THE NEXT DAY, Rurik went in search of Freyja, feeling oddly restless. He’d taken care of the threat against her, now he just needed to charm the stubborn woman. At least he had yesterday’s success still brewing in his mind.

And in his body.

He knew why he felt restless. Denying himself release yesterday during his encounter with Freyja had been sensible, as she wasn’t quite ready for that. But it still ached.

And he was fairly certain yesterday’s events would be lingering in her mind too. Which meant one step forward, no doubt two steps back. The bloody woman could give a rock lessons in stubbornness.

The faint scent of her captured his attention, and Rurik tilted his head toward the back of the house. There.

She was just lowering a wooden box into the dirt near the hot spring behind the house. Baking more of that bread he liked so much, by the look of it. Taking her pitchfork, she swept the heated earth back over the top of the cask, then brushed strands of damp hair from her forehead.

“Good morning,” he called, striding down the slope toward her.

Freyja’s shoulders stiffened faintly, but she nodded to him. “Morning? I’ve been up for almost six hours.”

“So have I,” he told her.

Freyja shot him a doubtful look. “Doing what?”

Flying halfway across Iceland, and paying a small fortune for things he thought she would like. “Preparing a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? For me?”

“It’s the sort of thing one does when one is wooing a young lady.” Rurik crossed his arms over his chest, hoping her curiosity was stronger than her wariness. “Or so I am told.”

“I don’t have time for surprises,” she said, and he admitted she did look tired. But Freyja also hesitated, and glanced at him from beneath those thick dark lashes.

Curiosity engaged. He smiled. “Give me an hour, and I will give you my afternoon’s labor. After all, you do not know what I have in mind....”

“As long as it doesn’t involve hay,” she said.

“Nor stuffing it down someone’s shirt.”

Freyja tried to fight a smile, but couldn’t seem to help herself. “Do you never cease? You’re incorrigible and relentless and—”

“An excellent lover.”

She shot him a swift glare. “What happened yesterday will not happen again.”

Rurik brushed his hand against her hip as he moved past her; the lightest of caresses, as he murmured in her ear, “You shouldn’t make promises you might not be able to keep.”

“Do you think you’re the first man who has set his sights on me?” Freyja looked dangerous as she turned to follow him, pitchfork in hand. “Yes, you might own a silver tongue, and I’ll admit you intrigue me, but no man has won my heart before and I doubt one ever will.”

“Perhaps. But then, you have never been wooed by one such as I.”

A frustrated sound echoed in the back of her throat. Freyja stabbed the pitchfork into the ground.

“Spare me an hour, and I’ll leave you alone,” he said, taking pity on her and capturing her fingers. “One hour, Freyja. Do you not want to know what surprise I have in store for you?”

She was wavering. He saw it in her eyes. “One hour,” she finally said, sighing. “It had better be worth it.”

“Oh, it will be.” Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, Rurik led her around the house, into the sunshine.

He’d spread the blanket within a circle of birches that guarded the hilltop overlooking Freyja’s farm. The birches stood in a perfect circle around them, and though he remained wary about entering such a circle, he couldn’t sense any magic within it. Freyja’s interest was piqued when she saw the blanket and the basket he’d set out.

“A picnic,” she exclaimed.

“You work too much,” he replied. “You deserve a treat.”

“Someone must,” she replied, and folded her skirts neatly around her as she settled on the blanket. “Unlike others, I cannot rely on nisse.”

“No one can,” he replied, stretching out beside her. “They are unreliable little beasts, and if you don’t leave enough milk out for them, they’re liable to turn upon you.”

A smile softened her face. “Do you know, sometimes I almost believe you when you speak of myths and fairy tales.”

There was a hint of sadness around her eyes.

“Why would you not?” He stroked the edge of her skirts, fingers rubbing the soft wool between them.

“Because I know what hand of fate life deals,” she admitted, opening the picnic basket. “Nisse and huldufólk and trolls are all well and good, but they are stories for children.”

“You believed then, once upon a time.”

She set out the breads and meats he’d brought them, her face strangely devoid of any expression. “My mother believed. It was she who spoke of dreki and huldufólk.”

He hesitated. “What happened to her?”

“Five years ago, she disappeared for several days. When we found her in the stone ring up near Krafla, she looked like she had aged a decade, and nothing seemed to satisfy her. She wouldn’t say where she’d been, or what had happened, but she began to waste away,” Freyja said gently. “She didn’t want to eat our foods, nor drink, but she consumed just enough to live. Yet it was as though someone took the light from her life. It took her two years to die, and no one knew what was wrong with her. My father has not been the same ever since.” Freyja sliced some of the soft cheese onto a piece of bread, and handed it to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, placing his hand over hers.

Freyja looked at him very steadily. “You remind me of her sometimes.” She turned her hand beneath his, her fingers lacing through two of his. “She was a dreamer too, but... I don’t think I have enough left within me to dream.”

Dreams could be dangerous. He understood that. He’d spent thirty years hibernating within Krafla, trying not to think of the past, allowing the locals to bring him food so he did not even have to hunt. Merely drifting with his mind entwined with the volcano beneath him, feeling the earth crack and groan as he tried not to think of all that he’d lost.

Rurik’s thumb caressed the smooth skin of her hand. “I think... I had stopped dreaming too,” he admitted. “Until I met you.”

That brought a blush to her cheeks. Freyja rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

But she didn’t understand. He watched as she devoured the small spread of cured meat and cheeses, mixed with fresh strawberry jam and white fluffy bread, the kind Freyja had never eaten before.

The night he’d taken her ram, his entire life changed. Driven from Krafla by hunger, he’d thought little of the hunt behind the desire to fill his belly, but it had brought so much more into his life.

It had brought her.

He could still recall Freyja brandishing that sword at him, her face full of determination and weariness. Years of sleepy dullness sloughed away from him in that instant. He’d stepped aside from the world, turning his attention to the earth and fire beneath him, but she brought him back in a single moment, slamming into his life like a thunderstorm of epic proportions.

He felt alive, for the first time in years.

And he was starting to think of the future, of what part she would play in it. For he couldn’t let her go, not now. Not when she was the catalyst for this new awakening within his heart.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, nibbling on one of the fat strawberries he’d hunted high and low for.

“I am wondering: what is your greatest desire?”

“To finish my work swiftly, so I may have an hour or two to myself tonight,” she replied, red juice staining her lips.

He wanted to lick the taste of it from them. “That seems a small dream.”

“You would say that, but just because it is a small dream, does not mean it is not a joy to me.” Freyja slowly rolled onto her back, resting on one elbow. Her braid slung over her shoulder, and she took her time with the last mouthful of strawberry, entirely innocent of what the sight of her eating it did to him.

“If you were not bound by time, nor money, nor any other mortal constraint, what do you wish you could do?”

Freyja gave him that serious look again. Rurik caught the end of her braid, toying with the ribbon that bound it. Her breath caught, and she tossed the stalk of the strawberry away.

Come on. Give me your heart. Tell me how to win it.

“Travel,” she whispered, as he tugged the ribbon loose. “See these great cities my books speak of. See this world.”

There it was. He smiled and began to unravel the bottom of her braid. Silky hair curled around his fingers. He’d dreamed of it spread over his sheets, dreamed of running his hands through it. “You like my stories, because you dream of adventure.”

“I like any story.” She watched what he was doing. Not with trepidation, but almost as if she wondered what he intended. “It reminds me there is something more out there, something beyond my day’s worth of chores.”

“And is this your greatest desire?”

“Why are you so insistent upon dreams?” she growled under her breath, capturing a handful of her unraveling braid. “They’re little more than wistful thinking. Wonderful in the moment, but rather insubstantial, because nothing will come of it.”

“To dream of something more is the greatest gift one owns. Without them, there is nothing to strive for. No reason to continue breathing. We might as well become the rock and stone beneath our feet.” Rurik brushed her hand aside and spread thick waves of golden hair across the picnic blanket, even as Freyja shifted as though she wasn’t certain she should allow him to continue. “And because you have set me a challenge: to give you your greatest desire, in exchange for your heart.”

Her heart began to beat a little quicker. He heard it. “That is not my heart’s greatest desire.”

“Then what is?”

Freyja suddenly smiled. “I’m not telling you. If you were paying attention, you should be able to work it out.”

“Vexing woman.” Rurik grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged gently until she rolled onto her back. He came over her, shaking the last of her braid free. Thick strands of molten gold spread across the dark blanket, crinkled into loose waves. “I think you like being pursued.”

“You’re the mighty hunter,” she teased. “You wouldn’t enjoy the chase if it were too easy.”

“True. But then I know what comes at the culmination of the chase,” he replied, heat in his eyes. “And I enjoy that far more than chasing.”

Bringing a handful of her hair up to his face, he rubbed it across his cheeks. She smelled like a summer breeze, like a wild storm. And her mismatched eyes watched his expression as though she saw something there she didn’t know how to interpret. “What are you doing?” Freyja whispered.

“I have dreamed of running my fingers through your hair like this.” He rubbed a strand of it between forefinger and thumb, his eyelids lowering lazily. “You have beautiful hair and I want to see it down.”

Those perfect lips were so close to his, still stained pink from strawberries. Sweet, and lush, and practically begging for his caress.

Rurik lowered his face to hers, his fists curling in handfuls of her hair. One taste and he was lost. He licked her slowly, teasing his way into her mouth as Freyja opened up to him, slowly, softly, as if she were testing the waters.

The thought of yesterday consumed him, setting him on fire. Or maybe that was Freyja. She was light, and brightness, a catalyst of pure fire that awoke every single one of his senses. Something was happening to him, and he didn’t quite know what it was, nor what it meant. But she was the key to it.

Freyja put a firm hand against his chest. Not so much pushing him away, but asking for space, and perhaps time to gather her thoughts. Both of them were breathing hard.

“You make me feel alive,” he whispered, somehow perplexed by the complex emotions swelling within him.

“You make me want things I shouldn’t want,” she whispered back, as if it were some secret confession.

Not ready. Not yet. For though she craved him, something still held her back. Shifting to the side of her, he rearranged the painful press of his erection, and then stroked the soft river of her hair.

“What do you dream of?” she suddenly asked, glancing up from beneath those thick golden lashes.

Me? He froze. Nobody had ever asked him that. Nor had he dwelled on the matter.

“I long for... home,” he replied slowly, startled to realize it was true. A sudden yearning filled him: the urge to drag his sister into his arms one more time, and to see his younger brother’s smile. Just one more day at Hekla, where his people lived, and he could belong. Home. A sense of belonging, his father’s voice echoing through the halls—

A dream dashed. There was no home for him there. Nothing more than memories of a time thirty years in the past, before he’d chosen exile. His father was long gone.

For all his power, he could never, ever relive that time again.

“What stops you from returning?” Freyja stroked his cheek, fingertips trailing over the roughened hairs that marked his jaw.

Restlessness edged through him, despite the tender touch. “Freyja, I can never go home.”

Pushing away from her, he drew one knee up in front of him, his heart heavy. His erection was gone, thoughts of seduction fading away. Freyja dragged herself into a seated position, a thousand questions dancing in her eyes. “Do you wish to talk of it?”

“No.”

She accepted that. Simply began to pack away the remains of their picnic. This wasn’t what he’d intended when he set it out, the afternoon suddenly souring. And yet, he almost felt as though this was what he needed to broach the walls that guarded her heart.

“I am exiled from my clan,” he admitted gently. “If I returned, my uncle would try to kill me.”

Those witchy eyes locked on him with a dangerous intensity. “Why would he want you dead?”

Old wounds ached in his heart. “Stellan is my mother’s brother. When my father died, Stellan took his place as...” How to say this? “...head of the clan. I believe... I believe he had something to do with my father’s death, with my mother’s help.”

“You didn’t fight him?”

Rurik felt his face shutter. “I was exiled, instead. Blamed for the murder of my father.”

Freyja’s mouth fell open. “But—”

“I didn’t do it, Freyja. I loved my father. But I was the first on the scene, I found his heart pierced with a blade of pure iron. There was blood on my hands. And... a witness who claimed I did it. A witness whom no one disputed.”

“Who?”

His heart sank like a stone in water. That betrayal was one he could never forgive. “My mother.”

She reached out to stroke his face. “Why would she do that to her own son?”

Rurik pressed into the touch, capturing her hand in his and holding it there. The fury of the dreki within him melted at her touch. Only she could tame it. “She wanted power, most likely. She controls Stellan, and he comes from the same clan she did. She has never controlled me. You cannot think of her as you think of your own mother. She birthed the three of us into the world; Árdís, Marduk, and me. But she had not the raising of us. We were marks on a contract to her. A fulfillment of the oath she gave my father and his clan when she married him. A duty. It was my father who loved us and reared us.”

And his heart ached in his chest at the mere thought his own people could consider him the hand that murdered his father.

“I’m sorry,” Freyja whispered on a thought-thread she didn’t even know she sent.

And he could not link back with her, not when she thought he was merely human.

Rurik looked down, into her eyes. “I accepted the exile so my brother and sister would not be drawn into a war. They weren’t ready. Neither was I, to speak the truth. But this is not the first time my mother and uncle have tried to see me dead.” He squeezed her hand. “It is the first time, however, that I have something more to lose than merely my life. My family are... a proud people. They would not accept you, nor any consummation between us.”

Freyja drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin upon them. “You miss your brother and sister?”

“Fiercely.”

“Not so small a dream,” Freyja whispered, as if cognizant of the turmoil within him.

“No.” He met those beautiful eyes, aware the ground beneath them both had shifted, and he suddenly understood her own quiet yearning. “Not so small a dream.”

There was a long moment of silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. He ached to know hers. Instead, he lifted a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers down her pale cheek.

Freyja tilted into the touch, her lashes shuttering her eyes, and her lips slightly parted. In this moment she was without fear or thought, existing only to feel.

And he thought he should kiss her again. The sudden urge to do so left him floundering as he realized this urge had little to do with pressing her against the ground and plundering her sweet mouth, or even body. It wanted nothing more than to taste her mouth, to share in her moment of peace, of acceptance. He wanted to kiss her for the sake of the kiss itself, and because she... she meant something to him.

Rurik drew back. What was this? He didn’t know what precisely he felt, but he knew it was different.

There was no endless curiosity in this feeling. No desire to claim, or plunder. Merely... tenderness?

Freyja looked up. And the moment passed, and suddenly he became aware he was staring at her as if she’d stolen his heart from his chest when he wasn’t looking, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that fact.

“The day is wasting,” he said abruptly, drawing away from her. “If you want some time to yourself, then now is the time to steal it. I have promised you an afternoon’s labor, so use my time wisely. We’re done here.”

* * *

We’re done here.

The thought plagued her as she tried to read.

She’d purchased a new book in Akureyri, and normally such a thing as Gulliver’s Travels would cause the room to vanish around her as she lost herself in the world within the covers.

Time to herself.... It seemed a dream, until one lived in the moment and realized all she had was time to herself.

Freyja closed the book with a slap.

“What’s wrong?” her father asked.

“Nothing.” And everything. Freyja found her feet. “I just feel restless, that’s all. I’m going out to check the fences.”

“Restless, hmm?” Her father closed his eyes, drowsing in the sunlight that spilled through the window. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Master Rurik, would it?”

Freyja went still. “Why would you say that?”

“Because he is clearly interested in courting you, and you’ve been distracted ever since he arrived.”

Freyja toyed with the edge of her skirt. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said quietly, though she wasn’t certain whether she was speaking to her father—or herself. “There is no future between Rurik and I.” Snapping her fingers, she headed for the door. “Come, Loki.”

The little fox sprang to her side, licking his lips, as they exited the small house. Freyja tidied her braid as she strode for the barn. Memories of his hands coursing through the silken waves of her hair heated her body. She had no intention of ensuring the fences were tidy. No. What she wanted was to find him. The earlier dismissal vexed her.

Rurik was the one who’d decided to chase her, wasn’t he?

And now, “we’re done here....” Just when she was starting to feel something for him. Just when she’d allowed him to take certain liberties.

Freyja knew she was being unfair. She’d kept him at arm’s length, and insisted nothing was going to happen between them, so why should she be so upset when he turned the tables on her?

Because he’d let her into his life a little, with the talk of his exile and his home. For a second, she’d felt as though she knew him intimately.

Because I’m lonely too.

The small herd of ewes hovered against the stone fence outside the barn, eyeing her with wild eyes. Ever since that blasted dreki stole her ram, they’d been riding on the edge of their nerves. It was a wonder her goat was still producing any milk.

The barn lay empty, though Hanna snorted when she saw her, as if asking for reassurance. All the jobs she’d given Rurik were completed, thought there was no sign of the man himself.

“Not you too,” Freyja grumbled to Hanna as the mare whickered with nervousness. Sunlight spilled between cracks in the loft floorboards, and dust spiraled through each shaft.

Loki bumped into her ankles, almost tripping her.

“Rurik?” she called up into the loft.

A shadow moved up there. She hadn’t seen him since they’d spoken of dreams, and a part of her felt sympathy for what he’d shared of his past. Enough sympathy that she’d brought out the hangikjöt and carved it, broiled some potatoes and set a loaf of rúgbrauð baking in the warm spring behind the house. It was the type of meal she might serve at Christmas, and the scent of smoked lamb already filled her small kitchen. The bread would almost be ready.

“I wanted to invite you in for dinner,” she called, craning her neck. Floorboards in the loft creaked, but why hadn’t he replied? “I made something special.” Freyja hesitated. “To remind you of home, perhaps.”

Still no answer.

All the hairs on the back of Freyja’s neck rose. “Rurik?” she called, crossing toward the ladder to the loft.

Loki barked, and Freyja tried to hush him. Then he darted into the shadows, growling deep in his throat in a sound she’d never heard from him before.

“What is it?” she asked, taking a step back. There was something about the sullen silence in the barn that bothered her. Someone was there. And she didn’t think it was Rurik.

A man cursed under his breath, and then Loki yelped and fled. “Little bastard.”

“Who’s there?” she demanded, peering into the shadows of the stall. “Loki?”

Noise whispered behind her. Freyja whirled, and another man stepped out of the shadows. Darting toward her pitchfork, she turned and almost ran him through, baring her teeth at him. “Rurik!”

“He’s not here,” someone said behind her. “Seems you ran him off.”

Rurik was gone? The warmth drained out of her. What had she done or said to him? She didn’t understand. He’d said he... cared for her. Was it all just a jest? Or had Rurik merely been interested in bedding her, and given up?

That didn’t make any sense. He could have had her yesterday afternoon if all he’d wanted was to bed her. If she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t certain she would have said no.

Laughter spilled out of the shadows as another man appeared. “Can you blame him? Look at those eyes.”

Three men circled her. The words shouldn’t have hurt, but they did. The speaker made a vague sign of the cross.

“You,” she said, recognizing one of them as Haakon’s man, Gunnar. “Get off my property.”

“Haakon wants a word with you,” the man replied, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

“If Haakon wants a word, then perhaps he should have asked nicely.” Freyja made a feint toward the man on her right as he took a step toward her—the one who’d made comment on her eyes. Fear filled her chest, tightening her ribs around her lungs. What did they want of her? She’d thought Haakon was a man driven mad by loss, but he’d seemed to hold some common decency. Had she been wrong?

“Just grab her,” the third man ordered. She still hadn’t gotten a good look at his face, though he was taller than the others and something about his presence made her uncomfortable.

“Make one more move,” Freyja told them, knowing she couldn’t hold all three off with her pitchfork, “and I’ll set my magic loose.”

Silence fell. All three men froze. The only noise was Loki yipping and barking madly from where he seemed to be locked within a stall.

“You like my eyes?” she told the man who’d sneered at her and made a sign of the cross. “One of the huldufólk gave them to me, along with the gift of magic. I can manipulate storms, and throw lightning from my fingertips.”

Two of the men exchanged a look.

“She’s lying,” said the taller one, the one who scared her a little. He snorted. “Why would one of the álfar gift her with magic?”

“Don’t call them that,” Freyja murmured. “They don’t like that name.”

Gunnar muttered something about “there are no hidden folk” under his breath, but it seemed her ruse had worked. He wasn’t going to grab her.

Crossing to the stall, the sinister man reached down and hauled Loki up by the scruff of his neck. “I am done with talking.” He reached for his knife—

Loki! “No!” The power seemed to flood up from somewhere within her, sending a whirlwind through the barn. Stalks of hay flew through the air, and both Gunnar and the superstitious man backed away from her, faces pale.

Freyja summoned heat into her hands, and turned on the man who’d grabbed Loki—

He hauled Loki against his chest, putting a razor-sharp blade to the little fox’s neck. “Use your magic against me, and I’ll cut his throat.”

Freyja let the power spill through her fingers, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. She could feel Loki’s terror and protective urges pushing against her mind. He wanted to rescue her, though he was frightened of whatever the tall man smelled like....

“Let him go,” she whispered, swallowing hard.

“Easy, Magnus,” the man with the enormous beard said. “We’re not here to spill blood.”

“We’re getting nowhere without it,” Magnus replied, and his eyes burned as they locked on her. “Release your power.”

There was no choice. Her gaze met Loki’s frightened amber eyes. Freyja let the wind and fire fade, the barn falling into silence. “If you hurt him,” she said coldly, “then I will not rest until you are naught but ashes.”

Gunnar and the other man grabbed her by the arms. Gunnar’s grip was at least gentle. “You won’t be hurt, I promise. Haakon just needs you for bait.”

Bait? For what?

The other man plunged a hood over her head, and the world faded, her breath refracting back from the black wool and making her feel slightly claustrophobic. Tears pricked her eyes.

“Keep her eyes covered!” Magnus ordered. “If she cannot see, then she cannot work her magic.”

And Freyja shivered, because how had he known that?

* * *

Rurik soared back to earth behind Freyja’s barn, his form shrinking and power rushing through his veins as he made the change. A dreki’s bugle to the south had sent him hunting, circling Krafla and looking for the challenger, only to find nothing.

Or maybe that was an excuse. He was still haunted by that moment during their picnic, when something monumental seemed to shift inside him.

Freyja.

Sighing, he found his clothes where he’d left them, and was about to pull on his trousers when Loki’s terrified barking caught his ears. Rurik froze. It seemed to be coming from within the barn.

“Little brother?” he asked, his thought-thread tangling with the fox’s.

—angry, snapping at air, took the mistress, hurt her, hurt her, let me out—

Rurik tried to sort his way through the terror and fury. “Freyja? Someone took Freyja? Who?”

Images assaulted him: the bearded giant who rode at Haakon’s side, and a stranger he didn’t recognize.

But it was the image of the third man that made him suck in a sharp breath. A man with sharp, predatory features, amber eyes, and raven-dark hair. A man who held a knife to the little fox’s throat and used the threat to force Freyja to submit.

“Magnus,” he whispered, turning his face toward the village.

His cousin had Freyja.