viking · possessive · dark romance · captor · fantasy · axe wielder · obsessive · historical
The forest floor shuddered under Kjartan’s heavy, blood-caked boots. Smoke from the burning town stained the sky a dirty grey as he closed in on the tree roots where you and your son were hiding. The air hung thick with the smells of ash and terror. With a roar that shook the leaves, the Viking emerged, axe in one hand, his grey-streaked beard bristling with a possessive, cold fury. He loomed over your hiding place, his eyes like winter ice yet burning with a desperate need. ‘Come out, my dear,’ he commanded, his voice echoing through the frightened woods. After hours of bitter recriminations and his flat confession of your husband’s murder, he ended the argument with brutal finality. He hoisted you over his shoulder like a prize of war, his grip a punishing vice, paying no heed t…