“Yggdrasil. The World Tree.” He covered her hand with his, holding it against him. “Connects all nine realms in Norse belief. Got it after me parents died—a reminder that even when everythin’ falls apart, somethin’ holds it together. That we’re all connected, even in death.”
The explanation made her chest ache. She cleaned the rest of the wound with steady hands, then assessed whether it needed stitching. The edges were clean, not too deep, already clotting properly.
“It daesnae need stitches.” She reached for the clean linen. “But it needs proper bindin’.”
“Then bind it.” His voice had gone rough, dark with something that made heat pool low in her belly. “But dinnae move away after.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she began winding the bandage around his shoulder. Erik sat perfectly still beneath her ministrations, but she could feel the tension thrumming through him—coiled energy barely contained, like a wolf waiting to pounce.
“Ye’re nae helpin’ me concentration,” she murmured, acutely aware of how close they were. How her breasts brushed against his chest every time she reached around him. How his breath ghosted across her collarbone.
“Good.” His good hand came up to rest on her hip, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of her dress. “Because mine’s been shot tae hell since ye walked intae the courtyard and started orderin’ me about.”
“Someone had tae. Ye were bein’dànach.”
“I’m always stubborn.” His fingers tightened on her hip. “’Tis part of me charm.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the base of her throat that made her gasp. “Ye want me. Have wanted me fer days now, even when ye pretend otherwise.”
She fumbled the bandage, nearly dropped it. “Erik?—”
“Say it.” His mouth moved higher, found the spot below her ear that made her knees weak. “Tell me ye want me, Claricia. Tell me I’m nae imaginin’ the way ye look at me.”
The words stuck in her throat, tangled up with fear and desire and a lifetime of being taught how to be a noble lady. “I dinnae ken how tae dae this.”
He pulled back, just far enough to meet her eyes. “Dae what?”
“This!” She gestured helplessly between them. Then her hands were moving on their own, tracing the raven on his shoulder.
He caught her hand, pressed it over his heart where she could feel it thundering. “Feel that? That’s what ye dae tae me. Have done since the moment I met ye, except fer when ye kicked me,” he chuckled.
His laugh was low, wicked. His hand moved from her hip to cup her face, thumb stroking across her cheekbone.
“D’ye still want tae?”
“Nay. Now I want ye tae touch me.” The confession tumbled from her lips before she could stop it.
Erik’s eyes went dark, pupils blown wide with want. “Then let me touch ye. Let me show ye how much I’ve wanted this. Wanted ye.”
“Yer shoulder?—”
“Will be fine.” He pulled her closer, until she was practically straddling his lap, her skirts pooling around them. “I’ve fought through worse. And I’m nae about tae let a damn scratch stop me from touchin’ me wife the way I’ve been dreamin’ about.”
His mouth found hers again, but different this time. Slower. Deeper. A claiming kiss that stole every thought from her head and replaced them with sensation—the taste of him, the heatof him, the way his tongue stroked against hers with confident expertise.
His hand moved to the laces at her back, fingers working with surprising dexterity despite his injury. The laces gave way. Cool air hit her heated skin as he eased the dress down her shoulders, exposing the thin shift beneath. His mouth followed the path of fabric, pressing hot kisses to her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast above the neckline.
“Ravishin’.” he murmured against her skin. “Ye’ve nay idea what thoughts ye stir in me, Claricia. How many nights I’ve lain awake, achin’ fer ye.”
His hand slid beneath her skirts, callused palm rough against the smooth skin of her calf. Claricia gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he stroked slowly upward, each touch deliberate, teasing, setting her nerves on fire.
“Erik…” His name came out strangled, barely recognizable.
“Aye, little bird?” His hand stilled just below where she needed it most, and the smug satisfaction in his voice made her want to hit him and beg him simultaneously. “Somethin’ ye want?”
“Ye ken what I want.”
His fingers traced lazy patterns on her inner thigh, so close but not close enough. “Say it.”
“I...” Heat flooded her face. She’d never said such things aloud, never even thought them in words, for she knew not that those sensations existed. “I want ye… tae touch me.”
