In the whole of Leif’s life, Ragnar had surprised him many times; this moment here, the way his voice cracked and his eyes blazed, was somehow the biggest surprise of all.
“Ragnar,” he said, slowly, “what in the gods’ names are you talking about?”
Ragnar’s head tucked lower, and he started growling again. “Admit it: you want to fuck her, don’t you?”
“So do you,” Leif said, hands spread in a helpless gesture. “We’ve already established that. How many women have we shared at this point? What’s different about—”
Ragnar flinched as though struck, and Leif knew, then, with certainty, the problem he faced.
“You’re jealous of her.”
Ragnar shot him a viciously wounded look, and attempted to smile. “You overestimate your appeal, cousin.”
Leif took a step closer, and then another when Ragnar’s knees bent, and his arms closed tighter around his middle like a wounded animal protecting his soft underbelly.
“Why don’t you want me to fuck her? And don’t deny that’s what you’re thinking, because it clearly is.”
Ragnar scoffed…and turned his face away.
Leif took another step, close enough to see the way the fine hairs stood erect on Ragnar’s arms. Close enough to smell the pungency of fear in his already-sour scent.
Leif gentled his voice when he asked, “Why do you encourage me to lie with whores and camp followers, but don’t want me to be with Amelia?”
Ragnar’s lips parted. His breath came in quick, shallow pants, the sound echoing off the tree trunks around him.
“Is it because,” Leif continued, “you covet her for yourself? Knowing you’ll never have her?” He tilted his head. “Or because you covetme?”
Ragnar stopped breathing, and held still one long moment, the span of three heartbeats. Then he surged upright with a vicious snarl and snatched the front of Leif’s tunic in two trembling fistfuls.
Leif’s human side had expected such a reaction, and even his wolf wasn’t riled to aggression. This was his packmate (mate,mate,mate, regular oldmate) in pain, anguished, and his wolf sought only to comfort.
He laid his hands on Ragnar’s biceps, over the body-warm gold of his arm bands, beneath which the muscle jumped in response to his touch. “It’s all right,” he said, for lack of any better reassurance.
But Ragnar would not be comforted. The veins stood out in his throat, and the tendons leaped in his jaw with the force of the growl that tore up from his chest and blasted hot into Leif’s face.
“Will you share her, then?” he fumed. “You’ll have her first, of course,obviously, but then will you pass her to me? Does your favorite pet prisoner get a turn of his own, once you’ve taken your pleasure?”
“Ragnar—”
“You can marry her!” The words burst out of him. A confession, a dam breaking. In their wake, all the fire drained away, and left him sagging. Leif tightened his hands on his arms to keep him upright, suddenly afraid that, given the way he listed, he might fall.
The growl died away, and Ragnar turned his face to the side. In a small, miserable voice, he said, “You can’t marry a whore or a camp follower. But you can marry a lady.” He took a shuddering breath, and his hair shifted to fall across the side of his face, shielding his gaze from view. “You probably will.”
Plain jealousy Leif had suspected, but this…
This astounded him.
A voice that sounded like Erik’s spoke up in the back of his mind:Ragnar’s a liar. A master manipulator. He’s always been that way. He would tell you anything to get what he wants.
But Leif relied, as he always did these days, upon his wolf senses and instincts. In this way, Ragnar couldn’t lie. His hurt, his anger, his fear: all of that was real and true.
Leif had never thought to find himself in this position. He supposed war had a way of twisting not just expectations, but futures as well. He knew, too, what Erik would say to him now.
But Erik wasn’t here.
None of his family was…save Ragnar.
Leif growled, low and chiding, and swept Ragnar’s hair back with a quick slash of his hand. He caught a glimpse of Ragnar’s startled expression before he hooked two fingers in the torq and yanked him forward. Ragnar made a choked sound, and Leif gathered his hair up in his other fist and pushed Ragnar’s head down onto his shoulder. They were almost of a height, but Leif had the slightest advantage. He used it to turn his head and bite Ragnar lightly on the throat, in the tender skin below the torq, where his pulse throbbed visibly.
