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Everything spun, and he was somewhere close, and dark that smelled of sweat; he was sweating, too hot in his skin, droplets pearling down his back. A warm body beneath him; his hand gripping the back of a neck, fisting golden hair. A whine, his own fangs pricking his lip. Yes, alpha. Please.

It spun again, and he was kissing the back of a delicate neck while she kissed someone else, and it was all three of them together, and there was a gleam of firelight on a silver collar, and it was – it was–

Leif felt a shove against his shoulders, his chest, even the top of his head. He returned to himself with a gasp. He was gripping the edge of the table so hard his nails had turned to claws and were splintering the wood. His hair had slid forward over his shoulder, the end of one braid dangerously close to the surface of the liquid in the bowl.

He wanted to throw up.

He wanted to get as far away from that stuff as possible.

He took two staggering, unsteady steps back, reached to swipe the sweat off his forehead, and glanced up at Ragnar.

He’d never seen his cousin look the way he did now: as if he’d seen a ghost. A whole pack of ghosts. Pale, wild-eyed – horrified. His chest heaved, and his arms shone with sweat, and Leif didn’t have to ask if they’d both seen the same thing down in that black poison. The moment their gazes locked, he knew. In the split second before they both glanced away from each other and schooled their features, Ragnar’s eyes glittered with knowledge. A knowledge that frightened them both, Leif knew.

He turned around and faced the wall of the tent; it felt like days, weeks, months had passed since he’d last looked at the canvas of it. Was it still daylight? A glance toward the tent flap proved it was, that the position of the sun hadn’t changed. But he was dizzy with the sense of the passage of time. He heard Ragnar breathing roughly behind him, same as his own ragged, hitching pants.

They didn’t speak. Long moments passed, and, eventually, Leif’s pulse slowed, his head stopped spinning, and the sweat began to dry, leaving him chilled beneath his clothes.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Was it like that for you last time?”

“Worse.” Ragnar’s laugh was a raw scrape. “I’ll take fucking over enemy palaces any day.”

Leif failed to suppress a shudder. “That wasn’t – we have no idea what that was.” But he’d known, in those visions, that there was quite a lot of fucking going on: a tumble of countless images, layered and overlapping. He was still a little riled up about it, if he was honest. “That could have been nothing but lies, same as what you saw before. Hallucinations.”

“Heh.” Soft footfalls moved across the carpet, and Leif wanted to run like a coward. He wouldn’t; he was the alpha, he was in control here, and there was no evidence whatsoever that what they’d just seen was any sort of prophecy or glimpse into the future. “Gods,” Ragnar said, as he moved closer, “if I’d known all it would take to knock you off your feet was the threat of a little romance, I’d have kissed you years ago.”

Leif reacted. Violently.

He spun, fist already cocked back and ready to fly.

Ragnar dodged away, light on his feet – light like a wolf, cowering like a wolf about to be struck by his superior, head ducking and shoulders jacking up around his ears.

Leif froze, fist suspended in midair. His breathing had picked up again, a rough sawing through an open mouth.

Ragnar hid his face, hair shivering where it lay on his chest, and arms.

Slowly, Leif straightened, and let his hands fall to his sides, though he couldn’t prevent them balling into fists. “You will never,” he growled through clenched teeth, “say anything like that to me again.”

He didn’t wait for a response; turned and strode from the tent, leaving Ragnar to follow. All of his own shaking occurred on the inside.