The Bloodwolf’s Bride
Description
Astrid Ragnardottir has loved Bjorn Ironside since she was fifteen, and their impending marriage will unite two powerful clans in what she believes is both alliance and love. But when the notorious Ulfheim warriors arrive at her wedding feast-led by the mysterious "Bloodwolf," a ruthless conqueror whose identity remains hidden-Astrid's gift of true-sight awakens with a devastating vision: herself in the arms of a dark-haired stranger, his mouth on her throat, calling her "my love." As the vision fades, she realizes she's been dreaming of this man for months, his face always dissolving when she wakes. Now he stands across the hall, storm-gray eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression says he's been waiting. With her wedding days away and her visions growing more urgent and fractured, Astrid must navigate the treacherous waters between duty and prophecy, between the golden-haired warrior she's promised to and the dangerous northman who looks at her like she's already his.
Chapter 1
Nov 20, 2025
[Astrid’s POV]
My fingers worry the edge of my sleeve as I watch the feast hall doors. Again. The mead horn trembles in my other hand, untouched for the past hour.
Around me, Ravnfjord celebrates—warriors deep in their cups and thralls weaving between tables laden. My father's booming laugh cuts through the din, but I can't tear my gaze from that threshold.
Three months. Ninety-one days since my dear Bjorn sailed for the southern settlements. Since I watched his golden hair disappear over the horizon with a promise on his lips and my heart clutched in his keeping.
"He'll return before the new moon," Sigrid had said then. "Warriors always do."
The new moon came and went. Then another. And another.
My gift—that cursed, blessed second sight the gods saw fit to burden me with—has been mercifully silent. No visions of dragon-prowed ships splintered on rocks. No glimpses of Bjorn's body, cold and bloodless in some foreign field. Just... nothing.
An absence that should comfort, but instead gnaws at my ribs like hunger.
The doors swing open. My breath catches, but it's only more of Father's men, faces flushed from the cold night air, stamping snow from their boots.
Not him. Never him.
I drain the mead in one bitter swallow.
"You'll wear a hole in the floor with all that staring."
Mother appears at my shoulder, her hand gentle on my back. She's draped in her finest—deep crimson wool pinned with the silver brooches that mark her as Jarl's wife.
"He'll come," I whisper, more prayer than certainty.
"Of course he will." But there's something tight in Mother's smile, something that makes my stomach clench. "The alliance between our clans depends on it."
The alliance. Always the alliance.
As if my heart isn't bound up in this too. As if I haven't loved Bjorn since I was fifteen and he looked at me across my father's hall like I was something precious. Something worth fighting for.
The doors open again and this time, my heart knows before my eyes do.
Bjorn strides through like he was born from storm and legend. Broad shoulders wrapped in furs, golden beard braided with silver rings, moving with that warrior's grace that made me breathless even as a girl.
The hall erupts. Men surge forward, clapping backs and raising horns. My father practically vaults over a bench to reach him. But Bjorn's eyes—those blue eyes that haunted my dreams through months of waiting—find me through the chaos.
Everything else falls away.
I'm moving before I can think, weaving through the press of bodies. My pulse hammers against my throat, my palms slick. The world narrows to just him, just the space between us that shrinks with each step until—
"Astrid." The way he says my name makes my knees weak. "Gods, you're more beautiful than my memories."
"Liar," I breathe, but I'm smiling so hard it hurts. "I haven't slept properly in weeks. I look like—"
"Like everything I fought to come home to," he interrupts, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "The thought of you kept me warm through nights so cold I thought my blood would freeze."
"Bjorn!" My father's voice cuts through our moment like an axe through flesh. "We must speak. Urgent clan matters that cannot wait."
Something flickers in Bjorn's eyes. He steps back, his hands falling away, and suddenly the air feels too cold, the space between us too vast.
"Of course, Jarl Ragnar." He glances at me, offers what should be a reassuring smile. "Forgive me, my love. Duty calls."
"Now?" The word comes out smaller than I intended. "Bjorn, you just—"
"After three months, what's another hour?" He kisses my forehead—quick, perfunctory, the kind of kiss you give a sister—and then he's gone.
I stand there, arms hanging useless at my sides, still tasting the words I didn't get to say.
"Well." My cousin materializes beside me, a wine cup already at her lips, that knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "That was... brief."
Sigrid's magnificent tonight—long dark hair coiled like serpents and green eyes bright with mischief. Beautiful and sharp as a blade. I smooth my hands down my dress, force steadiness into my voice.
"Important matters. The raids, probably. He'll seek me out once business is concluded."
"Mmm." Sigrid takes a slow sip, watching me over the rim. "How strange, though. A man desperately in love, separated from his betrothed for three months, and he chooses politics over passion the moment he arrives…"
Heat crawls up my neck. "It's not like that. Our wedding will unite two powerful clans. Love and alliance. He's just being… responsible."
"Of course." Her laugh tinkles like breaking ice. "Perhaps you simply love enough for both of you. How convenient for him."
The barb lands sharp, but before I can defend him—defend us—horns sound from outside. Not our horns. These notes are deeper, darker, carrying an edge that raises the hair on my arms.
"Who would arrive now?" I whisper. "The wedding isn't for another week."
The hall falls silent when the doors open, and northern warriors file in.
Men file through in perfect formation, bearing the wolf banner of Úlfheim. Former enemies, now invited as witnesses to the marriage that will shift every alliance from here to the eastern settlements.
Father insisted, though Mother had worried the old wounds ran too deep.
I scan the group for their leader, curious despite myself. But it's one warrior who stops my breath.
He moves differently from the others—fluid where they're rigid, graceful where they're forceful. Dark hair catches the firelight like raven's wings, and there's something in the way he carries himself that speaks of barely leashed violence.
Beautiful, the way a storm is beautiful. Terrifying and magnetic and impossible to look away from.
"Who leads them?" I ask, not quite steadily.
"You haven't heard?" Thyra appears on my other side, breathless with gossip. "Úlfheim's leadership changed violently just months ago. Some warrior conquered the Jarl through blood and cunning, but keeps his identity hidden from other clans."
"Hidden?" Sigrid's interest sharpens. "How dramatic."
"They call him Bloodwolf," Thyra continues, lowering her voice. "Everyone expects he'll reveal himself here. The stories..." She shudders. "Even his own men fear him. They say he killed the previous jarl with his bare hands, made the man's sons watch. A beast wearing a man's skin."
I search the group of warriors for someone who could be this monster, but my treacherous gaze keeps returning to the dark-haired warrior. There's something familiar about him, like a song I've heard but can't quite place.
And when his eyes meet mine across the hall, the world tilts.
Vision behind my eyes awakens like lightning splitting stone—sudden and violent. Images crashed over me in waves of heat and hunger: I saw myself pressed against stone, this stranger's mouth on my throat, my hands tangled in his dark hair.
His voice’s rough with need as he calls me—’My love.’
The vision shatters and I gasp, stumbling back. Sigrid catches my elbow, her grip tight enough to bruise. "Astrid? What's wrong?"
But I can't answer. Can't speak. Because I know this exact vision.
I've been dreaming it for months, always with a man whose face dissolves upon waking. Leaving only the sensation of being claimed, possessed, loved with an intensity that borders on violence.
A man I convinced myself was just fantasy. My mind's invention.
Except he's standing across the hall. Watching me with those storm-gray eyes, and something in his expression says he knows.
The Bloodwolf’s Bride
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