Page 138 of Into the Isle

He pulled out a wine bottle from his bag, and then two clay mugs in his other hand. “I came prepared,” he said, showing me the goods and swishing the bottle of red in his hands.

My lips parted. “Magnus Feldraug, you scoundrel, you!”

He chuckled. Cracked open the wine, poured our drinks, and handed me one. We toasted, bumping mugs.

“Skaal,” we both said in unison, and then drank.

It was shockingly romantic coming from such a man.

The wine was good, burning nicely down my throat like a velvet caress.

Magnus shoved his backpack off the chair and sat, facing me. I took one glance at the tables where our books rested unopened—he had gathered mine for me before I showed up, evidently.

I sat in the only other chair we had, across from him. We drank in silence. I couldn’t hide my smile when I looked up into his handsome face.

Magnus was gaunt, in a messy sort of way. His dark crimson hair was perpetually unkempt, kept long near his shoulders when it wasn’t in a bun. His eyes burned holes in me, and his features were sharp and dangerous.

“This is nice,” I said, apropos of nothing. I just needed something to say, to put a knife through the tension hovering between us.

He nodded, saying nothing.

Our eyes locked. I wanted a celebration for our victory, for sure, and so did he. I wanted a deeper celebration than this. I suspected he did too. We were dancing, both of us knowing it, neither of us making the requisite move to push the game forward.

“So . . .” I murmured, then sipped from my cup and glanced over the rim to the table of books again.

When my eyes moved back to Magnus, he was on his feet in a flurry. Moving toward me, making me inhale sharply with his determined stride.

The man grabbed my wrists, rolling his fingers around the small nub of bone. I suppressed a shiver of delight, a buzz of excitement rolling through me.

Magnus lifted me from the chair with my arms, so we were both standing. Close, again. I placed my mug of wine on the chair behind me.

Magnus was lean, taller than me by an inch or two. I didn’t have to crane my neck like I did with Grim. I also wasn’t looking level with him like I was with Arne.

His arms were corded with muscle, wiry. My hands freely roamed his forearms, tracing his scars and tattoos, as he held me close to him, nearly chest to chest. My yellow-gold eyes locked with his bright gray ones.

His lips were full, eminently kissable, and I found myself licking my lips just looking at them. “I want to learn how you got each and every one of those scars, Magnus,” I said in a low, throaty voice.

I hadn’t been aware my voice had become so lusty, it happened so fast. It was nearly guttural the way I spoke to him.

“And I want you, Ravinica.”

My breath hitched. His was a cool, rich voice that settled over me like a soft touch spiked with danger.

“I see the way you look at Grim, at Arne. I want that too. All for myself.”

I swallowed past a lump and brought myself closer to him. “Ah. A bit possessive, are we? You’ve had me all to yourself for weeks now.”

His face flickered with doubt, a grimace twisting his fine features. “I know. That’s my biggest regret—not capitalizing on the time we’ve had here.”

He let out a small groaning sound, inches from me. I could feel his hot breath on my face, getting shallower and shallower.

He leaned in to kiss me—

And I leaned in at the same time, but wrapped a hand gently around his neck, ghosting over his swirl of tattoos there, and whispered, “I’m not choosing between you and the others, Magnus. Old Way be damned. I’m doing things my own way here.”

I only had to be certain I was willing to give my heart to numerous men. And right now, I was.

Our lips were an inch apart. “You don’t have to choose, silvermoon. I already did for you.”

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