The fire in the brazier hissed low, casting long shadows across the wolf-pelts that lined the bed. Outside the tent, the northern wind howled like a dying beast, but inside it was all heat and hunger.

Hælgardr Blood-Wolf, broad as an oak, scarred from a hundred raids, kicked the leather flap shut behind him. His iron torque glinted as he shrugged off the bearskin cloak, letting it drop like a slain enemy. His eyes—ice-blue and merciless—fixed on her.

Eirwynna.

She knelt on the furs, golden hair unbound and spilling over bare shoulders, the firelight licking every curve of her body. A thin linen shift clung to her breasts, already half-torn from earlier games; beneath it, nothing. Her nipples pressed against the cloth like spear-points begging to be freed. She met his stare with a shield-maiden’s smirk, thighs parted just enough to show the slick gleam between them.

“Take what is yours, husband,” she said, voice low, rough as mead. “Or must I take it from you?”

Hælgardr’s laugh rumbled like distant thunder. In one stride he was on her, thick fingers ripping the shift down the front with a single savage pull. The fabric gave way with a wet tear, baring heavy breasts that spilled into his calloused palms. He squeezed hard—hard enough to mark—then shoved her back onto the furs.

Eirwynna landed with a gasp, legs spreading wide on instinct, offering herself, glistening heat he’d claimed a thousand times and would claim a thousand more. Hælgardr dropped his belt; iron clattered, leather thumped. His cock sprang free—thick, brutal, veined like a war-hammer—and already dripping at the tip.

He fell on her like a storm.

One brutal thrust and he buried himself to the root, splitting her open with a wet, obscene sound. Eirwynna’s back arched; a raw cry tore from her throat, half pain, half triumph. Her nails raked down his back, carving fresh red trails through old scars. Hælgardr growled, pinned her wrists above her head with one massive hand, and began to fuck her like he sacked villages—relentless, merciless, every stroke a conquest.

The furs bunched beneath them. The tent shook with the force of it. Each slam of his hips drove the air from her lungs; each drag of his cock dragged a broken moan from her lips. Her cunt clenched around him, greedy, soaking, the slick sounds of their joining loud as battle drums.

“Harder,” she snarled, wrapping her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “Give me the storm, Hælgardr. Give me everything.”

He gave her everything.

He flipped her onto her belly, hauled her hips up, and took her from behind like a wolf claiming its mate. One hand twisted in her hair, yanking her head back; the other cracked across her ass hard enough to brand his palm print in red. Eirwynna screamed into the furs, pushed back against him, fucking herself on his cock as fiercely as he fucked her.

The brazier flared as a log collapsed. Sparks danced across sweat-slick skin. Hælgardr’s thrusts turned savage, hips slamming, balls slapping against her clit with every punishing stroke. Eirwynna’s whole body shuddered; her cunt spasmed, milking him, and she came with a guttural roar that would’ve shamed a berserker.

Hælgardr followed her over the edge.

He buried himself deep, deeper than ever, and unleashed—hot, thick ropes of seed flooding her, marking her inside as surely as his scars marked his skin. He held her pinned, grinding, emptying every drop while she trembled and gasped beneath him.

When it was done, he stayed inside her, chest heaving, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. Eirwynna turned her head just enough to bite his wrist—hard—drawing blood, tasting iron and salt.

“Again,” she whispered, voice hoarse, thighs already slick with both of them. “The night is long, my wolf… and I am far from sated.”