Chapter 6: Bloodline Reckoning
The river’s cold bit through Kenji’s jeans, a familiar ache that tasted of hope. “Please,” he whispered to the churning black water, his red eyes scanning the dark. “Take me back.” The hand landed on his shoulder, firm and sudden. He spun, his heart a wild bird in his throat, and saw Ragnar’s face—the same stern brow, the same thick beard. But the eyes were wrong: pale blue and amused, not dark and knowing, and they were framed by a designer leather jacket, not salt-stained wool.
“Whoa, easy there,” the man said, his voice similar in timber but lighter, laced with a modern, ironic smirk. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The illusion shattered completely. This was a stranger, holding a smartphone, its screen glowing in the damp air. The disconnect was a physical blow. Kenji’s knees buckled, a sob wrenching free from his chest, and he collapsed forward against the man’s chest. For a second, the arms that caught him felt like a refuge. Then they tightened, the grip shifting from support to possession, hands splaying against Kenji’s back with an assessing pressure.
The man chuckled, the sound vibrating through Kenji. “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, but his tone was curious, detached. He pulled back just enough to look at Kenji’s face, his gaze snagging on the unnatural red eyes. “No way. Contacts?” Kenji tried to push away, but the hold tightened. “My name’s Leif,” the man said, his smirk returning. “And you are a fascinating mystery.” He didn’t let go. His thumbs brushed the sensitive dip of Kenji’s spine, a gesture that was all wrong, a predatory mimicry of comfort. “You’re shaking. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” It wasn’t an offer.
It wasn’t an offer. Kenji shoved against the leather jacket with a strength born of raw, unraveling panic. “Get off!” he snarled, stumbling back into the shallow, biting current. Leif held up his hands, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips, a grotesque parody of Ragnar’s stoic face. “Easy, man. I’m just trying to help.”
“You look like him,” Kenji spat, the words trembling out of him. “You might be some…distant copy. But you’re not him.” He took another step back, the water sucking at his calves. Leif’s amused expression finally faltered, replaced by confusion. “Not who? What are you talking about?”
“Ragnar,” Kenji said, the name a sacred invocation on this polluted shore. He looked past Leif, past the trees, towards the river’s violent heart. “And I would rather die in that water trying to get back to him than spend another second here with you.” He saw Leif’s eyes widen, the man starting to say, “Wait, don’t—”. Kenji didn’t wait. He turned and plunged into the deeper, hungry current.
The cold was a total, silencing embrace. He didn’t fight it. He let the black water consume him, pulling him under, his lungs burning with the need he had just professed. He saw Ragnar’s hand reaching for him across the storm-lashed deck, the final image before the dark. His vision spotted, his body screaming for air.
He broke the surface with a ragged, desperate gasp, choking on water. But it was saltwater. The river’s chill was gone, replaced by the icy, rolling swell of the open sea. And the arms locked around his chest, hauling him back against a solid, familiar form, were not Leif’s.
They were massive, banded with muscle, and they held him with a ferocious, trembling certainty. Kenji craned his head, water streaming from his face, and saw the thick beard, the stern profile etched against a storm-gray sky. Ragnar. His Ragnar. The warrior’s eyes met his, dark and blazing with a terror that mirrored Kenji’s own. He had jumped in after him.
Ropes smacked the water beside them, thrown by desperate hands. "Grab on!" Bjorn bellowed from the rail, his voice raw. They were hauled upward, a tangle of soaked limbs and shuddering breath, the ship’s side scraping against them as strong hands dragged them over the gunwale and onto the solid, heaving deck.
Bjorn barked orders for dry furs and hot water, his eyes narrowed at Kenji as if he were a riddle that nearly drowned. Ragnar never loosened his grip, standing with Kenji held against him, water pooling at their feet. He shouldered past the crew, a low growl in his throat keeping questions at bay, and carried Kenji straight to the small, private space beneath the forecastle he claimed as his own.
A large tin tub, a luxury aboard ship, already steamed in the center of the room. Ragnar set Kenji down on a stool and began peeling the freezing, salt-crusted clothes from his body with clinical efficiency, then his own. The silent warrior guided him into the hot water, then climbed in behind, pulling Kenji back against his chest with a sigh that shuddered through both of them.
For long minutes, there was only the slosh of water and the crackle of the nearby brazier. Kenji reached for the soap and a rough cloth. He began washing Ragnar’s chest, his fingers moving over the familiar landscape of scar and muscle, tracing the knot of tissue from the spear wound that stole his voice, the fresher, pink line from their blood oath.
His touch was methodical, careful. He focused on the task, on the feel of warm skin and coarse hair under his palms, on the steady beat of the heart beneath them. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, trying to anchor himself in this reality, to crush the memory of the sterile hospital room and the stranger with Ragnar’s face.
A hot tear escaped, tracking silently through the grime on his cheek. Ragnar’s hand came up, his thumb catching the moisture before it could fall into the water. He turned Kenji’s face gently toward him, his dark eyes asking the unbearable question. Kenji just shook his head, his composure cracking, and leaned his forehead against Ragnar’s shoulder.
The warm water held them, but the chill was inside him now. “I went back,” Kenji whispered into the damp skin of Ragnar’s shoulder, his voice raw. “The river… it sent me back to my old world, to concrete and noise and a bed that felt like a coffin.” Ragnar’s arms tightened around him, a silent command to continue. “I saw a man who wore your face, but it was a cheap copy,” Kenji said, the memory of Leif’s smirk twisting his gut. “And I knew I would do anything, anything at all, to get back here.” He lifted his head, his red eyes meeting Ragnar’s dark, unwavering gaze. “I don’t care about showers or smartphones or safety. I want to stay here. With you. In this hard, brutal, real world where you exist.”
He finally let the whole truth spill, the words a quiet torrent. “You’re not a ghost in my head, Ragnar. You’re my anchor. Please. Let me stay.”
Ragnar’s hand came up, calloused fingers cradling Kenji’s jaw. His thumb stroked the line of his cheekbone, wiping away salt and tears alike. There were no words, only the shuddering breath Ragnar drew in before he closed the distance. His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, passionate and deep, a searing brand of possession that poured every ounce of his furious fear and longing into Kenji’s mouth.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against Kenji’s, his dark eyes were fierce. He touched his own chest, then Kenji’s, over their shared scar. Then he took Kenji’s hand, pressing it flat over his own pounding heart. He shook his head slowly, a negation of the old claim. He pointed decisively at Kenji, then made the sign for heart again. Finally, he brought his clasped hands to his own chest in a gesture ancient and unmistakable.
Not just his heart. His wife.
The declaration hung in the steamy air, more binding than any oath. Kenji’s breath hitched. He leaned in, and their second kiss was different. It was precious, intimate, a slow melding of breath and promise that held the taste of forever. They stayed like that until the water began to cool around them. Then, wordlessly, Ragnar stood, water sluicing from his powerful frame, and lifted Kenji from the tub.
He carried Kenji to the layered furs in the corner, their bodies still gleaming and dripping. Ragnar laid him down with a reverence usually reserved for sacred things, his hands framing Kenji’s face. “You’re real,” Kenji breathed, tracing the scar on Ragnar’s shoulder, needing the proof under his fingertips.
Ragnar answered by lowering his mouth to Kenji’s, a kiss that was slow and deep, all silent promises and shuddering breaths. He moved down Kenji’s body, his beard trailing a path of fire over his throat and chest. “Ragnar,” Kenji sighed, arching into the contact, his fingers tangling in the warrior’s wet hair.
His mouth closed over Kenji’s nipple, teasing it to a taut peak before moving lower, exploring the sensitive skin of his stomach. Kenji moaned his name again, a broken sound that seemed to drive Ragnar onward. He nuzzled the thatch of dark hair, then took Kenji fully into his mouth, his tongue working a rhythm that made Kenji’s hips buck off the furs.
“Oh god, yes,” Kenji gasped, the sensations overwhelming, a raw and beautiful antidote to the sterile memories of his other life. Ragnar tasted him with a desperate hunger, as if trying to consume his very essence, to brand himself on Kenji’s skin from the inside out. Then, with a gentle pressure, he turned Kenji onto his stomach.
He spread him open, his thumbs gentle on the soft flesh, and his tongue found the tight furl of muscle there. Kenji cried out, burying his face in the furs, the intimacy so profound it blurred into worship. Ragnar feasted on him with a devoted patience, softening and preparing him with a focus that left Kenji trembling and pliant.
“Please,” Kenji whispered, pushing back against that mouth, needing more. Ragnar understood. He rose over him, his body covering Kenji’s completely, one hand splayed possessively over his stomach. He aligned himself and pressed forward, filling him in one smooth, deep stroke that stole the air from Kenji’s lungs.
They moved together, a slow, grinding rhythm that was less about taking and more about merging. “Mine,” Ragnar’s broken voice rasped against Kenji’s ear, the single word a seismic event. “Yes, yours, always,” Kenji sobbed, the words unlocking a frenzy in Ragnar, his thrusts becoming deeper, more urgent.
He wanted to breed him, to claim him so thoroughly that no river, no world, could ever tear him away again. His release was a deep, shuddering groan, his body locked around Kenji’s as he spent himself inside him. Kenji followed, untouched, his own climax ripped from him by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it.
After, Ragnar kept them joined, his weight a delicious anchor, his lips pressed to the scar on Kenji’s nape.