Ragnar followed Mia into the dim kitchen, the faint scent of old herbs and woodsmoke clinging to the air.
Sunlight slanted through the single small window, catching dust motes that danced between them like unspoken words.
She turned, hips cocked against the rough wooden counter, arms folded loosely.
Her eyes—still carrying that raw edge from everything she'd lost—met his with something new. Open. Hungry, almost.
"Why not upstairs?" she asked, voice low, teasing at the edges.
"We could've taken our time in the bed."
Ragnar felt the shift in her like a current under his skin.
She wasn't hiding anymore. Not from him.
His mind flashed back to that blood-soaked night in the goblin village—the moment he'd stepped between her and the mob baying for Bruuk's widow, the traitor who'd sold them out to the orcs.
Bruuk had been an asshole, sure, but grief didn't care about fairness.
Without Ragnar's protection, without the chief dragging her here to the kobold lands, she'd have been torn apart by neighbors who'd lost sons and brothers to those same green-skinned blades.
He blinked the memory away.
'She trusts me now. Really trusts me. And damn if that doesn't make this feel... heavier.'
He shook his head, a small, crooked smile tugging his lips.
"Upstairs? In the bed? Too predictable. Too boring."
Mia's brow arched, playful but sharp.
"Boring?"
"I was thinking something with stakes."
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "A bet."
She tilted her head, eyes sparking with that competitive fire he was starting to crave.
"And what exactly do I get if I win?"
His mind raced.
What did she need? Safety she already had, but not the kind that felt permanent.
Not the kind that said she belonged.
He glanced around the cramped room—the chipped cooking pots, the sagging couch that had seen better decades.
Back in the goblin village she'd had coin, status, Bruuk's ill-gotten assets.
Here? Survival had stripped everything else away.
Alive mattered more than rich.
But alive and wanted... that was something else.
He met her gaze again.
"If you win, I take you officially. Into my harem."
"Chief's protection, the whole village knows you're mine—no one touches you, no one questions you."
"And an allowance. Enough to fix this place up. Make it yours again."
Mia's breath caught.
She stared at him, lips parting slightly, surprise flickering into something softer, warmer.
Then she smiled—slow, wicked.
"And if you win?"
Ragnar weighed her for a long heartbeat.
"You become my maid. Willingly."
"On your knees when I say, serving me however I want."
She didn't flinch.
Instead her smile deepened. "Bet's on."
"How do we settle it?" she asked, already stepping toward the shelves, fingers trailing over flour sacks.
"Simple."
He moved behind her, close enough that she could feel his heat.
"You bake me a mini cake. Twenty-five minutes. No more."
Mia exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh.
"Hard, but... doable. If I hurry."
"While I'm inside you," he finished, voice rough.
"Pounding you slow. Kissing your neck. Gentle. But steady."
Heat flooded her cheeks.
She glanced down at the unmistakable bulge pressing against her, then bit her lip.
'Gods, I want him. But this... this is different.'
'Naked apron, bent over the counter, him taking me while I try to mix batter? That's... married. Domestic. Intimate in a way that scares me more than the rough stuff.'
She swallowed.
"Can't we think of something else?"
"No."
He pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear. "I trust your hands. I trust you won't let a little distraction ruin it."
Mia hesitated only a second longer.
Then she nodded.
She stripped quickly, tying on the thin apron that barely covered her front.
Ragnar shed his trousers, hard and ready.
He lifted her hips, positioned her over the counter, and slid into her in one slow, deliberate thrust.
Mia gasped, fingers tightening on the wooden edge.
"That's... not fair," she breathed, even as her body arched back to meet him.
He chuckled against her neck, lips brushing skin.
"Life rarely is."
He moved gently—deep, rolling thrusts that rocked her forward with every stroke.
His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the apron.
He kissed the curve of her shoulder, then higher, teeth grazing her pulse.
Mia tried to focus.
She measured flour with shaking hands, sugar scattering across the board.
"You're... making this impossible," she moaned, voice cracking as he hit just the right spot.
"Keep going," he murmured, tongue tracing her earlobe.
"Show me how good you are."
She whimpered, hips pushing back despite herself.
The spoon clattered against the bowl.
Heat coiled low in her belly, tighter with every measured thrust, every soft kiss pressed to her nape.
Minutes blurred.
She managed to mix the batter—barely—spooning it into the small pan with trembling fingers.
The oven door creaked open.
She slid it in.
Twenty-four minutes.
The timer—some crude sand glass Ragnar had set—ran out.
Mia slumped forward, forehead against the cool wood, breath ragged.
"I... lost."
Ragnar eased out slowly, turning her in his arms.
He brushed damp hair from her face. "You're my maid now."
She looked up, eyes glassy but smiling.
"I know."
He patted her head gently, almost tender.
"But I'm not an asshole."
"You'll be my maid—and my woman."
"Allowance. Protection. Everything I promised if you'd won. You still get it."
Mia's face lit.
She launched herself at him, arms around his neck, kissing him hard.
He caught her, lifted her easily, and carried her the few steps to the couch.
They sank into it together, mouths hungry, hands roaming.
Then memory slammed into him.
"Shit," he muttered against her lips.
"Urgent matters. I forgot—council meeting. I have to go."
He pulled back, set her down gently, and bolted for the door, trousers half-laced.
Mia laughed breathlessly behind him.
"Don't be a stranger!"
Ragnar sprinted through the village paths, heart still pounding from more than just the run.
He reached his hut, chest heaving.
Aria stood in the doorway, arms crossed, finger tapping against her bicep.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and possessive, like he'd kept her waiting far too long.
She looked at him as though he already belonged to her.