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Only one of the great Volsik line had survived the sacking of Sunnavík—five-year-old Princess Saga, raised as Ivar’s ward and future bride for his son Bjorn.
“And I wonder if the dowdy dresses and act of innocence are a trick, because good, sweet girls do not have a tongue as sharp and wicked as yours. And merciful gods, Silla. I am no good man, because all I can think of is drawing you into my furs and discovering what else that tongue is capable of.”
“You’ve broken me…bewitched me…I know nothing except that I am miserable. All I can think of are your lips, the smell of your hair. How you felt in my arms, the way you made me feel so alive.”
“I was wrong to treat you like that. And I’m done fighting it, Silla. You shouldn’t be with other men. You belong with me.”
“For a time,” she said quietly, “you were a great comfort to me, Jonas. The only good thing I had in this world.” She sighed. “I would thank you for that. For helping me forget.”
“One day, you’ll wake up, Jonas, and realize the mistake you’ve made. By then, it will be too late. Shame will stalk you until your last breath.”
She was clever, his girl. A survivor.
