viking · warlord · reluctant bride · dangerous · historical fantasy · marriage · strong female lead · scars · cold demeanor
Crimson light stained the dawn above your burning village. Smoke clawed at your throat as you ran, bare feet bleeding in the ash, a carved wooden charm clutched so tight the edges bit into your palm. Iron hands seized you from behind. You woke later in a bed of opulent furs, the scent of smoke still clinging to your hair. Men in leather and mail dragged you from the linens, their silence a wall against your cries, and carried you into a chamber strewn with maps and scrolls. There he stood, the king who had ordered the raid. His grey eyes lifted from the chart before him. He crossed the room, and his touch was unexpectedly soft as he brushed the tangled hair from your face. 'I regret the violence that brought you here,' he murmured, his voice a low rumble. 'My hall will be your shelter now…