Rachel’s head throbbed as if someone hacked at it with an ax. But even more painful were the desperation and anguish that burned her like salt in an open wound.

He had taken the necklace, and she could not get it back by force. And he was also going to take her to his father for some sort of punishment. The thought chilled her bones. If only he understood; if only he knew—

Maybe she could seduce him, make him see the situation differently.

That would be a dangerous game—Kolbjorn was way too attractive, and she was way too inexperienced with men, having avoided guys who showed an interest. Ever since her father had left, she’d been terrified of losing people she loved, and ever since her mom had gotten sick, she’d had no emotional capacity for anything else.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. It was as if she’d forgotten how to pronounce words. She frowned. Her head ached.

Kolbjorn took her hand, and warmth spread through her body, even though they were both cold. “You are still bleeding. I’ll repair the wound.”

He helped her sit back next to the fire, probably so that he could see better. He rummaged in the wooden chest in the far corner of the room.

“Does anyone live here?” Rachel asked, looking around. “It looks so basic.”

“No one. It’s a hunting cabin on my father’s lands.”

He removed a cloth sachet, from which he produced what looked to Rachel like a medieval first aid kit—including what appeared to be a bone needle and a thread. Her stomach flipped at the sight.

“What the hell, Kolbjorn?”

“Stay still.” He sat close to her and looked at her forehead. Rachel’s skin tingled as if he touched her. “I don’t know if my father will decide to kill you or not, but I am not going to have your life on my hands if he wants to pardon you and you die of a rot-wound.” He pressed on her skin, making the sides of the gash come together. That hurt, but Rachel’s lips parted. His touch spread warmth through her like a hot shower on a cold morning.

Kolbjorn’s face was right before her. Maybe she should do something if she wanted to seduce him and get the necklace back. If she moved two inches, she’d find his lips. His eyes locked with hers, and for a second, an invisible thread connected them as it had the moment they first saw each other.

No! No way, Rachel. There can be nothing between you two.

She looked down, breaking the contact.

“It’s going to hurt,” he said. “When I patch up my warriors, I talk with them about hunting or fishing, or ask them to tell me their favorite story about the gods, or the women they fancy. I don’t know anything about you. Tell me about something you enjoy. That will distract you.”

He punctured her skin, and pain shot through her like an electric current. She bit her lip but did not allow the whimper to leave her mouth.

“All I’ve cared about for the last six years has been getting my mother through her illness.”

She wanted to tell him how she had dropped out of high school, how she’d looked for jobs—anything that would be legal and that would pay something: cleaning, washing dishes, waitressing—and that the biggest joy she could imagine would be having her mother healthy again. When that day came, she dreamed of going camping again, with her mom and James, just like in the happiest days with their dad. Without the dialysis machine, without the weight of dread that had been part of her since her mother first fell ill. To make a fire—like this one—to grill some s’mores, laugh and joke, and to talk—not about kidney failure, and not about bills or the hospital.

About nothing in particular and everything at the same time.

But she could not open up in front of him.

“And what did you like doing before?” Kolbjorn said, and Rachel felt the excruciating pull of the thread through her skin. She clenched her jaws to avoid crying out. “Talk,” he said. “And breathe.”

“I went to school,” she said through clenched teeth. “I liked rock climbing and playing soccer. Why bother even talking about it? You have no idea what soccer is!”

Kolbjorn punctured her again, and Rachel sucked in a breath. Her forehead burned as if he poured hot oil on it.

“No, I don’t.” He frowned. “What is soccer?”

“It’s a sport. Two teams play with a ball.”

His hazel eyes flickered to hers for a moment, and tingling went through her. “Last stitch. And where are you from then? Where people play soccer?”

The needle pricked her skin, probably rougher than necessary, and this time Rachel couldn’t stop the yelp of pain. Dang.

“Where do you think I’m from?”

He pulled the thread further, agonizing Rachel’s skin. The scar would probably stay with her her whole life. Not that it mattered.

Kolbjorn rummaged with the thread, tying it up. Even though her forehead burned with pain because of him, she did not want his hands to leave her. But they did. He put one hand on his knee, the other one pointing the needle at Rachel.

“I had thought you were a daughter of a merchant from the neighboring village. That was what folk told me when I had asked around about you. A pretty red-haired girl who dresses in black.”

She forgot about the pain, about the necklace, about the wailing wind outside and that she was more than a thousand years from home. Her breath caught in her throat.

“You asked around about…me?”

He busied himself with putting the needle and the thread back in the pouch.

“I did. But it does not matter now, does it?”

He then took a dirty cloth out of the sachet and moved his hand to put it on Rachel’s forehead. She jerked back.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I want to wipe your blood. Not strangle you.”

“With that dirty rag? I don’t want it anywhere near my wound. Are you kidding me?”

“I always use cloth like this on my warriors.”

“Kolbjorn, listen to me. What you call a rot-wound is infection; and this dirt”—she pinched the gray material between her thumb and her index finger”—is exactly what causes it. Wash it with soap, then boil it in water for at least five minutes. Then you may apply it to open wounds. Understood?”

He watched her seriously. “Are you a witch?”

She barked out a laugh. “Something like that, to you, probably.”

Kolbjorn eyed her. “Did you bewitch me, then? That moment, when I first saw you. I could not move. I wanted to follow you, but it was as if you asked me not to. Was it a spell?”

Rachel’s pulse must be running faster than a Formula One race car. He was right in front of her, and she was hit with that primal scent of hay and leather and man that she’d smelled when she’d entered his house all those months ago, with his warm hazel eyes and the beard she had wanted to touch for so long…

Her hand rose as if by its own will, and her fingers traced his short beard. Crisp. But so pleasant against her fingertips. Maybe she was casting a spell.

Maybe he was, too.

Everything lost its meaning now, and time stood still, just as it had the first moment they saw each other. Now, all that mattered was him and her and the pull.

They came together, as inevitable as the sunrise. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips found his—they were firm and warm. Kolbjorn’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, pressing her against him, every part of her skin burning where their bodies touched, even through the layers of clothing.

He licked her lower lip, and her knees melted. She let him into her mouth. Their tongues met, stroking, gliding against each other. Heat surged through her, her skin sweat-damp.

The urge to be with him, skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul, to feel him bare and true against her overtook her like intoxication, and she began untying his cloak.

His hands began fiddling with her cloak, too. Then a loud gust of wind hit the hut. The walls shook, and something cracked above their heads. A swarm of snowflakes stung Rachel’s cheek, and they both jolted out of their exploration to stare at the roof, where planks hung through what was now a large hole, and thatch lay on the earth floor in a pile of snow. The wind rushed in, and the warmth of the fire—and Kolbjorn’s lips and hands—the cold of the storm chilled Rachel’s burning face and body.

And so, it seemed, it did his. Kolbjorn’s eyes were as hard as stone, and he pulled away from her as if she threw a bucket of ice water over him.