My Viking Son’s Two Fathers

Chapter 6

The morning of the konungs' arrival dawns cold and pale, the sky heavy with clouds that threaten snow.

They were not supposed to come so soon. Solveig promised us a week—time to prepare, to hide, to build our defenses.

Instead, riders spotted their banners at dawn, and now the household scrambles to assemble in the courtyard with barely a moment's warning.

I have dressed for war rather than ceremony. Mail gleams beneath my gray cloak, my sword hangs at my hip, my ash-blonde braid pulled tight against my skull.

If the new konungs find this unwelcoming, let them.

I have not survived ten years by making myself soft for men who hold power.

"The boys?" I murmur to Solveig as we take our positions.

"Safe in the east hall. They will not be seen."

The horns sound. The gates open. And my heart stops.

They ride in at the head of their warband—two kings crowned in silver and blood, and ten years have transformed them into something almost unbearable to witness.

Ragnar comes first. He has grown into his power like a blade forged in ice. Broader now, his shoulders massive beneath black fur and mail that gleams like frost.

His beard is braided with silver rings, and a scar cuts across his throat—a wound that should have killed him. When he dismounts, I see the way his body moves, controlled and deadly, muscle coiled beneath every motion.

His ice-blue eyes sweep the courtyard.

My breath catches.

Behind him, Leif blazes like a torch against the gray morning. The years have only sharpened his dangerous beauty. Copper hair streams beneath his helm, wild despite the braids woven through it.

His arms are thick with muscle, gold rings stacked to his elbows, and when he swings down from his horse, his half-unlaced tunic reveals a chest scarred from countless battles.

Heat pools low in my belly.

Traitor body. Traitor memory.

I remember those arms pinning me down. Those hands gripping my hips. Those voices growling my name like a prayer.

Ragnar's gaze moves across the assembled crowd—servants, warriors, Lady Solveig in her widow's black—and stops on me.

The world narrows to a single point of frozen stillness.

Something flickers in those glacier eyes. Recognition. Certainty. And beneath it, something darker—hunger that makes my skin burn despite the cold.

He remembers.

Leif's attention follows his brother's, and the laughter dies on his lips. His wildfire eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.

A slow smile spreads across his face—not warm, not kind, but sharp with dangerous delight.

He remembers too.

Solveig steps forward, her voice steady. "My lords, you honor this household with your presence. In my late husband's name, I offer you a welcome."

Ragnar drags his gaze from me with visible effort. "Lady Solveig. Your husband's reputation was known throughout the North. His loss diminishes us all."

"You are kind to say so, my lord."

But even as he speaks the courtesies, his attention keeps drifting back to me. I feel it like a physical touch—like fingers trailing down my spine.

Leif makes no pretense at subtlety. He watches me openly as he approaches, each step deliberate, until he stands close enough that I can smell woodsmoke and leather and the musk of a hard ride.

"Well, well." His voice is honey poured over gravel. "The famous shield-maiden who holds the eastern flank. I have heard stories about you."

"Stories are often exaggerated, my lord."

"Are they?" He circles me slowly, brazenly, as though I am a horse he considers purchasing. "They say you killed twelve men at Redfell without taking a scratch. They say you fight like a valkyrie descended from Odin's hall."

My chin lifts. "I fight like a woman who has learned that mercy is a luxury she cannot afford."

"And do you remember how to do anything besides fight, shield-maiden?” His smile widens. “Or has war claimed all your... softer talents?"

The innuendo lands like a torch to dry kindling. Heat flares across my cheeks, down my throat, pooling between my thighs.

"I remember many things, my lord." I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. "I remember that men who underestimate me tend to regret it."

Leif laughs—a rich, dark sound that vibrates through my bones. "Oh, I do not underestimate you. That is precisely why I find you so... interesting."

Ragnar appears at his brother's shoulder, silent as a shadow. This close, I can see the silver threaded through his black hair, the fine lines carved around those frozen eyes.

He has aged like winter itself—harder, colder, more beautiful in his severity.

"You served Jarl Sigvald as a blood-sworn counselor," he says. Not a question.

"I did."

"And now you will serve us."

The command in his voice should make me bristle. Instead, it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with cold.

"I serve whoever holds these lands, my lord. My sword is sworn to the jarldom, not to any single man."

"Is that so?" He steps closer—close enough that I feel the frost of his breath against my face. "And if we demanded more than your sword? What then?"

My heart hammers against my ribs. "Then you would need to be more specific about your demands."

Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the ice, a glimpse of fire beneath. "Perhaps I will be. When we know each other better."

Leif chuckles. "My brother is not usually so... talkative. You should feel honored, shield-maiden. He has spoken more words to you in five minutes than he speaks to most people in a week."

"Perhaps he simply has more to say to me."

The words hang in the frozen air, heavy with meanings none of us dare name aloud.

Ragnar's eyes bore into mine. "Perhaps I do."

Before I can respond, a horn sounds from beyond the gates—not the welcome call, but an alarm. Riders burst into the courtyard, horses lathered, faces wild with urgency.

"My lords! Jarl Ormr rides with three hundred men. He means to seize these lands!"

The spell shatters. Ragnar's expression transforms to iron. Leif's playful heat hardens into something feral.

"How long?" Ragnar demands.

"Less than a day. His vanguard approaches from the eastern pass."

Solveig's face pales. "Ormr the Red-Handed. He has coveted Sigvald's coastline for years."

Orders fly. Warriors scramble for weapons. The warband that rode in moments ago prepares to ride out again. Leif catches my arm as I turn toward the armory. His grip is firm, his eyes burning.

"Ride with us, shield-maiden. Show me if those stories are true."

I pull free, but not quickly. Not as quickly as I should. "Try to keep up, my lord."

His laughter follows me into the chaos of preparation.

And despite everything—despite the danger, despite the secrets, despite three boys hidden in the east hall—my blood sings with something that feels terrifyingly like joy.