The trek down the hill went better than he had expected, but it was still difficult. They were not on skis, and snow crept into every crease of Kolbjorn’s boots and trousers.

He pulled the sledge bearing an unconscious Alfarr behind him. Rachel had offered to help, but she wouldn’t be able to.

His arm hurt more and more, as if fire now burned in his wound as well.

The world was still and white around them, the only sound the crunch of snow accompanying each step as their legs sank into the snowdrifts.

Kolbjorn could not stop watching Rachel. He told himself that he needed to make sure she was all right. The truth was, he was enjoying the sight way too much. Rachel panted, her cheeks now deliciously pink from the frost, her hair dark against the snow. The sight of her, flushed like that, reminded him of what he did to her with his hands and his cock, and despite himself, a surge of desire went through him.

They did not speak.

What was there to say? He was taking her to his father, she knew that.

He wondered what she was thinking just now. Was she plotting her escape? He doubted she’d give up if she had even the slightest chance.

And what would Father do once they got there?

Kolbjorn knew how the jarl dealt with thieves: he slit their throats. Never had he made anyone an outlaw, which was an even worse punishment. An outlaw lived outside of society and anyone could lawfully kill them…or do anything else they saw fit.

Anything.

Kolbjorn swallowed a hard knot. He imagined Rachel on her knees, his father’s hand gripping her hair, his scramasax at her gentle white throat. Agony raged in his gut from the image, making him want to howl.

The world without Rachel.

His skin crawled at the thought, the burning in his lungs and throat agonizing, as if a swarm of angry wasps was stinging him from the inside.

Rachel was right, he was too rigid. Was there something else he could do that would let him save her, allow his father to have the necklace, and save her mother?

Could he really just let Rachel go?

Could he say to his father that she’d run away but he had the necklace? She’d be gone. The thought planted anguish in his gut twisting his insides like a woman twisting laundry.

He would be a liar then, but at least she’d be alive.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Rachel stopped and said, “Who are they?”

The village was just down the hill—he could already see the dark walls of the houses. And the sacred grove stood a short distance before them. In front of it were people on skis.

Kolbjorn moved next to her in a protective stance.

“That would be my father and his men,” he said, feeling as if a boulder was sinking in his gut.

Rachel froze, feeling as if she was lying trapped on a train track and the train was bearing down on her at full speed.

“I can still run,” she choked out. “Cover me. Let me go.”

“It’s too late,” Kolbjorn said, his voice barely audible. “He’s seen you now.”

Her feet refused to move, but having Kolbjorn next to her felt strangely reassuring. He had just saved her from the fire and from his brother. Would he save her from his father?

The men on skis approached, dogs barking around them. There were twelve men, all with spears, swords, and shields. The sight of so many weapons made Rachel’s throat clench like a fist. She had never seen the promise of death so close.

Jarl Bjorn stood in front of the rest. Rachel had only seen him once, at a distance, but he was a man that you did not forget. He was every image the word “Viking” conjured: blond, long haired, and stoic, with a straight back, broad shoulders, and as much might as three modern men combined.

Chills went down her spine, and she felt small under his piercing gaze. The eyes of someone who had ruled the lives and the deaths of many looked at her, and in them was her destiny. It didn’t look good.

Ebbe, covered in snow and panting, stood by his father’s side.

“See, Father! He almost killed Alfarr!”

Jarl Bjorn’s eyes shot to the sledge behind Kolbjorn, and his eyebrows knit together, hidden worry distorting his proud face.

“Is he alive?” he asked.

“He is, but he needs help, and now,” Kolbjorn said.

Jarl Bjorn gave a sideways nod, and three men rushed to him and slid the sledge with Alfarr towards the village.

“Is this true? You almost killed him?” said the jarl.

“Yes. Because your sons tried to kill me—they set the hunting hut on fire, where I hid from the storm.”

“Ebbe saw you and her, the woman who stole everything. We know you were behind it all. I sent them.”

Rachel stifled a gasp. Kolbjorn took the news with a raised chin, hurt flickering in his eyes for a fraction of a second. His hand gripped the leather purse on his belt.

“Your sons are treacherous worms. Alfarr came after me, secretly, trying to kill me, making it look like I was the one behind it all.” He looked straight at his father. “And it looks like they succeeded.”

Jarl Bjorn shifted. “I did not say I believed them.”

“But you sent them to burn us.”

“I asked them to find you, the thief, and the necklace. I did not know if you survived the snowstorm,” he said, his voice breaking. “Where is the necklace?”

Kolbjorn clenched his jaw and looked at Rachel with a fierce heat mixed with worry, and her body buzzed with hope. An unspoken message ran between them. Everyone and everything ceased to exist, just him and her. She was asking him to choose her. She tried to recreate the same pull they had both felt the first moment their eyes locked, as if she was a witch, a magician, and she could accomplish this just by wishing.

But the fire died in his eyes, and she knew even before he removed the necklace from the purse that she had failed. Her chest tightened and hurt as if clenched by a vice. She’d lost him. He’d lost the battle with himself.

He’d chosen his father.

The necklace glimmered in his hands, pure gold with interwoven branches, the bodies of beasts and snarling dragons, and among them, Freyja, the goddess of the North. The necklace was so delicate, as if made of golden lace, the details of the faces, eyes, bodies so precise it seemed as if they had just frozen for a moment and would begin to move at any time. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds decorated the beasts’ eyes, Freyja’s crown of flowers, the fur trim of her clothes. They were big and small, and Rachel knew, now that she saw it in full daylight, that the auctioneer was right—it would easily go for a hundred thousand, and probably much, much more.

It was breathtaking.

But more importantly, it would save her mother.

The gold and the gemstones were the only color against the whiteness that surrounded them, and everyone’s eyes were glued to Kolbjorn’s hand.

Rachel glanced at the sacred grove, just twenty feet away. She could even see the rock. Could she grab the necklace and dart for it? Could she reach it in time? It hadn’t worked last time, so she might be sentencing herself to a quick death by a Viking’s ax.

She’d already tensed, adrenaline rushing through her body, preparing for her launch.

But Bjorn’s hand grabbed the necklace, and it disappeared under the folds of his cloak.

Disappointment and desperation flooded her as if she was sinking into a pool of boiling lava. It quickly chilled and froze her in place when she met the jarl’s eyes.

They were cold and furious.

“I see, Kolbjorn, that you are not a traitor. You delivered both the necklace and the thief.”

Rachel’s stomach knotted like those snarling beasts’ bodies. His eyes promised death.

“I do not forgive those who make me look like a fool in front of a king. And especially those who threaten my chance to become one.”

He took a step towards Rachel and grabbed her arm. She shrieked, horror stiffening her whole body. She jerked her arm, trying to get away, to get anywhere but here.

But the scramasax already glistened in the jarl’s hand, and he turned her with one swift, practiced movement, until her back was to him and she faced Kolbjorn and the warriors, making her sink into the snow on her knees at the same time.

“Let this be known. There is no forgiveness for thieves in my jarldom. Tell everyone what happens to those who take what’s mine.”

The icy, sharp blade pressed against Rachel’s throat, and she felt her pulse beating violently against it.

She struggled against him, trying to fight for her life, but his arm around her shoulders might as well have been steel. The blade bit at her skin the more she struggled.

This was it. Death came for her, punishment reached her.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. But even through them, she saw Kolbjorn.

At least she’d die looking into the eyes of the man she loved. At least she’d experienced, in her short and stupid life, how it felt to love a man and share a brief but intense moment of happiness with him.

Kolbjorn watched her, his face a mask of terror and anguish.

It’s okay, she wanted to tell him. I’m okay.

Jarl Bjorn lifted the blade to the side to make the slit that would open her throat, and Rachel prepared for the last moment of her life.