”

The man nodded and disappeared, and Helga raised an eyebrow. “Snaps? Isn’t that…”

“Strong?” Bjorn grinned. “Yes. But it’s tradition. You can’t eat herring without it.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying him. “You take your traditions seriously.”

His smile faded just a fraction, his fingers brushing against the pendant at his throat. “Some things are worth holding onto.”

The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been. Helga looked away first, her gaze landing on the artwork adorning the walls—black-and-white photographs of fishermen, their faces weathered by wind and salt. She wondered what stories those men could tell, what weight their hands had carried.

The snaps arrived in small, frosted glasses, the liquid clear and sharp-smelling. Bjorn lifted his in a toast. “Skål,” he said, his voice resonant.

“Skål,” the group echoed, glasses clinking.

Helga took a sip—and immediately coughed, her eyes watering. The liquor burned down her throat, fiery and bright, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Bjorn laughed, the sound rich and unapologetic, and slid a glass of water toward her. “First time?”

She nodded, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “God, that’s intense.”

“It’s supposed to be.” His knee brushed against hers beneath the table, just for a second, but the contact sent a jolt through her. He didn’t pull away. “You get used to it.”

She took another sip, smaller this time, and let the burn settle. The stew arrived then, steaming and fragrant, the cod flaking apart at the touch of her fork. She ate slowly, savoring the flavors—the buttery richness of the fish, the earthy tang of the rye bread, the sharp bite of the herring. Bjorn watched her, his own meal half-forgotten, as if her enjoyment was something he wanted to memorize.

“So,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence between them, “what’s the first thing you’ll sculpt when you get home?”

She swallowed, considering. “I don’t know yet. But I think it’ll be something from this trip.” Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, the condensation cool against her skin. “Maybe the ship. Or the way the light hits the water here.”

“You’ll have to let me see it when it’s done.”

It wasn’t a question, and the certainty in his voice made her breath catch. She looked at him, really looked at him—the way his beard caught the light, the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the strength in his hands as he tore a piece of bread in half. He was beautiful. Not in the polished, curated way of the men she’d known in the city, but in a way that felt raw and real, like the land itself.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I will.”

---

The walk back to the hotel was a blur of cobblestones and laughter, the group loose with food and drink, their voices rising into the cool night air. Helga lingered at the back with Bjorn, their shoulders brushing now and then, their steps falling into sync without either of them meaning to. The city was alive around them—streetlamps casting pools of gold, the distant hum of a tram, the occasional burst of music from a bar.

“You’re quiet,” Bjorn observed, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

She shrugged, her breath misting between them. “I’m taking it in.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “What do you think so far?”

“It’s…” She searched for the right word. “It’s more. More than I expected.”

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Good more or bad more?”

“Good,” she said quickly. “Definitely good.”

They reached the hotel—a stately building with a facade of pale brick, its windows glowing softly. Bjorn stopped at the entrance, turning to face her. The others had already filtered inside, their voices fading into the lobby. For a moment, it was just the two of them, the night wrapping around them like a held breath.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice low, “when we’re on the ship, I’ll tell you the story of the first Viking who sailed these waters. His name was Ragnar, and he was either a hero or a fool, depending on who you ask.”

Helga’s pulse thrummed in her throat. “Which do you think he was?”

Bjorn stepped closer, just an inch, but it felt like a mile. The scent of him—wool and salt and something uniquely him—filled her senses. “I think,” he said slowly, “that the best stories are the ones where you can’t tell the difference.”

She didn’t move. Neither did he. The space between them was charged, electric, the kind of silence that hummed with possibility. Then, softly, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing against her skin for the briefest second. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a shiver down her spine.

“Get some rest, Helga,” he murmured. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

She nodded, her voice lost somewhere in her chest. He held her gaze for another heartbeat, then turned and walked into the hotel, leaving her standing there, her skin still burning where he’d touched her.

Helga exhaled slowly, her breath curling into the night. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could still the wild beating of her heart. Then she followed him inside, the promise of tomorrow stretching out before her like an uncharted sea.

Chapter Two: Storm-Tossed Confessions

The morning sun hung low over the Copenhagen harbor, casting long shadows across the wooden docks where the Viking ship replica, Havets Draug, rested. Its dragon-headed prow loomed over the water, the carved oak gleaming with fresh varnish, the scent of pine and salt thick in the air. Helga adjusted the strap of her canvas satchel, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her sketchbook tucked inside. She had woken early, restless after the previous night’s walk with Bjorn, the way his voice had dropped when he spoke of Ragnar, the way his hand had lingered near hers as they parted ways.

The rest of the tour group milled about the dock, snapping photos and chattering in a mix of English and German, their excitement palpable. Helga hung back, watching as Bjorn moved among them with effortless authority, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd. He wore a thick wool sweater today, the deep blue bringing out the stormy hue of his eyes, and his pendant—some ancient Norse design—glinted against the fabric. When his gaze found hers, something tight and warm unfurled in her chest.

“You’re quiet this morning,” he said, stepping beside her. His voice was rough with the remnants of sleep, or maybe the sea air. “Didn’t sleep well?”

Helga exhaled, watching her breath curl in the crisp air. “Too much to think about, I guess.”

Bjorn’s mouth quirked. “History has a way of doing that to people.” He tilted his head toward the ship. “Ready to step back in time?”

She followed him onto the deck, the planks creaking beneath their boots. The ship was narrower than she’d expected, the mast towering overhead, the sails furled tight. The group spread out, some clustering near the stern, others leaning over the rail to peer into the water. Bjorn clapped his hands once, drawing their attention.

“Welcome aboard Havets Draug—the Draug of the Sea,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the murmur of the crowd. “This is as close as you’ll get to sailing like a Viking without a time machine. And today, we’re not just passengers. We’re raiders. Explorers.” His grin was infectious, and Helga found herself smiling back, her earlier nerves dissolving.

She wandered to the starboard side, gripping the rail as the ship pushed away from the dock. The oars dipped in unison, the rhythm hypnotic, the water slapping against the hull. The cityscape blurred as they moved farther into the fjord, the wind picking up, tugging at Helga’s loose hair. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the ship cutting through open sea, the horizon endless.

A shadow fell over her. Bjorn leaned against the rail beside her, his arm brushing hers. “First time on a longship?”

“First time on any ship,” she admitted. “I didn’t realize how… alive it would feel.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Wood breathes. It remembers the trees it came from, the hands that shaped it.” His fingers traced the grain of the rail, calloused and sure. “My father used to say a good ship has a soul.”

Helga studied his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his beard caught the light. “You miss him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Bjorn nodded anyway. “Every damn day.” He turned his head, and for a second, she thought he might say more. But then the wind shifted, sharp and sudden, and the sails snapped like a gunshot.

The sky had darkened without warning. The tourists gasped as the first fat raindrops hit the deck, cold and insistent. Bjorn’s expression tightened. “Storm’s coming in fast. Everyone below—now!”

Chaos erupted. The group scrambled toward the narrow stairs leading to the hold, their laughter turning to shouts as the wind howled. Helga barely had time to register the change before Bjorn’s hand closed around her wrist, pulling her toward the shelter.

“Move!” he shouted over the storm, his grip firm but not painful. She stumbled after him, the deck slick beneath her boots, the rain soaking through her shirt in seconds. The last of the group disappeared below just as a crack of thunder split the air. Bjorn hesitated at the top of the stairs, scanning the deck. “Everyone accounted for?”

Helga nodded, breathless. “I think so!”

He didn’t let go of her. Instead, he guided her down the steep steps, his body shielding hers from the worst of the storm. The hold was cramped, the ceiling so low Bjorn had to duck. A single lantern hung from a beam, its flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across the wooden walls. The air smelled of damp wool and old smoke, the scent of history itself.

The tourists huddled together on the benches lining the walls, their faces pale in the dim light. Bjorn released Helga’s wrist, but the warmth of his touch lingered. He moved to the center of the hold, clapping his hands again.

“Alright, listen up! We’re safe here—the ship’s built to handle worse than this. But we’ll be down here awhile, so let’s make the most of it.” His voice was steady, commanding, but Helga caught the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the tension in his shoulders.

One of the older women raised her hand. “Is this… normal? For storms to come up so fast?”

Bjorn shook his head. “Not this time of year. But the gods have a sense of humor.” A few nervous laughs rippled through the group. He glanced at Helga, then away. “Since we’re stuck, how about a story? You all wanted to hear about Ragnar, right?”

A murmur of agreement rose. Helga sank onto the end of a bench, her knees pressed against the stranger beside her. Bjorn crouched in the center of the hold, his voice dropping into the rhythm of a tale long told.

“Ragnar Lodbrok wasn’t just a king. He was a force. A man who bent the world to his will—until the world bent back.” His eyes found Helga’s in the flickering light, held them. “They say he died in a pit of snakes, but that’s not the part that matters. What matters is why he was there.”

The lantern swayed, sending shadows dancing across his face. “Ragnar spent his life raiding, conquering, taking what he wanted. But in the end, it wasn’t gold or land that undid him. It was love. Or the lack of it.” His jaw tightened. “He thought he could outrun his choices. Thought his name alone would protect him. But even legends have limits.”

Helga’s pulse thrummed in her throat. The air in the hold was thick, the storm outside a relentless drumbeat against the hull. Bjorn’s story wasn’t just about Ragnar anymore. She could see it in the way his fingers curled into fists, the way his voice roughened.

“He was a fool,” Bjorn continued, quieter now. “But not for the reasons people think. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of being forgotten. Of his sons not knowing his name, his wife’s voice fading from memory.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “Funny, isn’t it? The one thing he couldn’t conquer was time.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant roar of the storm. Helga’s hands ached to reach for him. Instead, she curled her fingers into the wood beneath her.

One of the tourists cleared his throat. “So… he was a fool, then?”

Bjorn’s gaze snapped back to the group, his expression shuttering. “No. He was a man. And that’s the part the sagas leave out.” He pushed to his feet, the movement abrupt. “We’ll ride this out. Stay put.”

He turned toward the stairs, but Helga stood before she could think better of it. “Bjorn.”

He stilled, his back to her. The lantern light caught the silver of his pendant, the intricate knots of the design glinting.

“You’re not him,” she said softly. “You’re still here.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned. The space between them was charged, the air electric. The storm raged outside, but in the hold, it was quiet enough to hear the rasp of his breath.

“I lost my father to the sea,” he said, his voice raw. “And every time I step on a ship, I wonder if it’ll take me too.”

Helga’s chest tightened. “That’s not living. That’s just… waiting.”

His eyes burned into hers. “What do you know about it?”

“I know what it’s like to be afraid of disappearing.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his pulse jumped in his throat. “But you’re not disappearing, Bjorn. You’re here.”

The words hung between them, fragile and fierce. Then his hand was in her hair, his fingers tangling in the damp strands, and his mouth crashed against hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, hungry—the kiss of a man who’d been starving without knowing it. Helga gasped, her hands flying to his chest, gripping the wool of his sweater. He tasted like salt and something darker, something wild. The bench dug into the back of her thighs as he pressed her against it, his body a wall of heat.

The storm howled, but all she heard was the ragged sound of his breath, the way her name tore from his lips like a curse. His hands slid down her sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and she arched into him, her nails scraping his scalp.

A shout from above broke them apart. Bjorn’s forehead rested against hers, his chest heaving. “We should—”

“Check on the others,” Helga finished, her voice unsteady.

He didn’t pull away immediately. His fingers traced her jaw, his thumb lingering on her bottom lip, swollen from his kiss. Then, with a rough exhale, he stepped back.

The hold was too bright suddenly, the lantern light harsh. Helga touched her mouth, her skin tingling. Bjorn ran a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable.

“Stay here,” he said, already moving toward the stairs. “I’ll be back.”

She watched him go, the storm swallowing his footsteps. The tourists avoided her gaze, but she barely noticed. Her fingers still smelled like him—wool and woodsmoke and something uniquely Bjorn.

Outside, the wind screamed. But inside, in the hollow of her ribs, something quiet and certain took root.

She wasn’t afraid anymore.

Chapter Three: Salt and Storm

The moment the shout from below deck tore them apart, Helga had pressed her fingers to her lips, still tingling from the force of Bjorn’s kiss. The taste of him—salt and storm and something darker, like iron and old mead—lingered on her tongue. She watched as he straightened his sweater, his broad shoulders tensing beneath the damp wool before he turned toward the stairs, his voice rough with command. “I’ll be back.” The words were a promise, not just to the group, but to her.

Now, alone in the dim hold, Helga exhaled sharply, her breath unsteady. The ship creaked around her, the wood groaning like a living thing, still unsettled from the storm. She could hear Bjorn’s voice above deck, deep and reassuring as he checked on the others, but the words were lost to the wind. Her fingers twitched at her sides, restless. She needed air. Needed him.

When Bjorn returned, his boots thudding on the steps, she didn’t let him speak first. “We should take a moment,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Before we go back.” His eyes flickered over her—her parted lips, the flush still high on her cheeks—and something raw passed between them. A silent agreement. He nodded, jerking his chin toward the stairs. “After you.”

The deck hit her like a slap of cold water. The storm had passed, leaving the world scrubbed clean, the air thick with the scent of wet pine and brine. The sky was a bruise of purples and deep blues, the last light of the sun bleeding through the clouds like a wound. Copenhagen’s skyline glittered in the distance, a scatter of gold and white against the darkening horizon. Helga gripped the rail, her knuckles pale. The ship rolled gently beneath her, the motion oddly soothing after the chaos below.

Bjorn came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, but not touching. His sleeve brushed her arm, the wool rough against her skin. “Better?” he asked, his voice rough.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I don’t know.” The honesty surprised her. “I just… needed to breathe.”

He turned slightly, his shoulder pressing against hers. “Me too.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then flicked away, as if he’d caught himself. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid. Helga broke it first. “The stories you tell,” she said, tracing a finger along the damp wood of the rail. “Are they history? Or myth?”

Bjorn’s lips quirked. “The best ones are both.” He leaned his hips back against the rail, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, the fabric clinging to the muscles beneath. “History’s just myth that’s been lucky enough to survive.”

Helga tilted her head, studying him. “So which is it for you? The ones you tell—are they true?”

His eyes darkened, the blue deepening like the sea before a storm. “Does it matter?” He reached up, his fingers brushing the pendant at his throat. “Sometimes the truth’s less interesting than the lie.”

She wanted to press him, to peel back the layers of his stories and see what was real. But before she could speak, he straightened, his expression shifting into something softer, almost playful. “I’ll tell you one,” he said. “A real one. Or as real as it gets.”

Helga didn’t move, but her pulse jumped. “Go on.”

Bjorn’s voice dropped, low and rich, like the rumble of distant thunder. “There was a warrior—Erik the Red’s son, some say, though no one knows for sure. He raided a village in Ireland, like any good Viking would.” His fingers tapped against the rail, a restless rhythm. “But this time, he didn’t take gold or slaves. He took a shieldmaiden.”

Helga’s breath hitched. “A what?”

“A woman who fought like a man.” His grin was sharp. “She’d killed three of his men before he even saw her. When he finally cornered her, she spat in his face and told him if he wanted her, he’d have to earn her.” Bjorn’s gaze locked onto hers, intense. “So he did. Not with force. With stories. With words.”

Helga’s skin prickled. “And?”

“And by the time they reached the longships, she was the one who kissed him first.” His voice roughened. “They say she carved his name into her shield. So even if he died, she’d remember.”

The image seared into Helga’s mind—two bodies tangled in the belly of a ship, the taste of salt and victory, the weight of a name etched into wood. She could see it. Her fingers itched. Without thinking, she reached for her satchel, pulling out her sketchbook and a stub of charcoal. “Tell me more,” she demanded, already moving the charcoal across the page.

Bjorn watched her for a long moment, then leaned in, his arm brushing hers as he pointed to the blank paper. “She had hair like fire,” he murmured. “And eyes that could cut a man down before her axe did.” His finger traced an invisible line from the top of the page to the center, where Helga’s hand followed, sketching the curve of a woman’s shoulder, the angle of a raised axe. “He was bigger than her, but she never let him forget who was in charge.”

Helga’s breath came faster as the scene took shape—the warrior’s broad form, the shieldmaiden’s defiant stance, their bodies close but not touching, the tension between them almost visible. “Like this?” she asked, her voice husky.

Bjorn’s hand covered hers, guiding the charcoal in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Like that,” he confirmed, his thumb pressing into her palm. The heat of him seeped into her skin. “She’d have him on his knees by the end of it.”

Helga’s laugh was shaky. “I bet she did.” She turned her head, their faces inches apart. “And then what?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Then?” His voice was a growl. “Then she’d make him beg.”

The word hung between them, heavy with promise. Helga’s charcoal snapped in her grip. Bjorn’s hand shot out, catching her wrist before the broken piece could fall. His fingers were rough, calloused, his grip just tight enough to make her pulse spike. “Careful,” he murmured, but his eyes were dark with something far from caution.

Helga didn’t look away. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll think you’re trying to distract me.” His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, slow and deliberate. “And we both know how that ends.”

She should’ve pulled back. Should’ve laughed it off, changed the subject. But the ship rolled beneath them, the wood warm from the fading sun, and Bjorn’s scent—salt and wool and something wild—filled her lungs. “Maybe I want to distract you,” she whispered.

His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Bjorn’s free hand came up, his fingers tangling in the damp waves of her hair, tilting her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat. “Helga,” he warned, but it wasn’t a no. It was a please.

She arched into his touch. “Bjorn.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed onto hers, hot and demanding, his teeth nipping at her lower lip before his tongue swept in, deep and possessive. Helga moaned into him, her sketchbook forgotten as it slipped from her fingers, landing with a soft thud on the deck. Her hands fisted in his sweater, pulling him closer, needing the weight of him against her. Bjorn groaned, his body pressing her back against the mast, the rough wood digging into her spine.

His hands were everywhere—one tangled in her hair, the other sliding down her side to grip her hip, his fingers splaying wide enough to feel the dip of her waist. Helga gasped as his thigh pushed between hers, the denim of his jeans rough against the softness of her inner thighs. “Fuck,” he muttered against her mouth, his voice raw. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Not yet,” she breathed, rocking against him, the friction sending a jolt of heat straight to her core. Her nails scraped down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until her fingers found the hem of his sweater. She slipped her hand beneath, her palm flattening against the hot, damp skin of his back. He was burning.

Bjorn hissed, his hips jerking forward, the rigid length of him grinding against her belly. “Helga—” His voice was a growl, a plea. “We can’t—” But his hands betrayed him, one sliding up to cup her breast through her shirt, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it between his fingers until she whimpered.

“We can,” she insisted, her head falling back against the mast as his mouth trailed down her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. “Just… like this.” Her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him lower, until his lips found the hollow of her collarbone, his tongue hot and wet against her skin.

The ship creaked around them, the sound lost beneath the ragged sounds of their breathing. Bjorn’s hand slid down, his palm pressing flat against her stomach before dipping lower, his fingers teasing the waistband of her jeans. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rough, but his touch hesitated, waiting.

Helga caught his wrist, pushing his hand down, down, until his fingers slipped beneath the denim, beneath the lace of her underwear, and found her soaking. “God, yes,” she gasped as his fingertips brushed over her clit, the touch feather-light but electric. “Bjorn, please—”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers parted her, two of them sliding inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her legs tremble. “Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned against her neck, his breath hot. “All for me?”

“Yes—” The word broke into a moan as his thumb found her clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes. The mast dug into her back, the wood unyielding as Bjorn’s body pinned her, his hips rolling against hers in a rhythm that matched his fingers. “Just like that,” she panted, her nails raking down his shoulders. “Don’t stop—”

“Never,” he promised, his voice a dark murmur against her skin. His fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that made her vision white out, her body clenching around him. “You’re so tight, Helga. So fucking perfect.”

She could feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, her thighs shaking with the effort of staying upright. “Bjorn, I’m—” But the words dissolved into a broken cry as his teeth closed over the sensitive peak of her nipple through her shirt, the sharp bite of pain sending her crashing over the edge. Her back arched, her body locking around his fingers as the pleasure tore through her, wave after wave, her moans swallowed by the crash of the harbor waves.

Bjorn didn’t let up, his fingers working her through it, drawing out every last shudder until she was boneless against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Good?” he asked, his voice smug, his lips brushing her temple.

Helga laughed weakly, her hands sliding up to frame his face. “You know it was.”

His grin was wicked. “I do.” But then his expression sobered, his gaze searching hers. “We should—”

“I know,” she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. “But not yet.”

This time, it was her turn to kiss him, slow and deep, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened for her with a groan. His hands found her waist, lifting her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, the hard length of him pressing against her core through their clothes. “Helga,” he warned, but his voice was lost as she rocked against him, the friction maddening.

“Just a little longer,” she murmured against his mouth. “Let me touch you.”

Bjorn’s breath stuttered as her hand slid between them, her palm pressing against the thick outline of his cock through his jeans. “Fuck—” His head fell back, his throat working as she stroked him, her thumb tracing the damp spot at the tip.

“Like this?” she asked, her voice a purr, her fingers working the button of his jeans free.

His hands tightened on her hips. “Helga, if you—”

“I want to.” She didn’t wait for permission. His zipper gave way with a soft snick, and then her hand was wrapping around him, her fingers barely able to meet around his thickness. “Oh god,” she breathed, her thumb swiping over the slick head. “You’re huge.”

Bjorn’s laugh was strained. “You’re killing me.”

“Not yet,” she repeated, her grip tightening as she stroked him, slow and firm, her thumb spreading the bead of pre-cum over his tip. His hips jerked into her touch, his breath coming in sharp gasps. “That’s it,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. “Let me see you come undone.”

His hands fisted in her hair, his body tensing as she worked him, her strokes growing faster, her palm twisting over the head with each upward pull. “Helga—fuck—” His voice was a broken growl, his cock pulsing in her grip. “I’m—”

“Now,” she commanded, and that was all it took. With a choked cry, he came, his release spilling over her fingers in hot, thick spurts, his body shuddering against hers. She didn’t stop, milking him through it until he sagged against her, his forehead pressing to her shoulder.

For a long moment, neither moved. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the harbor lights reflecting off the dark water. Bjorn’s breath was warm against her neck, his body still trembling slightly. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction.

Helga smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “And you love it.”

He huffed a laugh, straightening just enough to capture her mouth in another slow, deep kiss. “I do,” he admitted against her lips. “But we really should—”

“I know.” She sighed, reluctantly pulling her hand free and reaching for the discarded sketchbook. The page was smudged with charcoal and something darker—evidence of what they’d just done. She grinned. “Souvenir.”

Bjorn groaned, tucking himself back into his jeans with a wince. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re late,” she teased, nudging him toward the stairs.

He caught her wrist, pulling her back for one last, searing kiss. “This isn’t over,” he promised.

Helga’s smile was slow, her body still humming from his touch. “It better not be.”

Chapter Four: Sacred Surrender

The wind still hummed through the rigging, but the storm’s fury had long since faded, leaving only the scent of damp wood and salt in its wake. Helga’s fingers twitched against the rough paper of her sketchbook, the charcoal smudged where Bjorn’s hand had guided hers. The image of the shieldmaiden and the warrior—their shieldmaiden and warrior—stared back at her, lines bold and unrefined, raw with the same hunger that still coiled in her belly. She exhaled slowly, the sound lost to the creak of the ship, and let the book fall shut.

Bjorn stood beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, the heat of him a brand even through the layers of their clothes. His breath was steady, but she could feel the tension in him, the same restlessness that prickled beneath her own skin. The others would be waiting below—laughter, mead, the dull thud of a drum—but the thought of rejoining them now, of stepping back into the mundane, made her teeth ache.

She turned to him, her voice low, rough. “We should do it properly.”

His brows lifted, the fading light catching the silver of his pendant. “Do what?”

“A blót.” The word tasted like old fire on her tongue. “You said the gods were listening. So let’s give them something worth hearing.”

A beat of silence. Then his gaze darkened, the blue of his eyes gone stormy. “You know what that means?”

She did. She did. The stories weren’t just tales—she’d read the sagas, seen the carvings. Blood and fire, flesh and prayer. A sacrifice. An offering. “I know.”

Bjorn’s throat worked. For a moment, she thought he might refuse, might call it reckless or disrespectful or any number of things that would make her bristle. But then his hand found hers, his fingers threading through hers with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine. “Below deck,” he said, voice rough. “Not here.”

She didn’t argue.

The stairs to the lower deck were narrow, the air thicker down here, warmed by the glow of oil lamps and the press of bodies. But the others were gathered at the far end, clustered around a table laden with food and drink, their voices a low murmur. Bjorn led her past them, toward the shadowed corner where the hull curved into a secluded alcove, barely large enough for two. The space was intimate, secret. Sacred.

Helga turned to face him, her back to the wood. The lamplight painted his features in gold and shadow, the planes of his face sharp, his beard catching the light like spun copper. She reached for the hem of her shirt, but his hand stopped hers.

“Not yet.” His voice was a growl, low and thick. “First, the oil.”

She hadn’t even noticed the small clay pot tucked into the niche beside them, its contents glinting like liquid amber. Bjorn dipped his fingers into it, the scent of crushed herbs and something earthier—pine, maybe, or cedar—rising between them. When he touched her, it wasn’t gentle. His thumb pressed to the hollow of her throat, slick with oil, and dragged downward, leaving a shining trail over her collarbone, between her breasts. The symbol he traced was deliberate, ancient. A bindrune, maybe. Protection. Devotion.

Helga’s breath hitched. “What does it mean?”

“That you’re mine.” His fingers didn’t stop, sliding beneath the fabric of her shirt, tracing the same mark over her ribs, her stomach, the oil warm where it met her skin. “For this. For now.”

She should’ve bristled at the word—mine—but the way he said it, like a vow, like something carved into bone, made her arch into his touch instead. Her shirt came off next, tossed aside without ceremony, and then his hands were on her bare skin, anointing her shoulders, her arms, the swell of her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples, slow and deliberate, until they tightened into aching peaks, the oil making her skin glisten. She gasped when he pinched one, just hard enough to sting, the pleasure-pain arrowing straight to her core.

“Your turn,” she managed, her voice unsteady.

Bjorn didn’t hesitate. He stripped off his sweater, the wool catching for a moment on the silver chain of his pendant before it fell away. His chest was broad, dusted with blond hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he reached for the oil. Helga took it from him instead, her fingers trembling only a little as she mirrored his movements. She started at his throat, where his pulse jumped beneath her touch, and dragged her fingertips down, over the ridged planes of his chest, the oil slicking his skin. She traced the same symbol he had—his—but when she reached the waistband of his jeans, she hesitated.

“All of it,” Bjorn rumbled. “Or it doesn’t count.”

She swallowed. Then she undid his belt.

The sound of the zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already flushed dark with blood. Helga’s mouth watered. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking once, twice, before dipping her fingers into the oil again. She painted him with it, slow and worshipful, her thumb swirling over the crown, down the veined length of him, until his breath came in sharp bursts and his hands fisted at his sides.

“Fuck, Helga—”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with her own, kissing him deep and dirty, the taste of oil and salt between them. His hands found her waist, yanking her against him, and she moaned into his mouth as the hard ridge of him pressed against her stomach. “We’re not done.”

No, they weren’t.

Her jeans were next, peeled down her thighs along with her underwear, the cool air a shock against her heated skin. Bjorn dropped to his knees in front of her, his breath hot against her inner thigh as he nudged her legs apart. The first stroke of his tongue was a brand, flat and slow, from her entrance to her clit. Helga’s knees nearly buckled. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in as he did it again, this time with more pressure, his lips sealing around her and sucking hard.

“Oh god—” Her head thudded back against the wood, the oil-slicked symbols on her skin sticking to the planks. Bjorn’s hands gripped her ass, holding her open as he feasted, his tongue spearing into her before dragging up to circle her clit, again and again, until she was trembling, her thighs quaking around his head. “Bjorn, please—”

He pulled back just enough to growl against her flesh. “Not yet.”

She whimpered, but then his fingers were there, two of them pushing inside her with a slow, relentless curl that had her seeing stars. His thumb pressed to her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and she was so close, her body coiling tight as a bowstring—

“No.” His voice was a whipcrack. He withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty, aching. “Not like this.”

Helga snarled, her hands flying to his hair, yanking. “You bastard—”

Bjorn surged to his feet, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, the oil, the salt of sweat. “On your knees,” he ordered, breaking away. “Now.”

She went. Not out of submission, but because she wanted to, because the sight of him standing over her, his cock jutting out, oil-glistened and obscene, made her mouth water all over again. She took him in her hand, stroking the length of him, her thumb swirling over the slick head. “Like this?”

“Like you mean it.” His voice was rough, his hand tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding, as if he needed the anchor. “Worship me, shieldmaiden.”

The word sent a thrill through her. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over him before she pressed her lips to the base of his cock, kissing her way up the underside, her tongue flicking out to taste the oil, the salt of his skin. When she took him into her mouth, it was with a slow, deliberate sink, her lips sealing around him, her tongue flattening against the vein that throbbed beneath. Bjorn groaned, his hips jerking forward before he stilled himself, his fingers tightening in her hair.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that—”

She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper, her hand working the base in time with her mouth. The sounds he made—low, guttural, almost pained—spurred her on, her free hand sliding up to cup his balls, rolling them gently before applying just enough pressure to make him hiss. “Helga, I’m—fuck—”

She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. “Not yet,” she echoed, smirking up at him. “Not like this.”

His eyes burned. Then he was hauling her to her feet, spinning her around, pressing her chest to the wood. The symbols on her skin stuck to the planks, the oil making her slick against him as he kicked her legs apart. His cock nudged at her entrance, hot and heavy, and she arched back against him, desperate. “Now. Please, now—”

Bjorn didn’t make her wait. He surged into her in one deep thrust, filling her so completely she cried out, her fingers scrabbling against the wood for purchase. “Fuck, you’re tight—” His voice was a growl in her ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it as he pulled back and slammed home again. “Like you were made for this. For me.”

Helga could only moan in answer, her body stretching to take him, the burn of it exquisite. He set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against hers, the slap of skin on skin loud in the confined space. Each thrust drove her higher, the symbols on her skin seeming to pulse with the rhythm, the oil making their bodies slide together, slick and obscene. She could feel his pendant swinging between them, the silver cool against her heated skin, a counterpoint to the fire building inside her.

“Touch yourself,” Bjorn commanded, his hand leaving her hip to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose her throat. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

Helga didn’t hesitate. Her hand slid between her legs, her fingers finding her clit, already swollen and throbbing. The first circle of her fingertips sent a jolt through her, her muscles clenching around Bjorn’s cock. “Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Just like that. You’re mine, Helga. Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped, her fingers moving faster, her body coiling tight. “I’m yours—”

His thrusts turned erratic, his breath hot against her neck. “Again.”

“Yours, yours—” The word dissolved into a cry as her orgasm crashed over her, her body locking up, her inner walls fluttering around him as wave after wave of pleasure wrung her out. Bjorn didn’t stop, didn’t let her catch her breath, his hips pistoning as he chased his own release. “Fuck, Helga—I’m—”

She felt him swell inside her, felt the hot pulse of his cum as he came with a groan, his body shuddering against hers. His teeth sank into her shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to mark, to claim, and she whimpered at the sting, her own climax prolonging, dragging out until she was boneless, spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the creak of the ship, the distant murmur of voices from the other end of the deck. Bjorn’s forehead pressed to the back of her neck, his cock still buried inside her, softening slowly. His fingers traced the symbols on her skin, his touch gentle now, almost reverent.

“The gods heard us,” he murmured.

Helga laughed, breathless, her body still thrumming. “I don’t know about the gods. But I sure as hell did.”

Bjorn chuckled, the sound vibrating against her back. Then he turned her to face him, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. His kiss was slow this time, deep, his tongue tangling with hers like he was memorizing the taste of her. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath warm on her lips.

“We should probably rejoin the others,” he said, though he made no move to pull away.

Helga smirked. “In a minute.”

Because right now, the world beyond this alcove didn’t exist. There was only the two of them, the oil and the symbols, the scent of sex and salt in the air. And the quiet, certain knowledge that this—this—was only the beginning.

Chapter Five: Blood and Salt

The oil lamps flickered between them, their golden light dancing across Helga’s flushed skin, still glistening with the remnants of the ritual. Her breath came in slow, deep pulls, her chest rising and falling as she leaned against the curved hull, her body humming with the aftershocks of Bjorn’s possession. His fingers traced idle patterns along her waist, his other hand braced against the wood beside her head, caging her in without force. The air between them was thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and something older—something that clung to the ship’s bones like a whisper from the past.

Bjorn exhaled sharply, his forehead resting against hers for a moment before he pulled back just enough to study her. His blue eyes were dark with satisfaction, but something else flickered there—restlessness, the same thing coiling in Helga’s gut. “We should finish it,” he murmured, his voice rough, like gravel shifted by the tide. “The blót isn’t complete without an offering.”

Helga’s lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet them. The word offering sent a shiver down her spine, not from fear, but from the weight of it. She knew what he meant. The old ways demanded blood, demanded a piece of the self given freely to the gods. “What did you have in mind?” she asked, though she already felt the answer thrumming in her veins.

His thumb pressed into the soft flesh below her ribs, just hard enough to make her breath hitch. “A lock of your hair,” he said, his gaze dropping to the reddish-brown waves tangled around her shoulders. “And a drop of my blood. Mingled together, cast into the sea.” His voice was low, almost reverent, but there was an edge to it—something that made Helga’s pulse jump. “It’ll bind us. Not just to each other, but to this moment. To the gods.”

She should’ve balked. Should’ve laughed it off as romantic nonsense, the kind of thing tourists ate up but realists scoffed at. Instead, her fingers twitched against his chest, her nails scraping lightly over the symbols still damp on his skin. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.” His mouth quirked, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Unless you’re afraid.”

Helga snorted, though the sound lacked its usual bite. Fear wasn’t the problem. The problem was how badly she wanted it—the ritual, the permanence, the way his voice dropped when he talked about binding her to him. “I’m not afraid of a little blood,” she said, tilting her chin up. “But if we’re doing this, we do it right. No half-measures.”

Bjorn’s grin was slow, predatory. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He didn’t move to fetch a knife. Instead, his hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. Helga’s scalp prickled as he gathered a thick lock between his fingers, testing its weight. “This one,” he decided, his breath warm against her temple. “The color of autumn leaves after a storm.” His other hand reached for the small sewing kit tucked into the pocket of his discarded jacket—something he always carried, practical to the core. The blade of the tiny scissors glinted as he unfolded them.

Helga didn’t flinch as the cold metal pressed against the base of her skull, just below where his fingers held her. The snip was sharp, decisive, the strand falling away like a sacrifice already made. Bjorn held it up between them, the lamplight turning it to copper. Then, without warning, he brought the scissors to his own thumb, pressing the blade into the pad just hard enough to well a dark bead of blood. Helga’s breath hitched as he squeezed, letting the droplet fall onto the severed lock, staining the hairs crimson.

“Now it’s yours,” he said, pressing the damp strand into her palm. His blood was warm, sticky, seeping between her fingers. “Hold it tight.”

She curled her fingers around it, her pulse thrumming in her throat. The blood slicked her skin, the hair clinging to her palm like a promise. Bjorn didn’t wait for her to speak. He turned, grabbing his shirt from the floor and wiping the scissors clean before tucking them away. Then he was moving toward the narrow staircase that led up to the deck, his bare back flexing with each step. “Come on. The sea’s waiting.”

Helga followed, her jeans still tangled around her thighs, her other hand pressing against the wall for balance as the ship rolled gently beneath them. The air grew cooler as they ascended, the wind biting at her exposed skin, raising gooseflesh. Bjorn didn’t stop at the deck. He kept going, toward the bow, where the rail was low and the waves crashed hungrily against the hull. The moon was a silver sickle overhead, casting long shadows across the water.

Bjorn braced his hands on the rail, his muscles taut as he leaned out, testing the wind. Then he turned to her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Give it to me.”

Helga didn’t hesitate. She pressed the bloodied lock into his open palm, their fingers brushing. Bjorn closed his fist around it, then drew his arm back and hurled it into the dark. The wind caught the strands for a heartbeat, whipping them like a banner before the sea swallowed them whole.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Bjorn exhaled, long and slow, as if he’d been holding his breath for years. “It’s done.”

Helga should’ve felt the weight of it—the finality, the sacredness. But all she felt was hunger. The ritual had stoked something in her, something that wouldn’t be satisfied with quiet moments and whispered promises. She stepped closer, her bare breasts pressing against his back as she wrapped her arms around his waist. His skin was hot beneath her palms, his heartbeat steady under her cheek.

“Bjorn,” she murmured, her lips moving against his shoulder blade.

“Hmm?” His voice was distracted, still half-lost in the moment.

She bit him. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make him hiss, his body jerking against hers. “I want more.”

He turned in her arms, his hands finding her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there. “More what?”

Helga didn’t play coy. She never had. “You. Rough. Now.” She tilted her head back, exposing the line of her throat, the mark he’d left there earlier still tender. “Against the mast. I want to feel the ship move underneath me while you fuck me like you own me.”

Bjorn’s breath stuttered. His grip on her hips tightened, his fingers bruising. “You’re insatiable.”

“And you love it.” She smirked, though her voice was raw. “Admit it.”

He didn’t. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward the main mast, the thick wooden pole rising like a spine from the deck. The wind howled around them, whipping Helga’s hair into her face, but she barely noticed. All she could focus on was the way Bjorn’s body moved—predatory, controlled—as he spun her and pressed her back against the mast. The wood was rough against her bare skin, the oil from earlier making her slip slightly as he crowded against her.

“Hands above your head,” he ordered, his voice a growl. “Grip the rigging.”

Helga obeyed, her fingers curling around the thick ropes that crisscrossed above her. The position arched her back, thrusting her breasts out, her nipples tight with cold and anticipation. Bjorn didn’t waste time. His mouth crashed down on hers, his teeth nipping at her lower lip before his tongue forced its way in, claiming her with a kiss that was all heat and demand. She moaned into him, her legs spreading instinctively as he wedged a thigh between hers, the denim of his jeans rough against her inner thighs.

His hands were everywhere—palming her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped, then sliding down to grip her ass, lifting her slightly off the ground. “You’re going to take me just like this,” he murmured against her lips. “No gentleness. No mercy. You want to be owned? Then you’ll beg for it.”

Helga’s breath came in sharp pants, her body already aching for him. “Please,” she whispered, though the word felt too small, too tame. She tried again, her voice rougher. “Fuck me. Hard. Make me feel it tomorrow.”

Bjorn groaned, the sound almost pained. His hands left her for a second, just long enough to shove his jeans down his hips, freeing his cock. Helga barely had time to glance down before he was lifting her, his hands under her thighs, spreading her wide. The cold air hit her exposed pussy, making her shudder, but then he was there, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Helga forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze as he drove into her in one brutal thrust. The stretch burned, the sudden fullness stealing her breath, but she didn’t look away. His eyes were blazing, his jaw clenched as he bottomed out inside her, his hips flush against hers.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’re so tight.”

Helga couldn’t form words. She could only whimper as he pulled back and slammed into her again, the mast digging into her spine with each thrust. The ship rolled beneath them, the motion making his cock drag against her walls in ways that had her seeing stars. Her fingers tightened around the rigging, the ropes biting into her palms as she tried to ground herself.

Bjorn set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against hers, the slap of skin on skin lost to the wind. Every thrust sent a jolt through her, her body climbing higher, tighter, until she was nothing but need. “More,” she gasped, her head falling back against the mast. “Harder. I can take it.”

He growled, the sound feral, and shifted his grip, one hand moving to her throat. His fingers didn’t squeeze—just rested there, his thumb tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze again. “You’re mine,” he snarled, his voice raw. “Say it.”

Helga’s vision blurred, her body coiling tight. “Yours,” she choked out. “Only yours.”

His thumb pressed harder against her pulse, his cock pistoning into her with relentless precision. “Again.”

“Yours,” she cried, her voice breaking. “Gods, Bjorn—please—”

His mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing her screams as her orgasm hit her like a wave, drowning her in white-hot pleasure. Her pussy clenched around him, her body shuddering violently as he fucked her through it, his own release building with each desperate thrust. When he finally came, it was with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he spilled himself, his seed hot and thick.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Bjorn’s forehead rested against hers, his breath ragged, his body pinning her to the mast. Helga could feel his heartbeat against her chest, her own racing in time with his. The wind howled around them, the sea crashing against the hull, but all she could focus on was the weight of him—the way he filled her, owned her, completed her.

When he finally pulled back, his cock slipping from her with a wet sound, Helga whimpered at the loss. Bjorn’s hands gentled, cradling her face as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’re going to kill me,” he murmured, but there was no complaint in his voice. Only wonder.

Helga laughed breathlessly, her body still humming. “Not before I’m done with you.”

Bjorn’s chuckle was dark, promising. “Good.” He stepped back, tucking himself away with a wince, then offered her his hand. “Because we’re not done yet.”

Chapter Six: Tethered to the Storm

The wind tore at Helga’s bare skin, the salt spray stinging where Bjorn’s fingers had just been. She gasped against the mast, her body still humming from the brutal fuck he’d given her, her thighs slick with his cum and her own arousal. But it wasn’t enough. The ritual, the blood, the way he’d claimed her—it had only sharpened the hunger inside her, a gnawing need that coiled tighter with every roll of the ship beneath them.

She pushed away from the wood, her palms pressing against Bjorn’s chest as she met his gaze. His blue eyes were dark, still glazed with satisfaction, but she saw the flicker of restlessness there—the same thing eating at her. “Not done,” she breathed, her voice rough. “I can still feel you, but I need more.”

Bjorn exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, still swollen from his kisses. “You’re insatiable,” he murmured, but there was no complaint in his tone, only a low, approving growl. The ship groaned around them, the timbers creaking as the waves lifted and dropped the hull. His fingers trailed down her throat, over the faint marks his teeth had left earlier, and she arched into the touch, her nipples tightening under the cool night air.

“Then give me what I want,” she challenged, her hands sliding down to palm the thick outline of his cock through his jeans. He was already hardening again, the denim straining. A smirk tugged at her lips. “Or are you too tired, old man?”

His response was instant—a sharp grip on her wrist, twisting just enough to make her gasp. “Careful, lille ulv,” he warned, his voice a dark purr. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk, but we’re not doing it here.” His free hand gestured upward, toward the rigging swaying above them, the crow’s nest a shadowed perch against the moonlit sky. “Up there. Where the wind can hear you scream.”

Helga’s breath hitched. The idea of it—the height, the exposure, the way the ship would sway beneath them—sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her thighs. She didn’t hesitate. Turning, she grabbed the nearest rope, testing its tension with a sharp tug. The rough hemp bit into her palms as she hoisted herself onto the lower rungs of the rigging, her bare feet finding purchase on the wooden crossbeams. The ship rolled, and she swayed with it, her muscles tensing as she climbed higher.

Bjorn followed, his movements sure and controlled despite the bulk of his frame. She could hear the creak of leather as he adjusted his grip, the occasional brush of his boots against the wood. The wind howled around them, whipping her hair into her face, but she didn’t slow down. Not when the crow’s nest loomed just above, a circular platform barely wide enough for two, its railing a flimsy barrier against the drop to the deck below.

Helga hauled herself over the edge, her knees hitting the weathered planks with a thud. The height made her stomach flip—the deck was a dizzying distance away, the waves black and churning in the moonlight. She barely had time to steady herself before Bjorn’s hands were on her waist, pulling her back against him. His chest was hot against her skin, his cock a thick ridge pressing into the small of her back.

“Scared?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She shook her head, her fingers curling around the railing. “No.” The word came out breathless. “But if I fall, you’re coming with me.”

His chuckle was dark, vibrating through her. “Deal.”

Then his hands were everywhere—palming her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her neck. The wind stole her moans, carrying them out over the water as his fingers slid down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans. She was still wet, still aching, and when he pushed two fingers inside her, she rocked back against him with a broken sound.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, his fingers curling to stroke that spot inside her that made her vision blur. “Still thinking about my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes—” The word dissolved into a whimper as he added a third finger, stretching her, his thumb circling her clit in slow, maddening strokes. The ship rolled, and her grip on the railing tightened, her knuckles white. “Bjorn, please—”

“Please what?” His voice was a rough tease, his breath hot against her ear. “You want me to fuck you up here where anyone could see? Where the wind can take your screams straight to the gods?”

“Yes.” She didn’t care about the crew below, didn’t care about the drop or the sway of the mast. All that mattered was the way his fingers filled her, the way his other hand squeezed her breast, his calloused thumb flicking over her nipple. “I want you to ruin me up here.”

His growl was almost feral. In one swift motion, he pulled his fingers free, then spun her around, pressing her back against the railing. The wood dug into her spine, the cold night air raising goosebumps across her skin. His eyes burned as he dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wide.

“Then hold on,” he ordered, before his mouth was on her.

Helga cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue dragged through her folds, lapping up the mess of her arousal. He was relentless—licking, sucking, his beard scraping against her inner thighs as he devoured her. The ship pitched suddenly, and she gasped, her hips jerking forward as his tongue speared into her, fucking her in deep, slow strokes.

“Oh god—” Her voice was raw, the words torn from her as his lips sealed around her clit, sucking hard. The pleasure was too much, the height and the wind and the way his fingers dug into her ass, holding her open for him. She could feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, but before it could crash over her, he pulled back, leaving her trembling on the edge.

“Not yet,” he murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were dark with promise. “You come on my cock, or not at all.”

She whimpered in protest, but he was already standing, his hands working at his belt. The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet of the night, and then his cock was free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. Helga reached for him, but he caught her wrist, shaking his head.

“Turn around,” he commanded. “Hands on the railing.”

Her pulse spiked. She obeyed, pressing her palms against the wood, the rough grain biting into her skin as she arched her back, offering herself to him. The first press of his cock against her entrance made her shudder, the stretch burning in the best way as he pushed inside, inch by slow inch.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her onto him. “Still clenching around me like you don’t want to let go.”

She couldn’t answer, not when he bottomed out with a sharp thrust, filling her completely. The ship rolled again, and she moaned, the movement making his cock drag against that perfect spot inside her. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he began to move—long, deep strokes that had her toes curling against the planks.

“You feel that?” His voice was a rough growl in her ear, his chest pressing against her back as he leaned over her, his cock pistoning into her with relentless precision. “The way the ship moves with us? Like the sea itself wants you to take every inch.”

Helga could only whimper, her nails scraping against the railing as he fucked her harder, the sound of skin slapping skin mixing with the creak of the rigging and the crash of the waves below. His hand snaked around her throat, tilting her head back against his shoulder, his teeth sinking into the tender skin where her neck met her shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, his hips snapping against her ass, the impact driving her forward. “Say it.”

“I’m yours—” The words spilled out, breathless and desperate. “Only yours, Bjorn, please—”

His other hand slid down her stomach, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles. The dual sensation—his cock filling her, his fingers working her clit, the wind and the height and the feeling of being utterly claimed—sent her hurtling toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice a dark command. “Now, Helga. Now.”

The orgasm ripped through her, her body clenching around him as she screamed, the sound torn from her throat and carried away by the wind. Her vision whited out, her fingers slipping on the railing as her legs trembled, but Bjorn held her up, his grip bruising as he fucked her through it, his own release building.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his thrusts turning erratic, his cock swelling inside her. “Take it all, skatte—”

With a final, brutal snap of his hips, he came, his cum filling her in hot, thick pulses. She could feel him twitching inside her, his breath ragged against her skin as the ship rolled beneath them, the world tilting and righting itself in time with their gasping breaths.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—Bjorn still buried inside her, his arms wrapped around her waist, her back pressed to his chest. The wind cooled the sweat on their skin, the salt air mixing with the scent of sex and wood and the faint metallic tang of the blood from their ritual.

Helga turned her head, catching his lips in a slow, deep kiss. His beard was rough against her chin, his taste still on her tongue. When she pulled back, her smile was lazy, satisfied.

“Still think I’m insatiable?” she teased, her voice husky.

Bjorn chuckled, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before carefully pulling out. The loss of him made her whimper, but he only smirked, tucking himself back into his jeans before helping her straighten her own. “Oh, lille ulv,” he murmured, his fingers tangling in her wind-tousled hair. “I’m starting to think you’ll never be satisfied.”

She leaned into him, her hands sliding under his open shirt, tracing the symbols still damp on his skin. “Maybe not,” she admitted, her voice soft but sure. “But I’ll die trying.”

The ship rolled again, and they swayed with it, their bodies still pressed together, the crow’s nest creaking beneath them. Below, the sea stretched out endlessly, black and hungry, but up here, there was only the wind, the stars, and the heat of each other’s skin.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Seven: Raging Storm

The wind howled like a vengeful spirit, tearing at their clothes as Bjorn tightened his grip around Helga’s waist. The crow’s nest swayed violently, the wooden planks groaning under the assault of the storm. Rain lashed sideways, soaking through their clothes in an instant, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat still lingering between them. Helga’s breath hitched as Bjorn pulled her flush against his chest, his voice rough against her ear. *”We have to get down—now.”*

She didn’t argue. The ship lurched beneath them, the mast creaking ominously, and for the first time since they’d climbed up, fear cut through the haze of desire. Helga’s fingers dug into Bjorn’s forearm as he guided her toward the ladder, his other hand bracing against the slick railing. The descent was a blur of wind and rain, the rungs slippery under her boots. Bjorn moved behind her, his body shielding hers from the worst of the storm, his breath hot against her neck even as the cold bit at their skin. The moment her feet hit the deck, the ship rolled sharply, sending her stumbling into Bjorn’s arms. He steadied her, his hands firm on her hips, but there was no time for lingering touches—not yet.

The deck was chaos. Sailors shouted over the storm, their voices lost in the roar of the wind. Bjorn didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Helga’s hand and pulled her toward the hatch leading below deck, his boots splashing through the rising water sloshing across the planks. The hold was dim, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and salt, but it was shelter—barely. The lantern hanging from a beam cast flickering shadows across the cramped space, its light just enough to reveal the pile of furs stacked in the corner. Bjorn kicked the hatch shut behind them, the sound swallowed by the storm’s fury above.

For a heartbeat, they just stood there, chests heaving, skin prickling with cold and something far more insistent. Helga’s hair clung to her face in wet strands, her shirt plastered to her body, the fabric transparent enough to hint at the dark peaks of her nipples. Bjorn’s gaze dropped, his throat working as he took her in. The storm raged outside, but in that small, enclosed space, the air between them felt heavier, charged with the same electricity that had crackled in the crow’s nest—only now, it was sharper, more desperate.

*”Fuck,”* Bjorn growled, his voice low and rough. He didn’t wait. He closed the distance between them in one stride, his hands crashing into Helga’s hips as he backed her against the pile of furs. The impact sent a jolt through her, her breath escaping in a gasp as the softness of the pelts pressed against her spine. His mouth found hers before she could speak, his kiss bruising, hungry, his tongue forcing its way past her lips like he wanted to devour her. Helga moaned into it, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as she arched into him. The storm’s howl outside was nothing compared to the need clawing at her insides.

Bjorn’s hands were everywhere—yanking at the hem of her shirt, shoving it up to expose her breasts, his calloused palms rough against her sensitive skin. The cold air hit her damp flesh, making her nipples tighten painfully, but the chill lasted only a second before his mouth was on her, his lips sealing around one taut peak. Helga cried out, her head falling back against the furs as he sucked hard, his teeth grazing just enough to send a spike of pleasure-pain straight to her core. *”Bjorn—!”* Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her as he switched to the other breast, his free hand sliding down to palm her between her thighs. Even through the denim, she could feel the heat of his touch, the pressure maddening.

*”You’re soaked,”* he muttered against her skin, his breath hot. *”And not just from the rain.”* His fingers worked at the button of her jeans, popping it open with a sharp tug. The sound of the zipper was loud in the small space, drowned only by the thunderous crash of waves against the hull. Helga lifted her hips, helping him drag the denim down her thighs, her boots making it a struggle—one Bjorn solved by dropping to his knees in front of her. He yanked the fabric the rest of the way off, tossing her jeans aside before his hands were on her bare legs, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. *”Spread.”*

The command sent a shiver through her, but she obeyed, parting her legs as wide as the furs would allow. Bjorn’s breath hitched at the sight of her—no underwear, just slick, swollen flesh, her arousal glistening in the lantern light. *”Fuck, Helga.”* His voice was a rasp, his fingers tracing her folds before delving inside, two thick digits sinking into her with ease. She was so wet, so ready, her body clenching around him as he curled his fingers, finding that spot inside her that made her whimper. *”You’ve been dripping for me this whole time, haven’t you?”*

*”Yes—”* Her answer was a broken gasp as he added a third finger, stretching her, his thumb circling her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. *”Only you. Always you.”* The words spilled out of her, raw and honest, her hips rocking against his hand. The storm outside seemed to mirror the chaos inside her, the ship groaning as another wave hit, but all Helga could focus on was the way Bjorn’s fingers filled her, the way his breath ghosted over her thigh as he watched his hand work her.

*”You’re mine,”* he growled, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. *”Say it.”*

*”Yours,”* she choked out, her nails scraping against the furs. *”Only yours—”*

*”Good girl.”* The praise sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her muscles tightening around his fingers. But before she could tip over the edge, he pulled back, leaving her empty, her body throbbing with need. Helga whined in protest, her hips chasing his touch, but Bjorn was already rising, his hands going to his own jeans. The button gave way with a sharp *snik*, the sound obscene in the confined space. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already slick with pre-cum. Helga’s mouth watered at the sight, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Bjorn didn’t make her wait. He grabbed her by the hips and lifted her effortlessly, turning her so her back was against the furs, her legs wrapping around his waist. The position left her open, exposed, her wet pussy pressed against the ridged length of his cock. *”You want this?”* His voice was a dark murmur, his forehead pressing to hers as he rolled his hips, the head of his cock teasing her entrance. *”You want me to fuck you through the storm, Helga? Want me to make you scream so loud they hear you over the waves?”*

*”Yes,”* she breathed, her hands sliding between them to grip his shaft, guiding him to where she needed him most. *”Please, Bjorn—fuck me. I need you inside me.”*

That was all the permission he needed. He surged forward, his cock spearing into her in one brutal thrust. Helga cried out, her back arching as he filled her completely, stretching her around his thickness. The furs shifted beneath her, the scent of wool and sex thick in the air as Bjorn set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against hers with each drive. The ship rolled with the waves, the motion making every thrust hit deeper, harder, the angle sending sparks of pleasure radiating through her.

*”You feel that?”* Bjorn’s voice was a guttural snarl, his hands gripping her ass, tilting her just so. *”You feel how deep I am? How good you take me?”*

*”Yes—!* Oh gods, *yes—!”* Helga’s fingers clawed at his shoulders, her legs locking around him as she met him thrust for thrust. The lantern light flickered, casting shadows that danced across his sweat-slicked skin, the muscles in his arms corded with effort as he fucked her. The storm raged on, the timber of the ship groaning in protest, but all Helga could hear was the wet slap of skin on skin, the ragged sounds of their breathing, the filthy words falling from Bjorn’s lips.

*”You’re mine, Helga. This pussy is *mine*.”* His teeth sank into the curve of her neck, the sharp pain only heightening the pleasure coiling tight in her belly. *”You’re going to come on my cock, and then I’m going to fill you up so full you’ll feel me for days. You’ll remember who you belong to.”*

The words sent her spiraling. Her orgasm crashed over her like the waves outside, her body seizing as pleasure tore through her. She screamed, her nails raking down Bjorn’s back as her pussy clenched around him, milking his cock. Bjorn groaned, his rhythm stuttering as he buried his face against her throat, his breath hot and ragged. *”That’s it. Fuck, *that’s* it—”*

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His hips pistoned harder, his cock swelling inside her as his own release built. Helga was still riding the waves of her climax when she felt him tense, his entire body locking up as he came with a guttural shout. Hot cum flooded her, filling her in thick, relentless pulses, the sensation pushing her over the edge again. She whimpered, her body trembling as Bjorn emptied himself inside her, his cock twitching with the last of his release.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant roar of the storm. Bjorn’s forehead rested against hers, his hands still gripping her hips possessively. Helga’s fingers traced lazy patterns on his sweat-dampened skin, her body humming with aftershocks.

*”We’re not done,”* Bjorn murmured, his voice rough. He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes dark with promise. *”Not even close.”*

Helga smiled, slow and wicked, as she reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his still-hard cock. *”Good.”*

Chapter Eight: Flesh and Fire Vows

The storm’s fury had dulled to a low, rhythmic grumble, the wind no longer howling but sighing against the hull like a spent lover. The Havets Draug rocked gently, the creak of wood and the distant lap of waves against the planks filling the silence below deck. Bjorn’s breath was still uneven, his chest rising and falling against Helga’s as he held her pinned between his body and the pile of furs. The lantern’s flickering light cast long, wavering shadows across their skin, gilding the sweat that clung to them both. His fingers, rough from years of handling ropes and relics, traced the curve of her cheekbone, then drifted lower, brushing the freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.

Helga’s eyelashes fluttered as she exhaled, her body still humming from the force of him—from the way he’d filled her, claimed her, left her trembling with the ghost of his release deep inside. Her thighs, still wrapped loosely around his waist, twitched when his thumb grazed her lower lip. She could taste him there, salt and musk, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs. “You’re thinking too loud,” Bjorn murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp. His other hand slid down her spine, pressing her closer until she could feel the steady, insistent throb of his cock against her belly. He wasn’t soft. Not even close.

“Or you’re just good at listening,” she countered, her own voice huskier than she intended. The words came out breathy, almost lost beneath the groan of the ship. She shifted slightly, the movement deliberate, letting her hips roll just enough to tease him. His breath hitched, and his grip on her tightened, fingers digging into the flesh of her ass. “Careful, lille fugl,” he warned, the nickname a growl against her temple. “I didn’t say we were done.”

Helga smirked, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The blue of his eyes was nearly black in the dim light, the pupils blown wide with something more than just lust. There was a hunger there, something deeper, something that mirrored the ache in her own chest. “Then don’t stop,” she whispered. But before he could respond, she pressed her palm to his chest, feeling the wild thump of his heart beneath her fingers. “Tell me about the blót again.”

Bjorn stilled. Not just his body—his breath, his voice, even the storm outside seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, his thumb resumed its path, tracing the shell of her ear before tangling in the damp strands of her hair. “You want stories now?” he asked, though his tone held no mockery, only a low, simmering intensity. “After what we just—”

“I want you,” Helga interrupted, her nails scraping lightly over his collarbone. “All of you. Not just your cock inside me. Your words, too.” She saw the way his throat worked, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “The blót wasn’t just about the gods, was it? It was about us.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. For a moment, she thought he might refuse, might pull away or distract her with another bruising kiss. But then his lips parted, and his voice when it came was softer, rougher, like the words were being dragged up from somewhere deep and untouched. “No,” he admitted. “It wasn’t.” His hand slid from her hair to cup the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the pulse point beneath her ear. “The old ways… they weren’t just about sacrifice. They were about binding. Blood on the stones, yes, but also hands clasped in the dark. Promises spoken over fire. A man and a woman, their fates woven together before the gods even knew their names.”

Helga’s breath caught. She could see it—the flicker of flames on weathered faces, the weight of a blade in his hand, the way the air would’ve smelled of iron and pine. “And the gods listened,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the creak of the ship.

Bjorn’s smile was slow, almost feral. “Oh, they listened. But it wasn’t the gods who made the bond real.” His fingers tightened fractionally, just enough to make her gasp. “It was the choosing. The man who knelt in the dirt and said, this one. The woman who looked him in the eye and said, yes.”

Helga’s chest burned. “And if there were no gods?” she challenged, her pulse hammering beneath his touch. “If it was just two people, in the dark, with nothing but their own words?”

His answer was a growl, low and possessive, as his mouth crashed down on hers. There was no finesse to it—just teeth and tongue and the brutal slide of his lips against hers, like he was trying to devour the question right out of her. Helga moaned into it, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched into him, her bare breasts pressing against the rough heat of his chest. The kiss was a claim, a punishment, a promise all at once. When he finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged. “Then the words become the gods,” he snarled, his forehead pressed to hers. “Every syllable a prayer. Every gasp an offering.”

Helga’s mind spun. She could feel the weight of his cock, thick and heavy against her stomach, and the way his hips jerked involuntarily when she rocked against him. “So what’s your prayer, Bjorn?” she taunted, her voice dripping with challenge. “What are you offering me?”

His eyes darkened. For a heartbeat, she thought he might flip her onto her back, pin her wrists above her head, and fuck the defiance right out of her. But instead, his hand slid between them, his calloused fingers finding her clit with unerring precision. “This,” he growled, circling the sensitive flesh until her thighs trembled. “Your cunt, wet and begging for me. Your voice, screaming my name like it’s the only word you remember.” His fingers moved faster, his touch just shy of cruel. “Your art, Helga. The way you’ll carve our names into something that lasts longer than bone or stone.”

“Fuck—” The word tore out of her as her hips bucked, her body betraying her with how desperately it responded to him. She could feel her orgasm coiling tight, a storm of its own, and she hated how easily he could unravel her. “You think you’re the only one who can make things last?” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I’ll paint you into the sky, Bjorn. I’ll make sure every fucking generation knows exactly how you taste.”

His chuckle was dark, triumphant. “Good.” Then his fingers were gone, and she whimpered at the loss, but before she could protest, he was lifting her, shifting her until her back was against the furs again, her legs spread wide around his hips. The head of his cock nudged at her entrance, thick and insistent. “Then let’s give them something to remember.”

He surged into her in one brutal thrust, and Helga screamed, her back arching off the furs as he bottomed out inside her. The stretch was exquisite, almost painful, and she could feel every ridge of him, every pulse of his cock as it twitched deep in her cunt. “Yes—fuck—just like that—” Her words dissolved into a moan as he pulled back and slammed into her again, the angle perfect, his pelvis grinding against her clit with every snap of his hips.

“You feel that?” Bjorn grunted, his voice rough with effort. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, giving him deeper access. “This is how the old ones did it. No gentle touches. No whispered sweet nothings.” He punctuated the words with another thrust, this one so deep she felt him in her throat. “Just flesh and fire and a man taking what’s his.”

Helga’s vision blurred. She could feel her orgasm bearing down on her, a freight train of pleasure, and she clawed at his arms, her nails leaving red half-moons in his skin. “Yours,” she sobbed, the word torn from her. “I’m yours, damn you—”

“Say it again.” His voice was a whip-crack, his cock pistoning into her with relentless precision. “Louder. Like you mean it.”

“Yours!” she shrieked, her voice raw. “Only yours, always yours—” The words triggered something in him, a primal snarl tearing from his throat as his rhythm stuttered, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. She could feel him swelling inside her, his cock throbbing as his release neared.

“Helga—” Her name was a prayer and a curse on his lips, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise. “I’m gonna fill you up so full you’ll drip with me for days. Every step you take, you’ll feel me inside you. Every time you sit down, you’ll remember who owns this cunt.”

“Yes—please—” She was begging now, her body coiled so tight she thought she might shatter. “Make me remember. Make me ache for you—”

His teeth sank into the curve of her neck, the sharp sting of pain sending her hurtling over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a white-hot blast of pleasure that left her sobbing, her cunt clenching around him in violent waves. Bjorn groaned, his own release tearing through him as he buried himself to the hilt, his cum flooding her in thick, scalding pulses. “Fuck—Helga—” His voice was guttural, broken, as he spilled inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the slick slide of his cock as her body milked the last drops from him. Then, slowly, Bjorn lifted his head, his forehead resting against hers. His blue eyes burned into hers, fierce and possessive. “Now,” he murmured, his voice rough with spent lust, “tell me how you’ll paint me.”

Helga laughed, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath her touch. “With gold,” she whispered. “And fire. I’ll make you glow, Bjorn. Like the gods themselves are watching.” Her thumb brushed his lower lip, and she felt him shudder. “And when they ask who you are… I’ll tell them you’re mine.”

His answer was another kiss, this one slower, deeper, his tongue tangling with hers like he was sealing a vow. When he finally pulled back, his cock slipped free of her with a wet, obscene sound, his cum already beginning to leak from her well-used cunt. Helga didn’t move to cover herself. Instead, she let her legs fall open, let him see the mess he’d made of her. “Yours,” she repeated, her voice soft but sure. “And you’re mine.”

Bjorn’s gaze darkened, his fingers trailing through the slickness between her thighs, gathering his release and her arousal before bringing them to his mouth. His tongue darted out, tasting them both, and the sight sent another shudder through her. “Mine,” he agreed, his voice a growl. “And you’ll never forget it.”

Chapter Nine: Bound by the Sea

The lantern’s flickering glow painted shifting shadows across the wooden beams of the ship’s hull, the golden light catching the damp sheen of sweat still glistening on their skin. Bjorn’s breath was warm against the back of Helga’s neck, his fingers tracing lazy, possessive circles over her collarbone as the ship swayed gently beneath them. The storm had passed, leaving behind a quiet rhythm—the creak of timber, the distant lap of waves against the hull, the soft rustle of furs shifting under their weight. Helga exhaled slowly, her body still humming from the last climax, her muscles loose and pliant against him. She could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against her back, the way his cock twitched intermittently where it rested against her thigh, not yet softened despite the exhaustion in his limbs.

His voice rumbled low, rough with satisfaction but edged with something darker, something unfinished. “You think we’re done, lille fugl?” His fingers tightened just slightly on her hip, a silent warning. “I haven’t even begun to show you what it means to be bound.”

Helga smirked, rolling her hips back against him in a deliberate tease. The movement made his breath hitch, his grip reflexively digging into the soft flesh of her waist. “Then show me,” she murmured, tilting her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes glinted in the lantern light, challenge and desire swirling in their depths. “Or are those just words, skipper?”

A growl vibrated in his chest. In one swift motion, Bjorn shifted behind her, his hands sliding down to her thighs before he urged her forward onto her hands and knees. The furs beneath them were thick, cushioning her knees as she settled into the position, her back arching instinctively, presenting herself to him. Her hair, a tangled mass of reddish-brown waves, spilled over her shoulders, curtained around her face as she turned to watch him through the strands. The sight of her like this—submissive yet defiant, her body still marked from his teeth and hands—sent a fresh surge of heat through him.

Bjorn didn’t hesitate. He knelt behind her, his palms sliding up the backs of her thighs, spreading them just a little wider before his thumbs dipped into the slick, swollen folds of her pussy. Helga gasped, her fingers curling into the furs as he teased her, circling her entrance before dragging his touch upward to press against her clit. “Still so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval. “Like you were made to take my cock.”

She whimpered, her hips rocking back against his hand, seeking more pressure. “Bjorn—”

“Shh.” His free hand tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back, exposing the line of her throat. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his fingers continued their slow, maddening torture. “You wanted to know about the blót. About binding.” His teeth grazed her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “This is how it’s done. Not with words alone. With flesh. With this.” He emphasized the last word by finally—finally—pressing two fingers inside her, curling them upward to stroke that sensitive spot deep within.

Helga’s breath hitched, her body clenching around him. “Fuck—”

“No.” His fingers withdrew, leaving her empty, aching. “Not yet.” He released her hair, his hand sliding down her back, following the dip of her spine before settling on her hip. The other hand joined it, his grip firm, almost bruising as he positioned himself behind her. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, hot and heavy, and Helga bit her lip, her nails digging into the furs beneath her.

“Bjorn, please—”

“Begging already?” His voice was a dark chuckle, but there was no cruelty in it—only the promise of something deeper, something that would leave them both raw. “Say it, Helga. Say you’re mine.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. “I’m yours.” The words were a whisper, but they carried the weight of a vow. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”

That was all the invitation he needed.

Bjorn surged forward in one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her. Helga cried out, her body stretching to accommodate him, the burn of his thickness sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through her. His hands gripped her hips like a vise, holding her in place as he withdrew almost all the way before slamming back in, his pelvis smacking against her ass with a sharp, wet sound. The ship’s gentle rocking only amplified the sensation, making it feel like the world itself was moving with them, like they were the only two people left in existence.

“Oh—god—” Helga’s voice broke, her fingers scrambling for purchase in the furs as he set a brutal pace. Each thrust drove her forward, her breasts swaying with the movement, her nipples dragging against the rough texture beneath her. Bjorn’s breath was ragged, his muscles coiled tight as he fucked her, his cock pistoning in and out of her with relentless precision.

“You feel that?” he growled, his voice rough with effort. “This is how the old gods bound their chosen. Not with pretty words. With this.” He emphasized the word with a particularly deep thrust, his hips snapping against hers so hard the impact reverberated through her bones. “With sweat and blood and cum.”

Helga moaned, her body tightening around him, her walls fluttering as another orgasm began to build. “More,” she gasped. “Give me more.”

His answer was a guttural sound, half-laugh, half-growl, as he leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back. One hand snaked around her waist, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, demanding circles as he continued to fuck her. The other hand slid up to her throat, not choking, but holding—possessive, controlling. His lips brushed the side of her neck, his beard scraping against her skin as he whispered against her ear, his voice a dark, rhythmic chant in time with his thrusts.

“Ég bind þig at mér. Ég bind þig at mér.” His hips rolled, grinding against her ass as he bottomed out inside her. “I bind you to me. With every breath. With every—” His fingers pinched her clit, and Helga screamed, her body convulsing as the orgasm crashed over her. “—fucking inch.”

Her pussy clenched around him, milking his cock as she came, her vision whiting out for a heartbeat. Bjorn didn’t stop. He rode her through it, his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he chased his climax. His hand left her throat, gripping her hip again as he straightened, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate.

“Helga—” His voice was a broken growl, and then he was coming, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he spilled himself with a shuddering groan. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he emptied himself, his body trembling with the force of it.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the slick, obscene noises of their bodies parting as Bjorn slowly withdrew. Helga collapsed forward onto the furs, her limbs boneless, her skin slick with sweat. Bjorn followed, his larger body covering hers, his weight pressing her into the softness beneath them. His lips found the back of her neck, pressing a kiss there, his breath hot against her skin.

“Mine,” he murmured, the word a possessive rumble.

Helga turned her head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, deep kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, the salt of sweat and the iron tang of blood where she’d bitten him earlier. “Yours,” she agreed, her voice rough. Her hand found his, their fingers intertwining as the ship rocked them gently, the world outside forgotten.

But Bjorn wasn’t done. Not yet.

His hand slid down her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist before dipping lower, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Helga shivered, her body still humming from the last orgasm, her nerves oversensitive. “Bjorn—” she started, her voice a breathy protest, but he cut her off with a low, commanding growl.

“Again.”

She could feel him hardening against her thigh, his cock already stirring back to life. “You can’t be serious,” she murmured, though her body betrayed her, her hips shifting restlessly against the furs.

“Oh, I’m serious.” His fingers found her pussy again, slipping through the slickness, the evidence of how ready she still was for him. “You think the old gods only demanded one offering?” His teeth grazed her shoulder, his voice a dark murmur. “They took everything. Again and again, until there was nothing left to give.”

Helga’s breath hitched as his fingers circled her clit, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You can.” His other hand slid beneath her, cupping her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple until it hardened under his touch. “And you will.” He pinched lightly, and she gasped, her back arching into him. “Because you’re mine, Helga. And I’m not done with you yet.”

She could feel his cock, thick and heavy, pressing against her again. Her body responded despite her protests, her pussy clenching with anticipation. “You’re going to kill me,” she whispered, but there was no real resistance in her voice.

“No.” His fingers left her clit, his hand sliding up to grip her hip as he positioned himself behind her once more. “I’m going to worship you.” The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and Helga bit her lip, her body already tightening in anticipation. “And you’re going to take every fucking inch of it.”

He pushed inside her in one smooth motion, filling her completely. Helga moaned, her fingers curling into the furs as he began to move again, his thrusts slower this time, deeper. His hands roamed her body, one gripping her hip, the other sliding up to tangle in her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough with admiration. “Taking me so perfectly. Like you were made for this.” His hips rolled, grinding against her ass as he bottomed out inside her. “Like you were made for me.”

Helga couldn’t answer. She could only moan, her body tightening around him as another orgasm began to build, slower this time, deeper. Bjorn’s hand left her hair, sliding down to her breast again, his fingers rolling her nipple between them as he fucked her. His other hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her clit once more, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles.

“Come for me again, lille fugl,” he commanded, his voice a dark whisper against her ear. “Let me feel you come on my cock one more time.”

Helga’s breath came in short, desperate gasps, her body coiling tight as the pleasure built. “Bjorn—I can’t—”

“You can.” His fingers pinched her clit, and she cried out, her body convulsing as the orgasm crashed over her. “That’s it. Just like that.” His thrusts became harder, more desperate, as he chased his own release. “Fuck, Helga—”

His voice broke as he came, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he spilled himself with a shuddering groan. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he emptied himself, his body trembling with the force of it.

This time, when he collapsed onto the furs beside her, pulling her into his arms, Helga didn’t protest. She curled against him, her head resting on his chest, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Bjorn’s fingers traced lazy patterns on her skin, his breath slow and steady beneath her ear.

“Mine,” he murmured again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Helga smiled, her fingers tracing the lines of his pendant where it rested against his chest. “Yours,” she agreed, her voice soft. “Always.”

The ship rocked gently beneath them, the lantern’s glow casting long shadows across the wooden beams. Outside, the sea stretched endlessly, dark and quiet. But here, in this moment, there was only them. Only the weight of his arms around her, the warmth of his body against hers, and the unspoken promise of more to come.

Because this was far from over.

Chapter Ten: Salt and Surrender

The salt-kissed wind whipped across the deck, carrying the scent of pine and damp wood as Bjorn’s hands closed around Helga’s waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. The night was alive—stars bleeding light across the black expanse, the sea breathing slow and deep beneath them, the Havets Draug groaning softly with each roll of the waves. Helga’s skin prickled with the cold, her nipples tightening into hard peaks beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, but the chill only made her more aware of the heat radiating from Bjorn’s body, the way his breath scorched her neck as he pressed her against the mast.

“You think you can handle the open air, lille fugl?” His voice was a rough purr, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass. “Or do I need to remind you who owns this cunt?”

Helga’s breath hitched, her back arching instinctively, pressing her ass tighter against the thick ridge of his cock straining against his trousers. “You talk too much,” she gasped, but the words lacked bite, her voice already thick with need. The wood beneath her bare feet was cold, the night air sharp, but none of it mattered—not when his hands were on her like this, not when she could feel the promise of what was coming coiled in every tense line of his body.

Bjorn chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against her skin as his teeth grazed her earlobe. “Oh, I’ll show you how little I need words.” His grip shifted, one hand tangling in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose the long line of her throat. His other hand slid down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her pants, finding her already wet, her folds slick with anticipation. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned, two fingers plunging inside her without warning. “Always so fucking ready for me.”

Helga moaned, her hips jerking forward, her bound wrists straining against the rigging he’d looped around them earlier—just tight enough to remind her she wasn’t in control. The rough rope bit into her skin, but the sting only made her wetter, her cunt clenching around his fingers as he fucked her with them, his thumb circling her clit in slow, maddening strokes. “Bjorn—” His name tore from her lips, half plea, half curse, her body already trembling on the edge.

“Not yet,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers with a wet pop. Before she could protest, he spun her around, shoving her back against the mast. The wood dug into her spine, but she barely noticed, her attention locked on the way his eyes darkened as he took her in—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the way her chest heaved with every ragged breath. His hands went to his belt, the leather hissing as he undid it, his cock springing free, already thick and flushed, the head glistening with pre-cum. He gave himself a slow stroke, his fist tight around the base, his gaze never leaving hers. “On your knees.”

The command sent a shiver down her spine. Helga sank to the deck, the planks cold and unyielding beneath her knees, but the discomfort only heightened the thrill of submission. Bjorn stepped closer, his cock bobbing in front of her face, the scent of him—musky, salty, intoxicating—filling her senses. She didn’t wait for instruction. Her tongue darted out, tracing the thick vein along the underside of his shaft, savoring the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened in her hair.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice rough. “Take it.”

Helga opened her mouth, her lips parting around the broad head of his cock. She took him slowly at first, her tongue swirling around the crown, tasting the bitter salt of pre-cum before she hollowed her cheeks and sank deeper. Bjorn’s groan was guttural, his hand guiding her, his hips rolling forward as she took more of him, her throat opening to accommodate his thickness. “Fuck, just like that—” His voice was strained, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place as he began to fuck her mouth in earnest. Each thrust hit the back of her throat, making her gag, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. She took it, her nails digging into his thighs, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently as she moaned around his cock.

“You love this, don’t you?” Bjorn’s voice was a dark murmur, his hips snapping forward, his cock hitting the back of her throat with every thrust. “Love being my little cocksleeve, my pretty whore with her mouth full of dick.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her thighs, her cunt aching with emptiness. She whimpered around him, the sound vibrating along his shaft, and his grip tightened, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “That’s it, take it all—” His cock swelled, the head pressing against the back of her throat, and with a groan, he came, his cum spilling down her throat in thick, hot pulses. Helga swallowed around him, her own body trembling with need, her cunt throbbing, empty and desperate.

Bjorn pulled out slowly, his cock glistening with her saliva, his cum dripping from her lips as she gasped for air. He didn’t give her time to recover. His hands were on her again, hauling her to her feet, spinning her around, pressing her face-first against the mast. The wood was rough against her cheek, but she barely registered it, her entire focus on the way his body covered hers, the way his cock—still half-hard—pressed against the crack of her ass.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear as his fingers found the waistband of her pants, yanking them down along with her underwear in one rough motion. The night air hit her exposed cunt, the coolness making her whimper, but Bjorn didn’t let her shiver for long. His hand cracked across her ass, the sound sharp in the quiet night, the sting radiating through her flesh. “Spread.”

Helga obeyed, her legs parting, her breath hitching as his fingers trailed through her folds, gathering her wetness before circling her tight hole. “Bjorn—” she started, but the words died in her throat as he pressed the tip of his finger inside her, the stretch burning, the intrusion making her gasp.

“You can take it,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress. “You’ll take it all.” His finger sank deeper, his thumb pressing against her clit, rubbing in slow, firm circles that had her moaning, her hips rocking back against his hand. The dual sensations—pleasure and the sharp edge of pain—sent her mind spinning, her body caught between the need to pull away and the desperate want to take more.

“Please—” she begged, her voice breaking.

“Please what?” Bjorn’s breath was hot against her neck, his free hand gripping her hip, holding her in place as he added a second finger, stretching her open. “You want my cock here, lille fugl? Want me to fuck this tight little ass until you scream?”

“Yes—” The word was a sob, her body trembling, her cunt dripping, her ass clenching around his fingers. “Yes, fuck, please—”

Bjorn groaned, his cock twitching against her thigh. “Since you asked so nicely.” His fingers withdrew, leaving her empty, aching, but only for a moment. The sound of his belt buckle clinking was loud in the silence, followed by the slick slide of lube—coconut oil, warm from his pocket—being drizzled between her cheeks. His fingers returned, slick now, pressing inside her again, scissoring, stretching, until she was panting, her nails scraping against the wood of the mast.

“You’re mine,” he growled, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. “Every fucking inch of you.”

Helga barely had time to brace before he pushed inside, his cock breaching her tight ring of muscle with a slow, relentless pressure. The burn was intense, her body resisting at first, but Bjorn didn’t stop. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he sank deeper, his cock filling her ass inch by inch until his hips were flush against her. “Fuck—” The word tore from his lips, his breath ragged. “You feel like heaven.”

Helga could only whimper, her body stretched to its limit, the fullness overwhelming. But the pain melted into something darker, something more intoxicating as Bjorn began to move. His thrusts were shallow at first, letting her adjust, his cock dragging against the sensitive walls of her ass, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her. “That’s it,” he groaned, his hands sliding up her back, gripping her shoulders as he pulled out slightly before slamming back in. “Take it. Take my cock like a good girl.”

His pace quickened, his hips snapping forward, his cock pistoning in and out of her with a rhythm that matched the roll of the ship. Each thrust sent her forward, her cheek pressing against the mast, her breath coming in short, needy gasps. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the night, obscene and perfect, the wetness of her cunt dripping down her thighs, her body on fire.

“Touch yourself,” Bjorn commanded, his voice a dark snarl. “I want to feel you come with my cock in your ass.”

Helga’s hand trembled as she reached between her legs, her fingers finding her clit, already swollen and throbbing. The first touch sent a jolt through her, her body clenching around Bjorn’s cock, making him groan. “That’s it,” he growled. “Play with that pretty cunt while I fuck your ass.”

She obeyed, her fingers moving in tight, desperate circles, her breath hitching as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. Bjorn’s thrusts grew harder, his cock swelling inside her, the stretch almost too much, but she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted more. “Harder—” she gasped, her fingers working faster, her body trembling on the edge. “Fuck me harder, Bjorn, I’m—” The words dissolved into a broken cry as her orgasm crashed over her, her cunt clenching around nothing, her ass gripping Bjorn’s cock like a vise. He groaned, his thrusts turning erratic, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

“Helga—fuck—” His cock twitched inside her, his cum filling her ass in hot, thick pulses, his body shuddering against hers. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the ship’s gentle sway, the distant cry of a gull cutting through the night.

Bjorn’s weight pressed her into the mast, his cock still buried inside her, softening slowly. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her back against him, his lips pressing against the side of her neck. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice rough with awe. “So fucking perfect.”

Helga laughed weakly, her body trembling, her skin slick with sweat despite the cold. “I think you broke me.”

Bjorn’s chuckle rumbled through his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles over her hip. “Good.” His hand slid lower, his fingers pressing against her swollen cunt, still throbbing from her orgasm. “Because I’m not nearly done with you yet.” His teeth grazed her earlobe, his breath hot against her skin. “And neither is the night.”