Basic Instincts

Their eyes met. She saw how his shoulders sank and how his breath steadied in rhythm with her presence.

So she remained there.

They both found a wordless connection in each other, filling the silence.

His warm skin touched hers; he felt like he always belonged.

Their breath melded together in the dark. Neither moved, and neither spoke a word. Unbroken silence enveloped them; the outside world seemed nonexistent.

They lay face to face, so close their noses almost brushed. Their warm breath mingled in the space between them. The pain rested there too-silent, heavy, an invisible weight they both carried.

He lifted the blanket and draped it over her, pulling it tight around them both before drawing nearer. He embraced her, needing more than comfort; he sought solace from his suffering.

She must have dozed off, for she was somewhere else.

In the dream, Bjørn lay beside her. Darkness enveloped them, and his voice came low, almost like an echo:

- The full moon will rise tonight.

Her breath grew heavy, deeper than the sleep itself.

Her eyes, foggily, swept across the room before she realized where she was.

He lay there, half turned toward her, fragile in a way she had never seen before. She felt a sudden inner constriction. When their eyes met, she discovered, to her surprise, that he was still awake.

Had he just lain there, watching her?

"I wish it had been me instead of Bjørn." His voice cracked on the last words. "It should have been me who left. Him who was here now."

He swallowed hard, as though the words cut into him.

"It should have been his arms you lay in."

She didn't answer. She let the tears slide down her cheek, darkening the pillow with stains. Then they lay there, crying together.

"No one should have been there." The words tore free from her, and a fresh wave of grief surged up.

He stared up at the ceiling, his voice rough as he broke the silence with laughter. "As a child, I always admired Bjørn. But I let jealousy consume me. Father and mother admired him, and then he got you too-and I got angry."

She saw how his eyes gleamed in the dim light.

"Don't speak like that, Ragnar."

She stroked her thumb over his hand, the one resting on her stomach. Then she gripped it, as if to force his words back. And he returned the grip-firm, almost desperate, as though he was holding onto her with all his strength.

"Ragnar, I chose Bjørn because he would never hurt me."

He pulled her close, so tightly that her cheek pressed against his chest. Beneath his skin, she sensed his heartbeat-heavy, restless, hammering against his ribs, as though trying to say something he couldn't express.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you, Sigrid. I was sick."

The warmth of his body enveloped her steady heartbeats against her back. She breathed in calmly, catching his scent-earth, wood, something safe.

Her eyelids drooped; shoulder tension finally released. Outside, the wind whispered against the walls, but inside here, it was quiet. Untouched.

Ragnar had saved her that day-from Sigurd. She wondered what would've occurred without him. A weight filled her chest, a mixture of gratitude and something else, something she dared not put into words.

"We must get to Erlend Arnesson, I'm afraid. My family is a prominent supporter of Sverre."

The words tasted of helplessness in her mouth.

"Relax, let me handle him. I won't let anything happen to you. To any of you."

"I don't know, Ragnar."

"Don't leave me," his voice was rough.

For a moment, everything was silent. Then, almost imperceptibly, a whisper brushed against her skin: "I need you."

He leaned forward, letting his lips brush against her forehead.

He studied her face, pausing at her mouth and at her eyes, as if trying to read something unsaid.

His fingers tightened around her hand before he let go, but his gaze never left hers.

He sank down toward her, his breath warm against her skin before the distance disappeared-a gentle kiss.

For a moment, his hands hesitated before they reached her. Lightly, tentatively, his lips brushed hers-a touch that nearly retreated before settling. His breath trembled against her skin, as if each kiss cost him something.

And she let him.

She panted against his skin. His fingers brushed over her back, as if he were trying to gather the broken parts of her.

Something tightened in her chest. But when he drew her closer, it seemed lighter. Not gone-just shared.

He handled her gently, with reverence.

"I want you," he said, out of breath.

"I know you do."

"Can I take your clothes off?"

"You can," she said after meeting his gaze.

His hands slid over the fabric of her nightgown before he sat up. He said nothing but took his time. One button, then another.

His fingers were light, almost devout, as if she were something he was shaping, something he didn't want to ruin. He chuckled, almost shyly, as he did so.

Something inside her resisted. She rolled over him, took control, and sat on top of his stomach.

Their eyes met for a second before she struck him hard across the cheek.

He flinched but still laughed a little.

"You don't need to be so careful." She said.

Then he took a firm grip around her waist and threw her around and tore her dress off like it was nothing.

He clenched her arms, letting his lips wander over her.
Tender kisses melted against her skin as he kept her hands in place, as if to ensure she remained there, that she experienced every single touch.

"Is this what you desire? I will not hurt you," he whispered in her ear.

She heard her breath grow heavy again and let instinct take over. Her legs locked around him. She saw how he struggled with himself, trying to hold back.

"I love you," he said and forced her to look at him.

She turned over to him once more in a struggle.

"If you don't stop treating me like I'm made of glass, I'm walking out that door." Her lips curved into a sly smile.

That ignited something in him.

In one swift motion, he turned them over again, pressing her down into the mattress, gripping her.

He teased her, gently biting her nipples while bracing her hands in place.

She writhed in a mix of agony and pleasure, but his gaze shifted-suddenly clouded, hungry, and raw.

He turned into something primal as he parted her legs with force.

The wooden bed began to creak.

First, the creak was light-then heavier and faster.

Their eyes locked. It was as if they were deep in each other's thoughts, knowing every little secret.

His hands traced every inch of her body, slow and deliberate. He was like a hungry wolf with his prey-desperate, aching for more with every touch.

She gasped, her chest rising in short, unsteady breaths-her body responding before she could think.

Their skin was slick against each other. The sweat dripped.

She dug her nails into his back, a tremor running through her. The pain was there, but it drowned in something else, something deeper.

Her hips sought his, her body demanding more, pleading without words.

He whispered her name, trembling, again and again. His warm breath brushed against her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

At last, they melted together-like sand, shaped by each other. He lay heavily over her for a moment before collapsing beside her.

She lay still, her breath faint, her gaze fixed somewhere between darkness and nothingness.

It was like releasing each concern and accepting him. All the longing she had tried to suppress had found its way out.

She remained motionless, breathing, her skin still warm from him. Her fingers traced the sheets, as if searching for something she had already lost.

Something within her seemed different-perhaps unbreakable, irreparable. Maybe it didn't matter at all.

As he drifted into sleep, she slipped out of bed, pulled her nightgown over her body, and turned toward the window. The light filtering through the shutters cast soft streaks across the floor.

And out there, in the deepest dark of night, she saw it.

The great, luminous moon, rising above the horizon.

It was a clear full moon tonight.

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