Page 25 of Into the Isle

Her defensive posture relaxed, replaced by the same wonder in her eyes as when she’d been peacefully looking out at the misty sea.

“Fascinating,” she murmured.

As a smile grew on her lips, one grew on mine, too.

Chapter 8

Ravinica

FOR ALL THE KIND WORDS and pretty excuses Eirik made about allowing me on his ship—wanting me at the academy over Damon—it wasn’t my elder brother who had come to my aid.

It was this stranger, Arne Gornhodr. A cunning man, no doubt. I had been minding my own business, lost in the gentle rhythms of the waves lapping against the hull of the ship. A stranger berated me, trying to make a name for himself by picking on someone he thought was the weakest link on the boat.

I would have loved to skewer him with my spear, to give him a wake-up call.

Arne had prevented me from doing that. By drawing the attention away from me with a few well-placed barbs, then freezing that man’s feet to the damn floorboards, he stopped the bloodshed before it began.

Probably saved my spot at the academy, given all my hotheadedness and rebelliousness. That’s something I’ll need to work on at the academy, for sure.

Arne was right, though I didn’t want to admit it to his face. All my life, I had made enemies easily, while it had been harder to find friends. I was hesitant to trust. Arne had done something I couldn’t remember anyone ever doing: He came to my assistance out of a sense of justice. Arne saw someone on the verge of attacking me, and reacted. Not because or despite my bloodname, not because I was a woman, but because it was wrong.

No one had ever caped for me like that.

Then again, I couldn’t be sure of the man’s motives. Maybe I was mistaken, and he wasn’t altruistic at all. He had something of a mischievous bent to his demeanor.

The man was undeniably handsome, in a pretty way. I wasn’t used to men being pretty. Not in my village. Much different than the strapping, physically intimidating men I had grown up around. Men of Norse and Viking blood typically grew into large, meaty guys.

I didn’t hate it.

Arne had a sharp face of fine features. A dashing smile that held secrets. Sparkling blue eyes behind a mop of yellow hair that looked like a wheatfield blowing on a summer day. He wasn’t small or frail, yet his strength came from his words rather than his wiry build.

At first blush, the man was not imposing. Seeing him dance his fingers around in the air, quickly freeze a larger man in front of him, and talk to him about nonchalantly breaking his bones through his skin? This is a man I could come to appreciate.

As Arne went back to his rowing bench, I watched him. He had a sort of feminine sashay to the way he walked—a saunter that told me he was supremely confident, bordering on arrogant. Most men I’d known were arrogant, so that didn’t come as a surprise.

Biting my lower lip and tossing my pride aside, I approached him once he’d sat down and picked up his rowing oar. “I’m sorry if I was a bitch after you helped me,” I said.

He stared at the ground, grunting while his arms flexed and veins popped in his biceps as he began to row. “You weren’t a bitch, lass. You were on edge. For good reason.”

I was unable to take my eyes off the way his corded muscles flexed while he rowed. He was more fit than I’d originally given him credit for. “I don’t have any friends here, or at the academy.”

His sharp chin nudged toward the prow. “You have your brother.”

“Half-brother. He’s not the one who came to my aid. You are.”

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