Chapter 19 #2
Glorious heat swallowed her whole, penetrating skin into muscle, bone—right down to the tight knot of tension she’d been carrying between her shoulder blades. She sank deeper, letting the water rise to her shoulders, and tipped her head back with a sigh.
For a moment, there was nothing except soothing warmth and blessed silence as the water lapped gently against the stones.
Then, she realized she wasn’t alone.
Her husband sat at the far end of the pool, half-hidden in shadow and mist, arms outstretched along the edge of the pool, his head tipped back slightly against the rim.
He opened his eyes, and they both froze.
Isolda’s heart stopped, then kicked into a gallop. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—could only stare at Ragnar as he slowly lowered his head.
“Isolda.”
“I didnae—” her voice came out strangled. “I didnae ken ye were—”
“Clearly.”
The steam curled between them, and Isolda realized that she was standing in shoulder-deep water, completely naked, staring at her equally naked husband.
“I’ll leave ye be,” she said quickly, already turning toward the steps.
“Dinnae leave on me account.”
“Ragnar—”
“Ye came here tae bathe, aye? So bathe.” There was something dark and teasing in his voice that made her stomach flip. “I promise tae keep me eyes tae meself. Liv told me tae soak and relax a bit, as long as I didnae wet me bandaging.”
She glanced back at him, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Will ye now?”
“I’ll try.” The corner of his mouth curved. “Though ye’re nae makin’ it easy, little wolf.”
“I havenae done anythin’—”
“That’s the problem.”
Steam curled between them, obscuring and revealing things in equal measure.
Isolda’s eyes found the strong line of his bare shoulders, the thick column of his throat, the sharp cut of his jaw and the broad expanse of his chest. The rest remained hidden beneath the water—shifting shadows as he moved.
Silence stretched between them, thick as honey and twice as sweet.
Isolda rooted her eyes to the far wall, painfully aware of the way the water lapped against the swell of her breasts.
“How’s yer shoulder?” she asked, desperate to break the silence before it suffocated her.
“Better. The stitches are holdin’ well. Thank ye fer today.”
“They’re Liv’s stitches. I just followed her instructions.”
“Yer hands worked though.” The water shifted as he moved, and she forced her eyes to stay on the wall. “They were… gentle. Careful.”
“Ye’re a six-and-a-half foot Viking warrior.” She rolled her eyes.
“Aye, but everyone needs care sometimes.” His voice came out thoughtful.
She risked a glance at him and found him watching her, head tilted slightly as if studying a puzzle, he couldn’t solve.
“And did ye?” she heard herself ask.
“Aye. I’m lookin’ at it.” His voice came out gravelly.
Och, why dae ye have tae say things like that?
She closed her eyes closed and tried desperately to focus on the sensation of the water, the mineral smell, the distant drip-drip from somewhere in the darkness—anything but the naked man sitting ten feet away from her.
Time passed—seconds or minutes, she couldn’t tell—the heat making everything hazy, dreamlike, as if she’d stepped out of reality. She opened her eyes again and found him still watching her.
She knew she should look away, but instead, she looked back—let herself really see him the way he was seeing her.
He’s me husband. I’m allowed tae look... arenae I?
The water had darkened his hair, turning it from gold to bronze. Tiny droplets clung to his shoulders, his chest, catching the lamplight. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath coming slightly faster than normal.
He was beautiful the way a blade was—all hard edges and lethal precision wrapped up in something undeniably, devastatingly irresistible.
And he was staring at her like she was the only thing in the entire world worth seeing.
“Isolda.” Her name came, rumbling. “Ye shouldnae—” he stopped, clenching his teeth. His hands tightened on the pools’ edge, knuckles going white as heat and hunger and barely restrained control flashed across his face all at once. “Dinnae look at me like that, little wolf.”
“Why nae?”
“Because I’m already hangin’ on tae me honor by a thread, and ye’re testin’ the strength of that thread wi’ every glance that comes me way.”
Her breath caught. “I didnae mean—”
Ragnar shifted forward slightly, the movement sending ripples through the water.
“Och, I think ye ken exactly what ye’re daein’ tae me…
sittin’ there wi’ yer hair floatin’ around ye like ye’re some sort of siren from the old tales, lookin’ at me like…
” he broke off, shaking his head. “I need tae go before I dae somethin’ we’ll both regret. ”
“Would we?” the question burst out before she could think better of it. “Regret it?”
His eyes locked onto hers, devastatingly blue and molten. “Ask me that again tomorrow, little wolf. When I havenae got ye naked and wet within’ arm’s reach, and maybe I’ll give ye an honest answer.”
Then, he stood.
Water ran off him in sheets, the light catching on his wet skin and the hard lines of sculpted muscles. Scars mapped his body—some old and silvery, some newer and still pink. They spoke testament to every battle, every fight, every moment of violence that had shaped him into the man he was.
Her eyes drifted lower to where the shadows only partially hid his manhood and she wrenched her gaze away, gulping so hard she was certain he could hear hit.
“I have tae go.” He said, his voice strained, scraped raw as he reached for a cloth from the bench and wrapped it around his waist. The linen clung to his wet skin, outlining everything it was meant to hide.
“Ragnar—”
“Dinnae.” The single word came out sharp, and he softened his voice. “Dinnae say me name like that. Nae taenight.”
He was gone before she could respond, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed through the space like a death knell.
Isolda remained in the water, trembling despite the heat, her mind spinning with images she could never unsee—the shape of him, the strength, the barely leashed power and the pure, raw masculinity.
And then there was the way he’d looked at her—like a man on the edge of breaking.
She pressed her palms to her face, feeling the wild flutter of her own pulse.
They had crossed a line—perhaps not physically, but in every other way that mattered.
And there was no going back.