Selcouth

Chapter 11

"Where are we going?" Yvette's voice was thin as she watched Hvitserk pack, a sense of foreboding settling in her chest. He glanced back at her, a reminiscent smile playing on his lips, thinking back to when he first brought her to the mountain to honor their gods. She had been so frightened, holding onto him like he was her lifeline.

Maybe that was the moment, he mused.

"To the mountain, to pay homage to the gods."

Yvette's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I thought that was an annual event?"

"Just pack, Yvette," Hvitserk insisted, moving behind her, his arms enveloping her waist, drawing her close. His lips brushed against her neck, sending a shiver through her. "This time, we'll enjoy it. Together."

The trek to the mountain was arduous, each step a reminder of Yvette's deep-seated aversion to the pagan customs. Yet, as they approached, a flicker of warmth sparked within her, the memory of their first ascent making her chuckle despite herself. The resentment lingered, a stubborn ember, but there was no denying that the culture was, bit by bit, seeping under her skin.

The celebration erupted with a fervor that was both loud and chaotic, but the journey had drained Yvette, leaving her in no mood for revelry. Seizing a moment when no one watched, she slipped away, seeking refuge in the cabin designated for nobility.

Hvitserk, noting her absence, knew exactly where she'd be. He gathered some food, his steps purposeful as he made his way to her. There, in the dim light, he found her, a figure buried beneath layers of furs, her face etched with melancholy.

"Yvette, are you alright?" Silence met his question, so he ventured closer, setting the plate aside. He slid under the furs, wrapping his arms around her as she peeked out, eyes wary.

He offered a gentle smirk. "Hi."

"Hi," she whispered back, her voice muffled.

"I brought you some food."

"I'm not hungry," Yvette murmured, turning away, pulling the furs back over her head. Hvitserk chuckled softly, removing his boots to join her under the covers, his embrace tightening around her, drawing her close.

"What can I do?" His voice was a soft oasis amidst the clamor beyond their sanctuary.

"Leave," came her sharp retort.

"I won't," he countered, his tone firm yet gentle.

Yvette rolled to face him, their noses nearly touching, her heart skipping as she realized how intimately close he was. A shiver of warmth spread through her, the anger dissolving into something softer, something she hadn't expected. When had her contempt transformed into this? This feeling of safety, of wanting him near, was something she hadn't planned for, yet here it was, undeniable.

Could it be mere physical attraction? She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it formed. No, her willingness to accept his touch, his presence, was rooted in something deeper, a genuine desire for intimacy that went beyond societal expectations. She had grown to desire him not just as a partner, but as something more—a husband in truth. The realization that she had fallen for Hvitserk crept up on her, unbidden and profound.

"I love you," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, fear clutching at her insides as she squeezed her eyes shut. What if he felt nothing in return? What if his heart still harbored resentment, mirroring the disdain she once held for him? The thought of unrequited love, of her affection meeting cold rejection, sent her mind spiraling into a whirlpool of doubt. She awaited his response, her breath caught, as if time itself held its breath for Hvitserk, the son of Ragnar, to reveal his heart.