“No.”

Kolbjorn’s voice hit Rachel like a slap across the face.

No? Just no? After everything she’d said, everything she’d offered?

She couldn’t give him more. She couldn’t say anything that would change his mind. He’d almost said yes, she’d seen it in his eyes, and both hope and dread had bloomed and fought inside her. Hope for her mother. Dread of separating from him.

When she had first seen him, she’d thought he was a rock. Now, she knew that with his strength and solidity came extreme stubbornness. It was freaking impossible to change his mind.

And his answer confirmed her biggest fear. She was falling for him, and he would never choose her. He’d destroy her. She had to protect herself before it was too late.

“You know what, Kolbjorn? You want to be your father’s real son? The jarl’s son, huh? So that he’ll approve of you and let you make important decisions with him, and so that you’ll become the next jarl? You are so fixated on your principles, on doing anything to please your father, that you can’t even bend a little to do what’s best for you. You don’t see that he’s using you like a dog! Because you are like a dog—you don’t have your own rules; you live by your master’s, your father’s!”

Kolbjorn’s face began to redden, and she knew she’d struck a nerve.

“Yeah. Exactly. You think that the way to please your father is by following his every command? By sacrificing everything that you are so that he’ll love you and take you in? He knows that no matter what he does, you’ll always be there for him! He trained you well.”

“Shut up.”

“Shut up? What, afraid of the truth? Let’s say he accepts you as his heir, and you become the jarl. How do you plan to be a leader if everything is about honor for you? What do you do if someone threatens you with war, huh, Kolbjorn? It’s just like in my world. Responding like a rigid soldier, with violence, is not always the best answer for your people. That’s great for warriors—who’ll most likely get themselves killed anyway. But for leaders, honor is a tool. And if you don’t understand that, then you are nothing more than an instrument, there to be used and discarded at your father’s will.”

“You don’t know anything. You are an outlander from a different time.”

“No? Well, maybe not. But I do know one thing. I’d give anything to save my mother. Anything. As you see, I am ready to steal and travel through time and offer things I never thought I would—like weapons. But her life depends on me, and there’s a deadline on that. Nothing you do for your father is ever enough. And it never will be. When are you going to stop living by your father’s rules and start living by your own?”

Kolbjorn was white now, from rage. Oh no, she’d overdone it.

“You’d give anything for your mother?” he said. “And where is this leading you? First you took the golden spindle from three old women. Then you stole jewelry from my house—never mind that my whole life was turned upside down. Then you steal more jewelry, intended as an important gift to help my village. What next, Rachel? You are heading for the life of an outlaw, and where do you think you will stop?”

Rachel panted as his words ripped her apart. He’d hit her right where she was most vulnerable, right where she refused to look at herself—because if she did, she wouldn’t be able to lift a finger anymore. And if her mother knew what she was doing for her, she’d never be able to look at her daughter the same way again. Rachel had lied, told her the money was from an anonymous benefactor, a fan of her work.

And Kolbjorn was right, she had not thought about her future beyond saving her mother. What would she do once her mother was well again? What would Rachel be good at?

Stealth? Theft? Deception?

She’d been so focused on taking care of her mom the past six years, she hadn’t taken time to stop and think what she would actually like to do with her life.

And Kolbjorn was right, what about the consequences? How had she impacted the lives of the people she had stolen from?

How would she look her brother and her mother in the eye?

Cold sweat covered Rachel’s whole body, and she only now noticed that her bare feet, standing on the packed-dirt floor, felt like cubes of ice.

And yet, she still felt that facing everything she had done and everything that was happening to her now was better than seeing her mother’s coffin.

Tears welled in her eyes.

Kolbjorn’s expression—even though still furious—now held a hint of softness. The sight of him, tall, proud, and honorable, steadied her.

He was a rock, a home, a shelter. And he was right. This huge, gorgeous, infuriating man who saw through her and who pulled her closer as if by gravity. She wiped her eyes.

She was afraid to let anyone else into her heart because doing so led to world-shattering pain. Too late. That was exactly what she had done.

“If you were mine,” Kolbjorn said, “I’d straighten you out even after everything you’ve done, like a man should straighten out his—”

Rachel’s stomach clenched in a sweet ache. Silence hung between them, heavy and saturated. The smallest light of hope kindled somewhere in Rachel, making her breathe faster, sending excitement vibrating through her like a million fireflies.

The vein on his neck pulsed in the same violent rhythm as her heart. Rachel’s mouth went dry. And the same pull that had always been there when they were near, and that had brought them together as powerfully as the strength of the storm, made her forget everything else.

“If I was yours— Then make me yours.”

That was all the invitation he needed.

He went to her and scooped her into his arms, his mouth hungry.

She felt ice cold, but he’d warm her up.

He had seen in her eyes that she was redeemable after all, that his heated words had struck a chord—the hidden wound, the pain he recognized in himself.

If she was his…

She wanted this as much as he did.

They did not have a future, but that was for later. All they had was this moment. And she was in his arms.

And everything was possible.

As long as his skin was against hers—she was warm and beautiful and fiery, with all the right curves—nothing else existed.

He wanted her like he had never wanted anyone or anything else in the world.

The desire burned him from the inside, awoken like a hungry beast who needed only her. He would not be able to breathe, to move, his heart would not continue beating, if she was not his. If he could not dissolve in her.

He wanted nothing but to plunge into her tightness, but that would not be enough. He needed to savor every movement, every lick, every pull of her lips and stroke of her tongue, the fullness of her breasts and the silk of her belly…

He pulled her skirts to her waist, lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around him, her sex pressing against his erection, the sensation making him growl.

He could not stop kissing her, savoring the taste of her, the sweet-apple smell of her hair—and that intoxicating feminine scent of Rachel that made him harden even more.

Holding her with one arm, he undid his trousers with the other hand, and his cock pressed against her bare ass, swelling even more. Rachel shifted and began rubbing herself against him, searching.

She pushed herself against him and planted herself on his erection, the slick velvety heat surrounding him and sending a tremor of pleasure through his whole body.

She was his, oh gods, she was his, this cunning beauty from another world who’d turned his whole life upside down and owned his heart from the first moment he saw her.

And he was hers.

He eased into her, gripping her ass in his hands, shafting her on his cock. Rachel’s hips moved in the same rhythm, meeting his thrusts. She was so wet for him, and so tight, and the friction of their bodies moving together made him lose his mind.

“Mine,” he growled, as he removed his lips from her mouth and lowered his head to plant wet, hungry kisses on her ear, her neck, and to inhale the delicious scent of her hair.

“Yes,” Rachel moaned. “Yes.”

The thrusts were devastating. They brought pleasure and satisfaction, and yet were not enough. Nothing was enough to make her his forever.

The waves of bliss that rocked his blood each time he set himself deeper and deeper inside of her grew like the swell of an approaching storm, making him sink faster and faster into a sea of pleasure. His thrusts became more urgent, harder, as did Rachel’s cries of pleasure.

Their primal dance took them ever higher, until it felt as if their very souls connected. And as the consuming orgasm shook him in its violent waves, he felt Rachel’s inner spasms milking him, intensifying every sensation and making him forget about everything outside of this moment.

Everything except the fierce, brave, beautiful woman in his hands.

He did not remember how he got her back to the sleeping bench, how he got there himself. But after the orgasm let go of him, she cuddled against him, his arms around her, and his or her whisper “Mine” was the last thing he knew before he fell asleep.