She wasn’t supposed to touch him. She wasn’t supposed to touch him for that had been his entire purpose him moving ahead of her, moving away from her and yet she had reached out to touch him anyway. Granted, she couldn’t have known he was trying to avoid any all versions of physical contact for reasons that were probably pretty open and logical to the both of them given they were both adults. Of course, she was a Priestess and had promised vows of celibacy — useless things he had once tried to tell her but now wished she would pay more attention too — and it was possible she didn’t know. He didn’t know what her Nuns had taught her and why, on all of Midgard would they have taught her anything relating to her heat cycle when she had no use for such a thing among her sisters? Yet Ragnar had felt the touch of her muzzle against his side as he passed her and felt it sear into him.
Somehow, by some small miracle, he had managed to keep going, hell bent on continuing on with marking the territory, trying to ignore the enticing scent that radiated off of every tendril of her fur, trying to ignore the heat and desire that flushed his body because he knew if he gave in he would hurt Thistle and he didn’t want to do that. Didn’t want to be the source of that to his wife. His wife that he loved. It was unfair. The polygamy relationship would have solved all of this, just saying, lol He couldn’t cheat on Thistle. He couldn’t die a slow, painful death knowing she had caused it because of his own stupidity in getting caught (literally) in the heat of the moment. Or worse yet, if she didn’t kill him, he did not want to watch her steal his children away from him and go elsewhere.
It was Nerian’s utterance, the plea for him to help her that made the Viking stop though his body was taunt, ready to shy away from her if she deigned to touch him again. His toes curled into the soft earth beneath his paws and he asked with a rapid breath,