Page 55 of The Thornwyck Rose

“I did,” she said with a smile. “You carry the north in your blood—but I see the Welsh in your spine. You are both your mother’s son and mine.”

Ragnar lowered his head and settled on his cot with peace in his eyes.

She told him of bread made with honey, of river baptisms and sky burials, of the wind speaking through the weather and her mother’s hands pressed to her belly after supper.

By the time she finished, his eyes had closed.

The wolf lay in his palm.

Seren stood and pressed the back of her fingers to Ragnar’s brow. His skin was warm, but not hot. No fever.

“Sleep,” she said in love. “I’ll come back when I can.”

As she turned, he groggily whispered after her.

“Lady Seren?”

She paused.

“Will you be in trouble for coming here tonight?”

“That is none of your concern, my sweet boy,” she whispered with a smile.

He nodded and clenched his jaw. “Be like your wolf then, Lady Seren.”

Her voice was soft. “You too, Ragnar.”

She waited to leave until the soft rhythm of his breathing signaled that he was asleep.

Margot descendedthe narrow staircase with a bundle of hay in her arms, her voice high and casual.

“Lady wanted some extra hay for the bedding,” she said cheerfully to the guards, now standing at their post outside Henry’s chambers.

They barely glanced at her. One grunted, the other sighed as Margot entered the top floor. That was all the space Seren needed.

She ducked her head and slipped around the edge of the stairs, her dress whispering over the stone as she hurried past the landing to the middle floor, unseen.

But as she turned the bend of the narrow spiral, she collided with Erik.

The bowl in her hand slipped. Her foot skidded against the stone. He caught the bowl in one hand and pulled her against him with the other before the fall took her.

Neither moved as they took each other in. His eyes swept over her—the bloody cloths, the jar of salve, and the tremble in her breath. The way he looked at her lips made her breath shake more. His eyes pleaded for an answer to the unspoken question about his son.

Their voices would travel on the stone staircase, so she nodded and pressed a soft smile. It was the only answer she could give.

Ragnar was as safe as he could be.

Her toe found the step again. She steadied herself, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her closer and dipped his head.

Her heart skipped a beat.

His lips brushed her temple with a warm breath and lowered to her ear in a whisper.

“Thank you, Valkyrie.”

It was the first time he’d spoken to her in years—truly spoken. Their lives had become a language of glances, guarded smiles, half-turned heads. But now, in this hushed bend of stone and shadow, his voice weakened her knees. Her chest ached. She wasn’t sure if it was from relief or the sheer weight of emotion.

He didn’t move away, so she didn’t either. Her lips grazed the curve of his ear.