At the Viking King's Mercy

Ragnar Thornegrim takes what he wants. When his longships burn Astrid's village to ash, he expects fear, not a curvy healer standing between him and the helpless, eyes blazing. "You will not touch them," she says.
He should kill her. Instead, he claims her. "This is the price for peace. I'll take your daughter as my wife."
Astrid is dragged from her home and locked in a warlord's stronghold, not as a guest-"You are mine," he tells her-but as a spoil. She resists, furious and afraid, but Ragnar watches her. Follows her. Waits.
When a storm steals the fire from her room, he tears the door from its hinges and climbs into her bed. "You're like ice," he murmurs, pulling her body against his. "Let me warm all of you."
She should push him away. Instead, her mouth finds his. Her thighs open. And when he moves inside her, hard and slow, she whispers his name again and again.
"Don't stop," she gasps.
"I've got you," he growls.