He threw the door open with more force than necessary.
The room beyond was lit by high, narrow windows cut deep into the stone, the light falling in pale strips across a packed-earth floor. Wooden practice weapons lined one wall in careful order. This was where he came to think, to sharpen, to bleed in silence if need be.
He waited until she stepped inside, then shoved the door closed. The bolt slid home with a heavy, finalclackthat sounded like a trap snapping shut. “This is where I train sometimes,” he said, voice steadier than he felt.
Her gaze moved slowly around the room, taking in the weapons, the marks on the walls, the stripped simplicity of it. There was a quiet focus in her expression that made his chest ache.
“I can see the appeal. Nay crowd,” she whispered.
“Nay,” he agreed, his voice lowering.
He crossed to the weapon rack and reached for a wooden practice sword, its surface smoothed by countless grips. After a brief pause, he took a second and turned back to her, offering it hilt-first.
“This stays controlled.” His voice lowered, steadied. “Ye listen when I correct ye. And if I say stop?—”
“I stop.” she finished, fingers closing around the wood.
“Aye.” The word left him quieter than before. “Exactly that.”
Her fingers closed around the wood, brushing his own. The contact lasted a heartbeat too long. His breath hitched, the skin of his hand searing where she touched him. He withdrew as if burned, his pulse roaring in his ears like the sea.
“Stance first.” He positioned himself opposite her, grounding his weight into the floor. “Feet shoulder-width. Knees soft.”
She mirrored him, but her body was a wire tuned too high, vibrating with tension.
“Ye’re holding tension,” he murmured, already stepping closer. “That’ll slow ye.”
He stepped into her space. He didn't mean to touch her, but his hand moved of its own accord, settling on her shoulder to pull it back. The heat beneath her thin bodice flared against his palm, white-hot and staggering. He let his hand linger for a second too long, feeling the delicate curve of her bone and the frantic thrum of her heart through her skin.
He yanked his hand away, his jaw clamped shut. “Grip’s too tight,” he rasped.
He reached for her hand, his palm sliding over hers, engulfing it. Her hand was so small, so deceptively fragile, and the contrast against his own scarred, massive grip made a wave of possessive heat crash over him.
Her breath brushed the sensitive skin of his wrist. It was a feather-light touch that felt like a brand.
“Power comes from balance,” he whispered, his voice failing him, turning into a velvet growl. “Nae force.”
He moved behind her. It was a mistake. The moment he stepped into her shadow, the scent of her hair overwhelmed him. He guided her grip, his chest inches from her back, his hand settling on her hip to shift her weight.
She leaned back, just a fraction. Her shoulders brushed his chest.
Harald went rigid. Every muscle in his body turned to stone. The contact was agonizing—the soft, feminine yield of her back against the hard planes of his torso. He could feel the heat of her, the way she fitted into him as if she were the missing piece of his own fractured soul.
The air in the room was gone. There was only the sound of his blood screaming in his veins and the unmistakable, heavy throb of his own desire pressing against his trousers.
She turned too quickly.
The space vanished. Her chest grazed his, her breasts a soft pressure against his ribs that made his head spin. Her gaze lifted to his, her eyes wide, dark, and drowning in the same liquid fire that was consuming him. Her lips parted, just a sliver, and the invitation was so loud it was a physical roar in the room.
He could feel himself stiffening, the ache between his legs becoming a sharp, demanding agony. He was a hair's breadth from losing everything—his honor, his control, his kingdom.
Harald stepped back abruptly, his boots skidding on the dirt.
“That’s enough fer today,” he choked out, the words jagged and desperate.
Confusion clouded her eyes, followed by a flash of hurt that cut him deeper than any blade. “Oh,” she said quietly, her voice small in the vast room.
He turned away before she could see the way his hands were shaking, before she could see the evidence of how thoroughly she had unmade him. His pulse was a riot, his skin felt like it was peeling off his bones.
