My Viking Son’s Two Fathers

Chapter 15

The dead raven is only the beginning.

In the weeks that follow, small threats multiply like shadows lengthening toward dusk.

A trip-wire appears on a staircase I frequent, discovered only when my boot catches and I barely save myself from a bone-breaking fall—my hands scraping raw against the stone as I catch the railing.

A saddle girth frays mysteriously during a morning ride, sending my horse stumbling on rocky ground. I manage to throw myself clear, but the bruises take weeks to fade.

Whispered rumors spread through the court that I practice dark seiðr magic to ensnare men's minds.

That I bewitched the twin konungs with forbidden arts, that my children were conceived through blood sacrifice and demon pacts.

The accusations are absurd, yet I see their effect in the way servants make signs against evil when I pass, in the widening berth courtiers give me in the corridors.

I cannot prove Astrid's hand in any of it, but knowing keeps me awake at night, blade in hand, my sons barricaded in their chambers with Solveig standing watch.

The twins notice my vigilance.

Leif confronts me directly one morning in the training yard, where I have been drilling with a ferocity that leaves the practice dummies in splinters.

His playful manner has been stripped away, replaced by something sharp and searching.

"You flinch at shadows," he says, catching my arm before I can deliver another blow. "Every sound makes you reach for steel. You have not slept properly in weeks—I can see it in your face. Tell me what frightens you."

His grip is warm, his green eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

I remember his hands at the camp's edge, the pleasure he drew from my body, the promises he whispered against my skin.

But I pull free, unwilling to show weakness. "Nothing I cannot handle."

"I have watched you, Hild." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You move through this castle like a woman expecting an attack at every corner. If someone has threatened you, if someone has—"

"I said I can handle it." The words come out sharper than I intend. "I have been handling threats since before your brother made me his sworn sword. I do not need rescue."

Something flickers across his features—frustration, perhaps, or hurt. "I am not offering rescue. I am offering to kill whoever has put that look in your eyes."

"And if I told you it was your brother's queen? Would you kill her for me?"

The silence that follows is answer enough.

Ragnar's approach is different—silent, strategic.

I notice guards appearing near my chambers without explanation, their presence constant but unobtrusive.

Servants who seemed hostile are suddenly replaced with faces I do not recognize, men and women who respond to my requests with prompt efficiency.

Astrid's access to certain parts of the castle becomes mysteriously restricted; I hear her complaining to her ladies about renovations blocking her favorite passages.

Ragnar says nothing to me about any of it. But his protection wraps around me like armor I did not request, a silent acknowledgment that he sees the danger even if he cannot, or will not, name its source.

One evening I encounter him in a darkened corridor, both of us wandering sleepless through the castle's bones. The torches have burned low at this hour, leaving pools of shadow between islands of flickering light.

He stops when he sees me, his ice-blue eyes catching the flame.

"You should rest," he says quietly.

"So should you. Yet here we both are, haunting the halls like restless spirits."

"I find it difficult to sleep when I know threats move through my own household." His gaze holds mine. "Threats I cannot yet prove well enough to act upon."

"You know, then."

"I know my wife's nature. I know her hatred of you predates your arrival here by a decade."

He moves closer, each step deliberate.

"I know that accidents have befallen you with suspicious frequency since you entered these walls."

"And yet she remains queen. Remains free to…"

"She remains queen because I cannot execute a woman for crimes I cannot prove, however certain I may be of her guilt. The jarls who support her would rebel. The alliance her family brings would shatter."

His voice drops. "But I can protect you. I can limit her access, watch her servants, ensure that no further accidents occur."

"You have already been doing that."

"Yes."

Neither of us moves.

The silence is heavy with everything unspoken—the tension that has built through weeks of glances and near-touches, the memory of his brother's hands on my skin.

The impossible situation that grows more tangled with each passing day.

Then Ragnar closes the distance, and before I can speak, his mouth is on mine.

Where Leif burned, Ragnar consumes. His kiss is deliberate and devastating, his hands sliding into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the conquest.

He presses me against the cold stone wall, his body a cage of heat and hard muscle, and I melt into him despite every warning screaming in my mind.

His lips trail down my throat as his fingers find the laces of my bodice, loosening them with practiced efficiency. Cool air kisses my skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palm cupping my bare breast.

His thumb circles my nipple, drawing it to a peak, and I bite back a moan.

"I have thought of nothing but this," he murmurs against my collarbone. "Since the moment I saw you in that courtyard. Since ten years ago, when you came to us like a gift from the gods."

His hand slides lower, beneath my skirts, finding the slick heat between my thighs.

I gasp as his fingers stroke through my folds, my hips arching into his touch. He watches my face as he works me—ice-blue eyes burning with intensity, cataloguing every reaction, learning what makes me shatter.

"Let go," he commands softly. "Let me have this."

I do. The release crashes through me like a wave breaking against cliffs, and Ragnar swallows my cry with another kiss, holding me upright when my knees threaten to buckle.

When the trembling subsides, he rests his forehead against mine. "I will not let her harm you," he says, his voice rough. "Or them. Whatever it costs."

Before I can respond, distant footsteps echo down the corridor. Ragnar releases me, stepping back, his composure reassembling like armor. But his eyes remain hot as they hold mine.

"This is not finished," he promises, and disappears into the shadows.

I sag against the wall, my body still throbbing, my mind spinning. I have now allowed both brothers to touch me, to bring me pleasure, to crack open the walls I built for survival.

And I cannot bring myself to regret either encounter.

***

The tension builds until it shatters.

I return to my chambers one evening to find Erik convulsing on the floor.

Foam gathers at his lips. His copper hair is dark with sweat, plastered to his forehead. His small body seizes and thrashes, back arching, limbs jerking with terrible violence.

“Erik!” I drop to my knees beside my son as his eyes roll back and his breath comes in horrible, rattling gasps. “Solveig! Someone! We need…”

And that’s where I notice the cup Erik drank from. It sits on the table, innocent and damning.

The cup that was meant for me.