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Chapter 1

The longhouse stank of smoke, wet wool, and spilled mead. Outside the North Sea hammered the fjord. Vilhjálmr sat on the high bench like the roof belonged to him, cloak off one shoulder, dried blood still in the cracks of his knuckles. Men called him the Impaler for what he did to those who broke guest-right.

Queen Sandri Varna-St came through the door with snow in her ash-blond hair and the look of a woman who had already written the night’s law. Tight wool tunic, leather trousers dark with spray, seax at her hip. Pale gold hair caught the fire. Every man knew her rank. Vilhjálmr had known before her boots hit his boards.

She stopped between his knees.

“You took my brother’s ship.”

“I took what the storm left,” he said. “Your brother lives.”

Sandri hooked two fingers in the fur at his collar and yanked his head back. Her mouth was close enough that he felt the words.

“Listen well, Impaler. I fuck who I want. You fuck who I say you can. That is the rule in here. Break it and I’ll have you gelded with your own spike.”

He remembered.

He hauled her up by the ass and carried her into the private chamber. Furs. Low fire. Pine pitch and iron. The door slammed.

Sandri shoved him onto the bench first. She straddled his thighs, ripped the cloak aside, and found him already thick and leaking. She tore the ties, spat on his cock, and stroked him filthy—tight twist over the head, both hands, queen’s rings dragging the shaft.

“This stays mine tonight,” she said. “No hall-girl. No thrall. No shield-maiden you fancy. You come when I use you. You put it where I tell you.”

Vilhjálmr growled and shoved two thick fingers between her legs, leather shoved aside, finding her slick. He hooked them hard. Sandri cursed, rose, shoved her trousers down, and sank onto him in one wet drop. She took him to the root. Ash-blond hair fell forward as she ground down so the base of him dragged her clit.

“Queen’s cunt,” she rasped. “The only one you get unless I point at another. Understand?”

He understood with his hips. He gripped her hard enough to bruise and fucked up into her like a shield wall. Wet slaps. She bounced on him, tore her own tunic open, and shoved a nipple into his mouth. “Suck. That’s allowed.” He sucked. She clenched and came with a snarl, dripping down his balls.

He lifted her off, flipped her onto her hands and knees, and slammed back in from behind. Palm across her ass. Fist in that ash-blond hair. He bent her neck and pounded until the bench scraped.

“Say the rule,” he grunted.

“I fuck who I want,” she gasped. “You fuck who I say. Right now I say you fuck me. Deeper. Fill your queen.”

He did. Rough thumb on her clit until she came again, shaking, milking him. Vilhjálmr buried himself and spent in thick pulses, flooding her, holding her locked so it stayed in.

He pulled out slow. Spend leaked down her thighs. He dragged two fingers through it and pushed it back inside, then smeared the rest over her clit until she twitched.

Sandri laughed, hoarse, pale hair stuck to her neck.

“That load is mine. The next one is mine unless I send you to someone. You don’t choose. I do.”

Vilhjálmr leaned over her back, bit her shoulder, and pushed his slick fingers into her mouth.

“Then point, my queen. I’ll fuck whoever you name. Until then this cock stays in you.”

She bit his fingers, shoved back onto him half-hard, and reached between her own legs to rub the mess into her clit.

“Good. Stay hard. I might want you again before dawn. Or I might make you watch while I take someone else. Either way—you wait for my word.”

He waited.

She did not yield the rule. He did not break it. Not that night.

Chapter 2

Dawn came grey and mean over the fjord. The longhouse still smelled of smoke and sex. Queen Sandri Varna-St sat on the edge of the furs with her ash-blond hair unbraided down her back, a fur pulled only to her waist. Spend had dried on her inner thighs. She did not wipe it.

Vilhjálmr woke to her boot nudging his ribs.

“Up, Impaler. The hall is waking. You will sit at my left and you will keep your hands to yourself unless I put them somewhere.”

He sat up, cock already heavy against his thigh. Sandri looked at it once, cool as frost.

“That stays covered. I did not give it leave.”

He tied his trousers. The rule sat between them like a blade on the table.

They walked into the hall together. Men rose. Some stared too long at the queen’s pale hair and the marks on her throat. Sandri let them look. Vilhjálmr’s jaw flexed. She put two fingers on his wrist under the table—not affection. A reminder.

Breakfast was bread, salt fish, weak ale. A young shield-maiden named Hrefna brought more mead and lingered by Sandri’s shoulder, eyes lowered, mouth soft. Sandri studied her the way a queen studies a gift she might accept or send away.

“Pretty,” Sandri said, loud enough for Vilhjálmr. “Do you want her?”

He did not answer at once. Wanting was not ...