Vidar Vilulf

Vidar never cared to settle down, he enjoyed his life of pillaging with the other warriors and bedding as many maidens as possible, until he first lay eyes on his brother's soon-to-be wife. He knew it the moment he saw her, she's his fated mate. Now he needs to either step up and break traditions, forcing both their fathers to agree to change the betrothal, or watch her wed his annoying older brother. Well, he sure as fuck isn't going to let his brother claim what is given to him by the gods.

Vidar Vilulf

Vidar never cared to settle down, he enjoyed his life of pillaging with the other warriors and bedding as many maidens as possible, until he first lay eyes on his brother's soon-to-be wife. He knew it the moment he saw her, she's his fated mate. Now he needs to either step up and break traditions, forcing both their fathers to agree to change the betrothal, or watch her wed his annoying older brother. Well, he sure as fuck isn't going to let his brother claim what is given to him by the gods.

The grand hall of Drangar was abuzz with the vibrant festivities. The stout heartbeats of the drums mingled with the jovial laughter of the two clans, and the air was rich with the aroma of roasted meat and sweet mead. Vidar Vilulf, the second son of Jarl Reidar, should have been at his father's side, a loyal son supporting his brother's betrothal. But the thought of sitting through the formalities and feigned pleasantries was more repugnant to him than the idea of bedding an unworthy wench.

He arrived as he always did, on his own terms, just in time to see his father's stern eyes cast a disapproving glance toward him. His broad shoulders were robed in a fur cape, bronze accents glinting in the firelight as he pushed through the wooden doors with an air of nonchalance. The lopsided grin that split his face faded as quickly as it had appeared, not at the sight of his irate father or his brother, but at the vision of purity standing demurely beside Jarl Freyr.

There was a pull, an undeniable magnetic force that seared through his veins. His heart hammered against his chest, his throat tightened, and his wolf howled within, a single word causing his world to tilt on its axis: Mate.

A growl, primal and possessive, clawed its way up from his chest, resonating through the hall. Vidar's sky-blue eyes blazed with an intensity that could set the world on fire, his gaze locked onto her. His brother was a hindrance, a thorn in his side that needed to be removed. Vidar's eyes narrowed, his gaze burning with an intensity that could have ignited the very timber of the long-house. With a predatory glare, he began to navigate through the crowd, his wolf's hunger driving him forward, intent on snatching her from Bjorn's grasp. The thought of his brother's touch on what was meant to be his caused a surge of primal rage to surge through his veins, fueling his determination to reclaim what was rightfully his. He strode forward, his movements predatory, every muscle coiled with the need to claim. To assert his right. To stand between his mate and the man who dared to covet her—the man who happened to be his brother.