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There was a part of Ragnar that reveled in the lack of stress that came along with stepping down from Jarl, though he largely operated outside of his pack's own hierarchy, as he had warned Thistle he would. Ragnar Lodbrok would not show submission to the wolves he had once led, nor any of the new ones regardless if they were of a higher rank than himself. He took liberties as the once Jarl and the Patriarch of Stavanger Bay. He kept the borders free of those that would trespass and spent large quantities of time hunting by himself, keeping the caches well kept after. Though Thistle had stated to him, several times, that she had never wished to be a sole leader, that she'd never had the desire to lead in the first place it was fun watching his Queen wife adjust to her role with nothing short of grace and the fire and fury of a true Shield-maiden. Ragnar's pride in Thistle's accomplishments swelled within his chest, and he enjoyed watching her grow into the woman he had always known she was, even when he'd first met her, young and innocent as she'd been. Whether she saw it or not, since agreeing to be his wife she had changed. She'd taken to the Viking ways like a fish took to water, which was likely, largely at Ragnar's own influence.
Ragnar stirred from a half sleep, blinking his singular eye, before shutting it as he yawned and peeked it open slowly, squinting against the sunlight that filtered in through the den he shared with his Queen wife. He stretched as much as the enclosed space might allow him, black leathery nostrils flaring as the enticing scent that had roused him from his deep slumber slowly began to register in his awakening mind. He would have slept longer if not for the intoxicating scent that was suddenly flooding his senses until he could think of nothing else. It awoke a deep hunger within the scarred Northman, but not one that any food could sate.
The last time he'd been around a woman in heat it'd been Nerian and it had taken every ounce of self restraint he had not to take her, especially when she'd rubbed herself against him, mixing their scents until Ragnar had trouble telling where his ended and hers began. Somehow Ragnar had resisted; but this time...this time he did not have to deny himself anything. He left the den and loped after the trail, following it easily to her meadow, where she'd said was one of the places she would be secluding herself too during her heat cycle. This year it would be his seed that took, it would be his children that grew within her swelling womb no questions, and now that she had gone into it Ragnar had no intentions of leaving her, or letting anyone else near her, especially since Stavanger Bay was largely populated by males. If anyone other man dared to come near her, the exception being their son, of course, Ragnar would literally tear into them. He would attack them, members or not, without questions or any provocation beyond that. Thistle was his, the sweet perfume that was slowly beginning to drive him mad as his skin flushed with his desire for her, was for him only, and he did not intend to waver from that.