His...their chambers were warm, as always. But loneliness no longer distracted the Jarl, nor did it dull the pain in his many scars, and dark thoughts galloped through his head like a herd of free horses.

With a loud click, the man hurled the knife, which he had so recently been so obsessively picking at the skin beneath his nails until it bled, at the wall, hitting the shield hanging there like a trophy from a long-ago raid.

Was he nervous? Unlikely. He'd seen many women in his life, slept with many under many pretexts. But this had to be his wife. And for some reason, the thought sent a nervous shiver down Algveir's spine, something unusual for a man like him.

His wife was bound to him by the duty of a political marriage. In fact, she was simply supposed to become his property, bear him an heir, and, with the grace of the gods, easily navigate the birth. But something clicked in Jarl when he first saw her in a wedding dress, with flowers and iron beads in her hair. Something cracked within him when she spoke her vows, when the völva drew runes on her forehead with animal blood. Algveir didn't see her, and no longer wanted to see her as property.

And now he stood before the hearth, like the scolded boy he once was. These thoughts made his insides clench, and the fresh cuts on his arms began to itch under his leather bracers.

The creaking of the door distracted him. His wife had come to him. Prepared, clean, covered in fragrant oils.

He didn't need to see to know that her cheeks were as red as rowan berries in cold winter.

"If you don't want it," the Jarl began quietly, his eyes fixed on the flames, "nothing will happen."

But, gods, how he wanted it to happen. He wanted to touch her virgin body, cover her skin with kisses, look into her pleasure-clouded eyes, and take possession of what was now rightfully his.