When Birgit returned with some, Aidan dismissed her so absently that the worst of Regin’s pique was soothed.

The rich scent of game stew called to her hunger, and she eagerly dug in. The meat melted in her mouth. Gods, mortals did know how to cook.

“Tell me of your home,” he said, breaking a piece of flatbread for her trencher.

“’Tis a beautiful land of mists,” she said around bites. “Slow and peaceful.” Usually. Unless Loki descended upon them, or someone released Fenris, the giant wolf.

“What was your life like?”

Regin swallowed a mouthful of bread. “You truly wish me to … talk?” Most of the time, her sisters bade her be quiet, serious.

“I am curious about you.”

She shrugged, deciding that she might as well enjoy this short time with this stubborn, immovable warlord—because unless he could be made to change his mind, she planned to slip away in the night and continue her search.

At least now she’d have food in her belly and likely a stolen horse.

So she regaled him with stories of Valhalla and the silliness of the demigods. He laughed at all of the tales, seeming genuinely amused.

At one point, his expression seemed even … proud, earning another frown from her. “You do not mind my humor?”

“Not at all. I’ve not laughed like this …” His brows drew together. “I think I’ve never laughed like this.”

“Usually I exasperate people. And I jest at inappropriate times. Such as during executions. Freya says ’tis my gift and my bane to frustrate others.”

“I like your manner, Reginleit. Life is long without humor.”

She felt like preening in the face of this steely-eyed warrior’s praise—until he added, “We will suit well, brightling.”

She sighed. “Still you believe we will be together.” Though she sensed that Aidan was an honorable male, he was misled in this. Wóden would never allow Regin to wed a mortal berserker.