51. The Shining Star
LI
THE SHINING STAR
The bells of Montfort’s chapel rang out over the valley, echoing across stone, field, and forest.
After years of ruin, the keep had risen again. Stone stood where rotted timber once fell. Wood-framed strong beams soared overhead. The palisade still bore gaps, and the bailey remained half-muddied with churned earth and tools—but it stood.
The banns had been read. The vows spoken. The widow of Mortlande, once bought and broken, had wed her match.
Lady Dowager de Thornwyck—now Lady de Montfort—was a wife by her choosing.
Inside the great hall of Montfort Keep, warm light spilled from chandeliers of twisted iron.
Rough-hewn benches were packed with men and ladies laughing, drinking, and toasting their baron and his new bride.
Erik’s men filled the outer circle, forced to lodge in tents until the barracks were complete. They didn’t seem to mind.
No word had been sent to Shrewsbury of the wedding, just in case Lord Robert thought to make himself known. But none of the other lords had objected when David officially granted Erik the right to marry his mother.
It was done.
Seren hadn’t dared imagine this day—not after years beneath another man’s command, not after so much silence, distance, and waiting. But here she was as Erik’s wife, just as he had said.
At the dais, Seren sat beside Erik, her veil of gold and cream pinned back behind her braided crown. He hadn’t stopped looking at her since she entered the chapel, even as the food disappeared and the music swelled.
He’d once called her his Valkyrie. And tonight, he looked at her as if the gods themselves had handed her to him in reward for every wound he’d survived. He made her feel like a queen, though she never wanted the crown.
When the toasts ended and the hall emptied, Erik took her hand. He kissed her knuckles first, then her wrist.
She let herself be led to the lord’s chambers on the top floor.
The room smelled of lavender and pine. Candles burned low on every surface, casting long shadows on the stone. The window was open for air. It was a beautiful room—rebuilt, like everything else.
Seren let him kiss her.
His kiss was tender. Lord Henry had never kissed her tenderly. He had taken her body like a transaction—and only five times after Cari’s birth. Seren had learned to fear the touch that should have come with love.
She froze as Erik pulled his tunic over his head. Her breath caught, a phantom echo of dread tightening her ribs.
Erik was not Henry, but her body remembered the coldness, the shame, and the pain.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
Her hand rose slowly, smoothing over the inked skin of his chest, her heart beating in panic. Erik and Henry were not the same, she told herself, but still, “I’m your property now,” flew from her lips.
His brow furrowed. “By law, yes.”
Her voice trembled. “If I asked you to wait one more night . . . would you wait?”
He stilled. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Would you wait?” she asked again.
He let go of her arms and stepped back, gentle as a man setting down his most prized sword. “I would wait. But . . . may I ask why?”
She hesitated, then stepped forward, pressing her body to his.
“If you want me to wait,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “you can’t do that.” He cupped her head. “Not when I love you like this.”
Her lip quivered. “It’s just been such a good day. I don’t want the night to end in pain.”
His face shifted. Understanding struck hard. “Pain? Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
She dropped her gaze. “It always hurt.”
He drew in a breath and rubbed her arms.
“Seren, Henry did not love you. He did not honor you. He took what was yours and made it his. That’s why it hurt.”
She licked her lip. “I don’t—”
“Seren.” His hand entwined with hers. “I swear on my life, you will never be in pain because of me. Not in body. Not in heart.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. It seemed Erik wasn’t going to wait. Erik would never beat her as Henry did, but she still feared the pain of his love.
She whispered, “Yes, my lord husband.”
The words felt safe and terrified all at once—armor and surrender in equal parts.
He smiled softly and shook his head. “No. I am Erik to you, as you are Seren to me.”
He swept her hair back and lowered to her eye level.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“With my life.”
“Then trust me now. No more tears unless they are happy.”
She tried to smile, and he lifted her chin. But doubt remained. Try as she might, despite his kiss at the lake, she couldn’t imagine the marriage act not hurting. It had hurt every time with Henry. Even her mother, whom her father loved, had warned her.
Erik read her gaze as he had for the last ten years.
“Do you see my sword over there?” He nodded to it, neatly placed atop the table in the corner.
She nodded.
“I polish and sharpen it every night with only the best river stone.” He glanced around. “Do you see this keep? It was a ruin when David gave it to me. I tried to make it into a home. For you.”
A true smile lit her face.
“Do you remember my uniform? And now my lord’s garments?”
She nodded again, slower.
“Both were and are always clean, mended, kept with pride.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“If that is how I treat steel, stone, and wool,” he whispered, lips brushing hers, “then how much more care will I give to the woman who holds my heart?”
She leaned forward into his arms.
“I swear,” he whispered, lips at her brow, “I will never take from you what you’re not ready to give.”
“Then . . . I trust you.” Saying it made her feel like she’d leaped off a cliff—but instead of falling, she found a man willing to catch her.
He pulled her closer, and her gaze trailed up his arms, where the ink of his past still marked his flesh.
“You once told me you thought you’d lost your way,” she whispered, tracing the compass knot on his shoulder.
Erik cupped her face. “You put your star on the tip of Odin’s spear, encircled by the serpent of fate. You were destined to be my path, Seren, and I will never be lost again.”
He led her to the window first, where the moon lit the valley with shimmers of the lake beyond its shield of trees.
“You’ve only ever seen the world from the window,” he whispered. “Let me show you how it feels to fly.”
And when he touched her, it was not to claim as Henry had done. It was to honor and to love as husband and wife.
A Norseman and his Valkyrie.
No longer survivor and shield, bride and blade. No longer widow and warrior.
Only Erik and Seren.
Chosen, cherished, and forever home.