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The Viking’s Betrothed
Part I — The Prize
Word Count: 1,050
Summary: Taken as spoil of war, you are forced into betrothal with Oyvind , a Viking who calls you his with terrifying certainty. A story of captivity, possessive devotion, and a love that grows in the shadows.
Masterlist
A/N: Revamping one of my old Wattpad works lol 😅 Hope you like it!
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The air in your new home is thick with salt and smoke.
Ocean brine. Burned wood. Faint blood.
You sit curled on the edge of the bed , not a bed, a cage. Not a home, a prison.
Oyvind fills the space without speaking. He moves like a predator at rest quiet, assured, watching. Always watching.
You refuse to look at him.
Your gaze stays fixed on the floorboards.
He kneels in front of you.
His hand is rough when it cups your tear-streaked cheek ,calloused and warm , but the touch itself is gentle. Too gentle.
He sighs.
“Do not cry, elskan mín.”
The pet name makes you flinch.
He leans in, brushing his lips against your skin, kissing away your tears with an odd tenderness that does not match the man who burned your village to the ground.
“How long will it take you to understand that you are mine?” he murmurs. “I do not understand you.”
Days.
It has been days since you were dragged onto his ship as spoil of war. Days since fire swallowed your home. Days since everyone you loved stopped breathing.
You have not spoken to him once.
Your silence is the only thing you still own.
He sees it as defiance.
It frustrates him.
“They say nothing good comes from marrying a barbarian,” you think bitterly. “As if I had a choice.”
You were the quiet one. The least troublesome. The easiest to claim.
He is the youngest among his warriors kinder, perhaps.
But no less dangerous.
His thumb brushes away the last of your tears. His eyes are fierce. There is no remorse there.
Only certainty.
A low hum leaves him, almost pleased at your trembling.
“I should cut out your tongue,” he says casually, “so I do not have to hear you cry.”
Your stomach drops.
You clamp your lips shut instantly, fear flooding you so quickly it almost steals your breath. Tears gather but you refuse to let them fall.
He smiles when he feels you tense.
Leans close. His breath ghosts over your ear.
“Do you truly want me to cut out that pretty little tongue of yours, elskan mín?”
“P-please don’t,” you whisper.
His grip on your chin tightens.
“And why should I not?” he drawls. “You refuse to speak to me.”
You swallow hard.
“If you cut it out,” you sniffle, voice trembling, “I’ll never be able to talk to you.”
Silence.
His grip loosens.
A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
“You mean,” he says slowly, “you would speak to me… if I do not?”
“I’ll try,” you squeak.
He studies you, eyes dragging over your face, searching for deception.
Then he chuckles.
“You are clever, little one. Bargaining with me.”
His hand slides back to your jaw.
“What is your name?” you whisper suddenly.
His brows lift.
“You ask now?”
He leans close, lips hovering near your ear.
“It is Oyvind.”
You test it softly.
“Oyvind.”
He hums, pleased.
“Say it again.”
“O-oyvind.”
His fingers drift to the nape of your neck.
“Good girl. Again.”
“Oyvind.”
Stronger this time.
He watches your mouth when you say it. Watches the way his name lives there now.
“I enjoy hearing you say it,” he murmurs. “You belong to me.”
His hand tightens slightly at your neck.
“Again.”
You hesitate.
Then
“Oyvind.”
He could keep going. Could make you repeat it until your voice breaks.
But he notices how tired you are.
How your eyes have dulled from too much grief.
His hand falls away.
You whisper a quiet, “Thank you.”
Later, you move to the small vanity. Undo your braid with trembling fingers. Pretend this is normal. Pretend this is marriage.
He watches you from the chair in the corner.
Always watching.
You lie down on your side.
“Goodnight,” you murmur softly.
His lips twitch.
After a moment, he rises and approaches the bed. Sits at the edge. Studies your sleeping face in the dim light.
Your eyes flutter open briefly when you sense him.
You stare at him in your half-dreaming haze.
Then close them again.
As if he is already familiar.
He chuckles under his breath.
You shift in your sleep. Your leg brushes against his. Instinctively, unconsciously, you seek warmth.
You curl toward him.
Even after everything.
He stills.
Watching you tuck yourself against his leg like something small and wounded.
Amusement flickers in his gaze.
You fear him.
But your body still reaches for him in the dark.
And that
That might be his favorite part.
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