“Keita the Red,” he said, using the name she’d been given at hatching.

“I swear on the power of this stone and in the name of my ancestors never to betray you in word or deed or in my heart.”

Her entire face scrunched in disgust. “Must you go that far?”

“Now your turn, princess.”

“Ragnar the…”

“Fourteenth.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

“And I’m a middle offspring.”

“Och! That’s enough. I’ll hear no more.” She shuddered. “Ragnar the Fourteenth, I swear on the power of this stone and in the name of my ancestors never to betray you in word or deed.”

“Or in your heart.”

“I’m not going that far.”

“In your heart,” he pushed, trying not to laugh.

“All right! Fine! Or in my heart.”

As soon as she snapped the last word at him, power radiated from the stone, through their hands, and straight through them like a hard gust of wind, blowing their hair back.

Keita looked around before glaring at him. “What was that?”

“I have no idea.”

“You must have an idea. You’re a mage.”

“Yes, but that’s never happened before when I used these.”

“You’ve cursed me, haven’t you?”

“What is your obsession with curses?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No. I didn’t curse you.”

“Better not have.”

“Or what?”

“Trust me, warlord. As much as I know how to give pleasure, I also know how to take it away. Now”—she stood, managing to look regal in his shirt—“let’s get back so you can be caught sneaking out of my room in the morning.”

Ragnar cleared his throat, raised a brow.

“What?”

He made his brow go a little higher.

“Oh, fine!” She slapped the rune into his hand.

“You Southlanders are such thieves.”

“If you didn’t want me to have it, you shouldn’t have let me take it out of your bag.”

“You’re blaming me for your thievery?”

“Yes!” She stormed off, yelling over her shoulder, “Well come on! I don’t have all bloody night! And stop staring at my ass!”

“It’s almost too large to miss.” And he did think he quietly muttered that remark until that ball of flame nearly took his damn head off.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Keita woke up and wondered who’d buried her alive. Probably Gwenvael. Bastard. Then she realized that she’d been buried under something breathing.

The Lightning. That’s right. He’d taken care of her last night. Even with the vomiting and broken nose. Damn aunts and their damn homemade ale.

It was odd. She was really starting to like Ragnar. Despite the fact her mother seemed to like him as well and her sister seemed to respect him.

She chuckled a little to herself, and the big body lying on top of her moved, rolled off, and stretched.

She turned on her side and, lowering her voice to a husky purr, said,

“Good morn to you, Lord Ragnar.”

His smile was sleepy, his dark purple hair, out of its plait, a wild mane around his face.

Then he fully woke and just looked panicked.

Keita fell back on the bed, snickering.

“How did I get in your bed?”

“I asked nicely, and you agreed.”

He lifted the fur over his body. “And why am I naked?”

“You ask many questions in the morning. Are you sure that’s wise when you’re dealing with me?”

“Good point.” He sat up, yawned. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Surprisingly well, considering.” She pressed her hand to his shoulder. “And thank you for last night.”

He studied the hand touching him, then her face. “You’re more than welcome.”

“Gods,” she said, tossing the fur off her body. “You have such a voice so early in the morning.”

“Do I?”

“Aye. The kind that can get me into all sorts of trouble if I’m not careful.” Keita walked over to her dresser and swiped up the small jar that had been placed there the evening before. She’d noticed it when they’d first walked in after their time by the stream, but had been too tired to deal with it. “Let’s get this done, shall we? So your torment can end.”

“What an interesting way you have of suggesting sex,” he noted dryly.

“It makes me all tingly.”

Keita returned to the bed and crawled onto Ragnar’s lap, a fur the only thing separating Keita’s bare ass from the warlord’s bare cock. “I’m not talking about bedding you. At least…not yet.” She held up the jar. “The antidote.”

“Thank the gods.”

She held up a dagger, enjoying the way Ragnar’s eyes grew wide in panic. “Now just lie still.”

He caught hold of the hand holding the blade. “Isn’t there another way?”

“Tragically for you, no.”

“Then let me do it.”

“Don’t be such a hatchling. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do.” He wrestled the dagger from her. “But that doesn’t make me any less wary.”

Ragnar pressed the blade to the wound on his chest and stopped, blue eyes glaring at her. “And stop grinding against my cock.”