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When Hvitserk awoke the following morning, he discovered that the furs on the bed had grown cold where Yvette, his wife, had been laying. He sat up in his bed, his mind racing as he pondered where she might have gone. Typically, she would be by the fire, preparing a meal for him before he started his day. However, on this day, she was nowhere to be seen.
As the young prince climbed out of bed, his thoughts were consumed by concern for Yvette. He hastily gathered his clothes and began to search for her. Just as he was about to leave the house, he spotted her silhouette by the fire. She was wrapped only in furs, her shoulders bare.
Hvitserk approached her slowly, kneeling in front of her with care. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle and soothing.
Yvette replied, "I just got cold."
Hvitserk tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, lifting her chin gently. His eyes scanned her face, searching for any sign of what might be troubling her. He didn't care what it was; he only wanted to help.
"Yvette," he said softly.
In a heartbeat, the air between them charged with electric tension, Yvette sprang to her feet, the furs barely covering her as anger flushed her cheeks crimson.
"You are no husband to me, Hvitserk," she declared, her voice thick with scorn. "Married we may be, but you are nothing to me!"
Hvitserk, still kneeling, looked up at her, his eyes a storm of confusion and raw hurt.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the room. Yvette paused, clutching the furs tighter, her vulnerability stark.
"Tell you what?" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Rising with a predator's grace, Hvitserk stood before her, his presence overwhelming. "Tell me you hate me," he insisted, his tone now eerily calm against the backdrop of the wind outside.
The question hung in the air, a challenge that Yvette couldn't quite fathom. What game was he playing at?
"What...?" she started, her voice hesitant, almost fearful.
"Tell me!" Hvitserk's voice thundered through the room, shattering the tense silence. In her shock and fury, Yvette lashed out, aiming a slap at his face. But Hvitserk caught her wrist with ease, his grip firm yet not painful.
"I hate you, Hvitserk Ragnarsson," she hissed venomously, each word a dagger.
"And you think that I don't hate you? That being with you isn't the worst fate I've ever known?" His words were a harsh whisper, laden with an emotion that teetered on the edge of something far more complex than mere hatred.
In a fit of rage, Yvette spat in his face, her action as defiant as her words. "You vile heathen! Release me!" she cried out, struggling fruitlessly against his hold. As she fought, the furs slipped, leaving her exposed, yet her defiance did not waver.
Hvitserk advanced, pushing her back until she was flush against the cold stone wall, her escape cut off. His body was inches from hers, the heat from his fury and something else, something akin to desire, radiating between them. Yvette could only glare up at him, her body trembling, not just from fear or anger, but from the undeniable, animalistic tension that pulsed between them.
Their breaths were ragged, mingling in the small space, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. The air was thick with unspoken desires, the kind that only surfaces in the heat of such passionate conflicts. Here, in this standoff, the lines between hate and lust blurred, each emotion feeding into the other, creating a palpable, almost tangible energy that could either ignite or explode.
"You're nothing to me, Yvette," Hvitserk declared, his gaze traveling over her exposed body. She could feel her cheeks burning as his eyes took her in, and she prayed that he wouldn't notice the effect he had on her. She desperately wanted to resist the desire for his touch, to feel repulsed by it, but she couldn't. No, she couldn't.
His hands, the gentle way they would stroke her breasts and the way his lips moved perfectly with hers as if they were made for each other and Yvette most of all hated how he felt inside of her, the feelings he'd give her; the gut tingling feeling as every thrust he'd make she whimper in pleasure. She wanted to hate him, she wanted to hate herself. How can a heathen give her this much pleasure but fill her soul with so much hate?
In a moment of self-awareness, Yvette caught her own thought and nearly gasped.
Hate.
"Hvitserk," she mumbled, her eyes now pleading with his. "I—"
"I know," he whispered, his lips moving closer to hers, igniting a fire within both of them. "I know," he repeated as his lips finally met hers, For a brief moment, Hvitserk felt Yvette tense against him, and he feared she would push him away. But as her hands relaxed and her mouth responded to his kiss, he released her hands, and she wrapped them around his neck, drawing him in for a deeper connection. His hands found her waist, pulling her body against his as he left a trail of kisses down her neck.
Yvette's stomach fluttered, her heart beating faster as she felt his hands slip between her thighs. "Hvitserk." She moaned with closed eyes, the air around them was thick. Hvitserk undid his pants dropping them to ground then lifted up Yvette's leg moving himself near her entrance. She felt him toying with her as he only allowed the tip inside.
Yvette moaned lightly, "Please."
Without warning Hvitserk thrusted inside her; her head falling back against the wall, eyes closed. Her whole body enlighten with a feeling of euphoria sending a shock wave of chills down her spine. His hands gripped her hips tightly holding her in place as he moved against her and she felt like her head was light headed but not in the bad way his movements against her were unlike any other pleasure she's ever had.
Hvitserk groaned against her neck has he pulled her hips against his. His own world feeling euphoric. His hands slide under her thighs picking her up and carefully taking her to their shared bed. He hovered over her watching as her eyes rolled back in pure pleasure, her nails digging in his back; Hvitserk thought that this might be the best feeling he'd ever experienced.
His feelings for this woman were evolving, and he couldn't pinpoint when or why. The thought of her telling him that she hated him nearly brought him to his knees. Yet, he found himself craving those words, as if he needed her to say it again. It was as though he wanted to hate her back, but he couldn't bear to hear it. In truth, he knew she hated him, and he knew he'd never be what she wanted or needed. In these moments watching her beneath him seeing how he pleased her and how his name rolls off her tongue he for a moment thought that maybe she didn't hate him. Maybe just like him her feelings had changed.
