The Shieldmaiden's Oath

Published by: eXtasy Books

Author : Gabriella Bradley

ISBN :978-1-4874-4385-6

Page :249

Word Count :74750

Publication Date :2026-01-16

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats :

Category : , Fantasy Romance , Historical Romance

BrandsExtasy Books
Product Code: 978-1-4874-4385-6

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Stolen from her wedding. Claimed by a berserker. Bound by fate.

Ulrika, daughter of a Viking chief, is promised to a rival in a loveless alliance. But before vows can be spoken, Arne the Wolfborn strikes. Feared for his berserker rage, he carries her away, declaring her fated to be his shieldwife.

Furious and unbroken, Ulrika resists. But Arne is not the brute she imagined. Beneath the wolf lies a man tormented by the curse of his fury, and a heart that beats only for her. When war comes, Ulrika must decide to return to her family or fight at Arne’s side as lover, shieldmaiden, and bride of the Wolfborn.

Their passion could unite them—or shatter the north in blood.

Ulrika felt the weight of destiny pressing down upon her shoulders. The priest’s words washed over her like cold water, numbing rather than cleansing. Styrkar stood before her, his presence overwhelming. In his face, she read the future stretching before her. It would be a life of submission, of careful words and cautious steps, of watching for the moment his controlled façade would crack to reveal the violence beneath.

“The bride comes willingly,” the priest intoned, “bringing with her the strength of her father’s house, the wisdom of her mother’s line, the promise of children to continue both bloodlines.”

Willingly. The word landed like a slap. There was nothing willing in her presence here, nothing chosen about the chains being forged in the sacred fire. Yet what choice remained? What path could open before her now, with her father’s warriors at her back and Styrkar’s men closing the circle?

The priest extended his hands to take hers and Styrkar’s, preparing to bind them together with a cord of braided wool that would symbolize their union. Ulrika felt herself moving forward as if in a dream, her body responding to the ritual while her mind searched desperately for escape.

The sky darkened further, clouds gathering thick and ominous overhead. A bitter thought ran through her head. A fitting backdrop for the death of my freedom.

The priest’s hands were reaching for the ceremonial cord when the first rumble shook the ground. It wasn’t thunder from above, but from the earth itself, the pounding of hooves, many and fast, bearing down upon them from the north. Ulrika’s head snapped up, her warrior’s instincts cutting through the fog of resignation. The guests turned as one, confused murmurs rising as the rumble grew to a roar, and then they appeared…riders cresting the nearby hill, their forms dark against the leaden sky, cloaked in pelts that streamed behind them like gray smoke.

“Weapons!” someone shouted, and the cry echoed immediately by others as recognition dawned.

Wolf pelts.

Wolf riders.

The mark of only one warband in the northern lands.

“Arne.” The name rippled through the crowd, spoken in hushed tones tinged with fear. “The Wolfborn comes.”

Ulrika felt the blood rush to her head, her vision sharpening as battle-readiness surged through her body. The name was familiar from tales told around winter fires. Arne the Wolfborn, found as a child among wolves, leader of a berserker clan, and touched by the gods with rage that could turn the tide of any battle. Some said he could shift his skin like the wolves that raised him. Others claimed he merely fought with a wolf’s savagery. All agreed that to stand against him was to court death.

The riders descended upon the gathering like a storm breaking, their weapons glinting dully in the gray light. Their mounts, shaggy northern horses with wild eyes, foamed at the mouth from the hard ride, adding to their fearsome appearance. At their head rode a figure larger than the rest, his massive frame seeming too great a burden for even his sturdy horse to bear.

He drew closer, and Ulrika caught her first clear glimpse of Arne the Wolfborn. His face, half-hidden beneath a helm crowned with wolf fangs, was weathered and scarred, framed by wild dark hair streaked with premature gray. But it was his eyes that seized her attention. They were penetrating gray like the winter sea, flashing with an intensity that seemed to pierce through flesh to soul. He rode with a predator’s confidence, his movements fluid despite his size.

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The Shieldmaiden's Oath

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