i have a priestess at home

So I decided this was probably a good place to wrap this up. I'd love another one soon! :3

Nerian’s question did not, despite the simple surprise that it had came from her, come as entirely unexpected. He had heard it many times, from many different wolves — male and female alike. It was not something he ever had to explain at the Cove, because of course, his kinsmen understood and had similar thoughts of their own. “Yes, Priestess, sons. A man’s job is to have many sons,” He told her. He knew, despite his desire to have many sons as the Seer had prophesied, that it had been harder for him to bury his lifeless daughter’s body than it had been to bury the stiff bodies of his sons when Dagmar had miscarried them. He did not tell her that he had loved his daughter — more than his sons — and that it had enraged him as it broke his heart to bury her alongside her brothers whom had never gotten the chance to live. She was a woman and Ragnar assumed that would only make her feel sympathetic towards him and he did not want sympathy. He had buried it with them and sent the lingering traces of that painful and angry memory far away as a gift because he hadn’t loved Dagmar and could never love her.

Ragnar ignored her apology, and felt her body tense besides his before, strangely enough, it pressed tighter against his, until he could nearly memorize every womanly curve, the soft, pliant muscles beneath her coat. Her next words had the silver Viking silent as he listened, astounded by her bold words. Her …confession of what, her love for him? Was that what she was saying to him in too many words? Why? Seemed to float around his mind as he questioned, re-questioned and tried but failed to find a conclusion to Nerian’s confession — especially since he had just admitted to her that he had taken a wife and not only was he married, his wife was also pregnant. If Ragnar had known what Stockholm Syndrome was he might have pointed it out that she may have developed it.

The silver Viking drew in a deep breath, knowing that he could not just ignore it, and that if possible, he could not allow her to continue to feel love that would only remain unrequited by him. He felt something for her — affection certainly — but he had never viewed her as a potential wife because she had made it abundantly clear, over and over, that her husband would always be her God; and Ragnar did not want to compete with a deity he didn’t even believe in. “You will make a man a good wife, Nerian,” But I am not him, “but we both know I cannot compete with your God, Priestess. I have given Thistle my heart, just as you should give yours to someone who doesn’t mind sharing it.” He inhaled again, in time with hers, and let it out. “You are a good Christian.” With those words he twisted so he was facing her and kissed her brow, and put the distance in between them that he should have put much earlier. He had tried to make his words gentle, as gentle as the truth could ever be.

Ragnar could not have both women, Thistle had made that very clear upon accepting to be his mate and so he had been forced to choose. He did not want Nerian to entirely cut herself from his life, she was trusted, and a friend but he could never be to her what she wanted him to be. It was fate. "I will see you later, Priestess." With those words he departed.