The Wolf and His Rabbit

The little rabbit bolted.

Azgar watched her run.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as the woman, dressed in better clothing, bolted into the night like a rabbit scenting the wolf on its trail. Her frantic footsteps echoed on stone as she fled down the halls.

She had taken his bluff and fled.

Good.

Let her think she had a chance.

Turning away from the doorway, he rolled his shoulders, stretching the tension from his muscles as he made his way down the stone corridor. His boots thudded against the worn floors of the keep, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the walls.

"Spread the word," he said to the two guards stationed outside his chamber. "The little rabbit is playing a game with me. No one interferes."

The men exchanged glances, then nodded, grinning as they pounded their fists to their chests in salute.

"As you command, my lord."

Satisfied, Azgar continued down the hall, the scent of smoke and pine from the central hearth thick in the air.

The keep was alive with the sounds of warriors at their meals, the occasional bursts of laughter, the clang of tankards meeting wood. His people were never quiet, never still.

But first—before his rabbit led herself to ruin—there was something else to attend to.

*****

The scent hit him first—herbal, pungent, sharp with the undertone of burning tallow.

The healer's dwelling was smaller than most, nestled near the main hall but separate enough that the constant scent of remedies and poultices did not offend the warriors.

He stepped inside.

The healer, an older woman named Ysra, turned at the sound of his entrance. She was a small thing, bones like dry twigs wrapped in leathered skin, her gray hair tied in a long plait over one shoulder. Despite her age, her eyes were sharp, assessing.

"My lord," Ysra inclined her head but did not bow. The old woman had been tending to his clan long before he was born.

She had wiped the blood from his mother's thighs when he entered the world. Respect, yes. Deference? Not quite.

"You look well," she remarked, reaching for a bundle of dried leaves. "Not here for yourself, then."

"No." Azgar leaned against the wooden counter, arms crossed. "The southerner. She's taken ill."

"The same southerner who I just saw?" Ysra snorted. "You let her run in this cold?"

He chuckled. "I let her think she could escape."

The healer shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she worked. "And what signs does she show?"

"A fever is brewing," Azgar said, thinking back to the heat radiating from her skin, the flush high on her cheekbones that wasn't entirely from fear. "She hasn't noticed yet, but she will soon."

Ysra scoffed. "Southerners. No sense." She began measuring out crushed bark and dried roots, pouring them into a clay bowl. "She will need warmth. Rest. A broth made with this." She began mixing up herbs.

He tapped a finger against the rim of the bowl. "And if she refuses?"

The old woman's gaze met his, wry and knowing. "Then make her take it. She's yours now, isn't she?"

His lips curled. "She is."

"I'll have it brought to your chambers."

Azgar nodded at her and strode out into the night. It was time to find his little rabbit.

He made his way through the grounds, following the unsure footing on the snow.

The wind howled through the settlement, carrying the scent of pine and frost. The torches lining the outer walls burned low, casting flickering shadows over the snow-covered ground.

He followed her tracks—small, frantic footprints leading away from the main hall, disappearing into the darker parts of the village.

Foolish girl.

She didn't know the land, didn't understand how easily the night could swallow her whole.

A blur of movement caught his eye near the blacksmith's forge.

A stable hand, barely past seventeen, was stacking firewood. Azgar strode toward him.

"Did you see the south woman come this way?"

The boy hesitated. "Aye, my lord. She—she went toward the stables."

Of course.

Azgar ruffled the boy's hair and continued forward.

The stables loomed ahead, the scent of hay and horse sweat mingling in the cold. He moved without hurry, stepping inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.

Then he saw her.

Azgar leaned against the stable door, arms folded, and watched.

The woman stood before one of the warhorses, a beast nearly twice the size of the fragile creatures she had likely ridden in the south. Snow clung to the hem of her clothes, her breath visible in the cold air.

"I just need to get out of this wretched place," she grumbled, gripping the horse's mane. "Big brute. Just…just let me on."

She tried to climb. Failed. Huffed.

She was small compared to the northern beasts, her delicate hands gripping at the saddle, her breath coming in uneven pants.

"This is absurd," she muttered, attempting again. "Of course, even the damn horses here are monstrous. Everything is cold and miserable. And that beast of a man—"

Azgar lifted a brow.

He had not expected her to be so fiery—not after days of cold, hunger, and exhaustion.

But here she was, fighting even when her body was betraying her.

A fool.

But an entertaining one.

She still thought she had a choice.

It was either admirable or deeply stupid. But strength came in many forms, and defiance—however misguided—was still strength.

Perhaps that was why he hadn't grown bored of her yet.

Either way, he would enjoy watching her realize she belonged to him.

"—thinks he owns everything, including me. The barbarian. The arrogant, smug—"

She stopped, suddenly swaying on her feet. A frown creased her brow as she pressed a hand to her forehead.

Ah. She had finally noticed the fever.

Azgar exhaled through his nose and pushed off the door.

He stepped forward silently, closing the distance. Before she could react, he grabbed her, lifting her effortlessly from the ground.

She shrieked, twisting in his arms, startling the horse. The beast reared back, hooves striking the air.

Cursing, Azgar reacted on instinct, rolling them both into the haystack just as the warhorse's hooves slammed into the ground where they had stood moments before.

She landed beneath him, soft and warm against the cold.

Silence.

Then—

"You—" she seethed, pushing against him. The movement had her hips shifting against his, her thighs unconsciously rubbing against the hardness of his body.

Azgar inhaled sharply, amusement darkening into something else.

"If you keep doing that," he murmured, voice thick with warning, "we might have to roll in the hay properly."

The woman froze.

Then she shoved at his chest, her face burning from far more than the fever. "You brute! You crude, vile—"

He laughed, rolling off her and dragging her up with him. "You lost, little rabbit."

Her eyes widened. "Lost?"

He smirked. "Did you think I wouldn't set terms for our game?" He leaned in, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "You ran. I caught you. Now, you take your punishment."

She swallowed, suddenly wary. "…You never mentioned that."

Good, so there was still some level of fear in her.

His grin widened. "You never asked."

The woman sputtered, rage flashing in her fever-bright eyes. "You are a cheat."

Azgar only lifted her, tossing her over his shoulder despite her furious protests.

*****

The great hall had quieted some, but there were still enough witnesses to see their return.

The moment Azgar entered, his woman thrown over his shoulder, the warriors roared with laughter.

"Well, that didn't take long," Ulrik called out.

Varn grinned. "The southlands breed terrible escape artists."

He just knew the woman's face burned with the way she screamed.

"Barbarians! All of you!"

Azgar patted her thigh. "Hush, little rabbit."

That only made her thrash harder.

He carried her through the hall, ignoring the amused glances, and made his way toward his chambers.

*****

The heavy door closed behind them with a thud. The chamber was warm, heat from the large hearth licking at the cold that clung to them both. 

Azgar set her down, watching as she stumbled back, cheeks flushed from the fever.

It had begun sinking its claws into her, making her sway slightly on her feet.

Still, she glared at him, chin raised. "I hate you."

Azgar smirked. "Yes. I noticed."

He unfastened his cloak, letting it fall over the chair. Slowly, he approached, his footsteps muffled by the furs.

"Strip."