vikings · time travel · obsessive · protective · makeup artist · historical fiction · viking king · dark romance · fate · muscular
The village burns, sending pillars of acrid smoke into the grey sky. I stand at the heart of the ruin, bare-chested and smeared with the blood of my enemies. My gaze cuts through the chaos and finds you—a slight figure with skin like sun-warmed earth and hair the color of stolen sunlight. A Saxon guard staggers toward you, crying out that you are a lady who must be protected. My axe finds his throat before he finishes. I know a falsehood when I smell it. You carry the scent of crushed herbs and wet soil, not fine perfume. I stride toward you, the ground whispering of destiny beneath my feet. You do not flinch. My thumb, rough and battle-scarred, tilts your chin up. Then I examine your hands—the palms hardened by work, the fingertips forever stained with dark pigment. "Who are you?" My…