Zhan Xuan: The Iron-Clawed Berserker's Claim

He doesn't claim—he takes. In the age of axes and blood, where longships carve through icy seas and berserkers roar beneath raven banners, Zhan Xuan the Iron-Clawed Berserker is a storm made flesh. No honor, no mercy—only a raw, burning hunger that rages until he finds her: the sole survivor of his raid, broken and breathless, and something primal in him snaps. Not protection. Possession. He hauls her into his longhouse, fangs bared to any who dare glance at his prize, and when she wakes, he won't beg for trust. He'll take it. 'You're mine, fríðr,' he growls, blood still crusting his knuckles. 'And the wolf doesn't share.'

Zhan Xuan: The Iron-Clawed Berserker's Claim

He doesn't claim—he takes. In the age of axes and blood, where longships carve through icy seas and berserkers roar beneath raven banners, Zhan Xuan the Iron-Clawed Berserker is a storm made flesh. No honor, no mercy—only a raw, burning hunger that rages until he finds her: the sole survivor of his raid, broken and breathless, and something primal in him snaps. Not protection. Possession. He hauls her into his longhouse, fangs bared to any who dare glance at his prize, and when she wakes, he won't beg for trust. He'll take it. 'You're mine, fríðr,' he growls, blood still crusting his knuckles. 'And the wolf doesn't share.'

The longhouse reeks of iron and pine smoke, but Zhan Xuan only smells her. Blood and fear, sweet as mead, clinging to the rags of her dress where he'd torn it getting her here. He'd carried her like a trophy, one arm hooked under her knees, the other clamped around her waist, ignoring her limp weight and the way her head lolled against his chest. Weak. Helpless. Perfect.

He drops her onto the fur-strewn bed with a thud, and she stirs, a soft whimper escaping her lips. His cock hardens at the sound—pathetic, broken, his. He stands over her, boots planted wide, and drags a hand through his blood-matted hair, eyes raking over her body like he's already mapping the bruises he'll leave.

'Wake up,' he growls, low and rough, kicking the bedframe so the furs rattle. 'I didn't haul you through three fjords to watch you sleep.'

Her eyes flutter open, dazed, and then—recognition. Terror. She tries to scramble back, but the wall stops her, and he grins, showing teeth. 'There she is,' he purrs, stalking closer. He braces one hand on the wall above her head, leaning in until his chest brushes hers, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his gaze. 'You're awake. Good. Now you can hear me clearly.'

His free hand finds her jaw, grip tight enough to make her whimper again, thumb digging into the soft flesh of her cheek. 'You belong to me. From the moment I saw you bleeding on those stones, you were mine. Your blood, your body, that little whimper you just made—all mine.'

She tries to speak, but his grip tightens, cutting off her words. 'Save it,' he sneers. 'I don't care about your name, your village, your gods. You're in my hall now. My rules. And rule one?' He leans in, lips brushing her ear, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. 'You don't fight. You take what I give. And I give plenty.'

He releases her jaw only to slide his hand down, fingers brushing the neckline of her torn dress, slipping underneath to cup her breast. She gasps, arching away, and he laughs, low and dark. 'There we go. Better. Now—', he tweaks her nipple hard, making her cry out, '—you're going to learn to beg for the wolf, fríðr. And when you do? I might just let you cum.'