Page 52 of The Viking in the Vault
I reach for her, and she hesitantly puts her hand in mine.
“Anything,” I breathe. “Anything you say would be perfect.”
Her cheeks darken instantly, her fingers twitching against mine. She glances down at our joined hands, then back up at me, like she’s only just realizing what she’s done.
Then, in a small, breathless voice, she blurts out, “I—uh—nice hands.”
A beat of silence.
I blink.
She goes still, eyes widening in horror.
“Oh my God,” she groans, yanking her hand back and covering her face with both palms. “What—why did I say that? That’s not—ugh.”
Fenrik watches us, entirely transfixed, and just as confused as I am about why she’s reacting to her own comment this way. I tilt my head and look at my hands. I’d never noticed they were nice before, but the compliment makes me reconsider. “You think so?”
She makes a strangled sound, peeking at me between her fingers. “That’s not—I meant—oh, just kill me.”
I frown. Why would I kill her? That would be an absurd reaction to a compliment.
“Elena,” I say slowly, keeping my voice gentle. “I would never harm you.”
She groans even louder, dragging her hands down her face until they flop at her sides. “I know that! It’s just an expression!”
I tilt my head. “Then why would you say it?”
“Because—” She exhales sharply, closing her eyes for a long moment before opening them again. “Because I’m embarrassed, Ragnar.”
I blink. “About the truth?”
“What?”
“You said you like my hands.” I flex them again, turning them over, studying them in a way I never have before. Big. Calloused. Strong. Reliable. Nice, apparently. “I don’t see why that would embarrass you.”
Elena stares at me, her mouth opening and closing like she’s trying to find the words, but they’re getting stuck somewhere in that pretty head of hers.
“I—because—” She throws up her hands. “That’s not the point! It was just…just a stupid thing to say, okay?”
I frown. “I thought it was a very kind thing to say.”
She groans again, rubbing her temples. “You’re really not getting this, are you?”
I grin, delighted that I now understand enough of her language to tease her properly. “You think my hands are very nice, then?”
“Oh my God.”
She turns, as if she might physically flee the conversation, but I catch her wrist—not to keep her here, but because I want to touch her. Now that I can finally speak to her, I want her to know how much I mean every word.
“Elena. May I touch you?”
She blinks up at me, stunned. “You—you are touching me.”
“Yes,” I murmur, tightening my grip just slightly, enough for her to feel the warmth of my palm against her skin. “But I want to touch you more.”
Her breath catches. I see the moment she understands—not just my words, but my meaning.
The air between us shifts, turns thick and heavy.
