Chapter 6: The Confession

Spring came slowly to Denmark, but it came.

The ice in the harbor began to break. The days grew longer. And in Sweyn’s chambers, something shifted like the changing season.

It started small—a hand lingering too long when passing documents. Eyes holding contact just a moment beyond necessary. The way her breath caught when he stood close behind her to read over her shoulder.

Saoirse told herself it meant nothing. That she was simply comfortable with him now, after five months of shared nights and patient courtship—because that’s what it had been, she realized. An impossibly slow courtship of a slave by the man who owned her.

But comfort didn’t explain the way her heart raced when he smiled at her. Or the disappointment she felt on the rare nights he was called away and she slept alone. Or the way she’d started noticing the strength in his hands, the line of his jaw, the way firelight played across his shoulders when he shed his tunic for bed.

One night in early April, after she’d finished translating a particularly tedious trade agreement, Sweyn stood and stretched, his back cracking audibly.

“I hate sitting so long,” he complained in Norse, rolling his shoulders.

Without thinking, Saoirse stood and moved behind him. “Let me.”

“Let you what?”

“Help.” She placed her small hands on his massive shoulders and pressed her thumbs into the tight muscles there.

Sweyn went very still. “Saoirse...”

“You’re tense. This will help.” She worked methodically, the way Sister Aoife had taught her years ago when the scribes complained of sore backs. Find the knots, apply pressure, release.

But this was different from helping elderly monks. This was Sweyn—his skin warm under her hands, his muscles dense and battle-hardened, his breath deepening as she worked.

“Where did you learn this?” he asked, his voice rough.

“The monastery. We helped the brothers who spent too long copying manuscripts.” She dug her thumb into a particularly stubborn knot and he groaned. “Better?”

“Yes.” The word came out strained. “Very better.”

She worked in silence for several minutes, feeling the tension slowly leave his shoulders. But her own tension was building—awareness of how close she stood, how intimate this was, how his skin felt under her palms.

When she finally stepped back, he turned to face her. His eyes were dark, intense.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

They stood there, too close, the air between them charged with something neither had acknowledged aloud.

Then Sweyn reached up and touched her face—not roughly, not demanding, just a gentle touch along her cheekbone. “You are beautiful. I have thought this since I first saw you. But now I also think you are dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yes. Because beautiful woman I can resist. But beautiful woman who is also clever, who make me laugh, who fit perfectly in my arms at night...” His thumb traced her lower lip. “That woman is dangerous to my heart.”