Page 54 of The Viking in the Vault
Ves doesn’t look entirely pleased about the situation, but they press on, arms crossed as they glance between me and Elena.
“They want you back at the Eiskammer,” they say. “Dr. Kallipso is hoping that Fenrik can help to help track the cryopod you emerged from originally. It could lead us to more…or at least help us understand how you ended up here in the first place.”
Elena straightens beside me, the flush on her cheeks fading as reality settles back in. “Right,” she says. “That makes sense.”
It does. But that doesn’t mean I like it.
I exhale slowly, the heat of our moment dissolving. The past looms like a shadow in the distance, waiting to be unearthed. It’s a reminder that I’m a man out of time—and that my crew might still be out there.
Elena glances up at me, her dark eyes searching. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—that whatever we find in the Eiskammer could change everything. That maybe there are answers waiting for us in the ice.
Or maybe she’s wondering if we’ll get another moment like this before duty calls us away again.
I brush my knuckles over hers, a silent reassurance.
“When does she want us back?” Elena says. “Tonight, or?—”
“No,” Ves says. “Tomorrow. Just wanted you both to know so you could get packed.”
I nod, only half-listening to the details Ves rattles off about departure times and coordinates. None of it matters—not right now.
Tomorrow, we leave for the Eiskammer.
Tomorrow, we go searching for answers, for the past, for whatever remains of my crew buried in the ice.
Tomorrow.
But tonight…
Tonight belongs to her.
The thought settles in me like a fire catching, slow and deep and impossible to extinguish. I don’t want to wait any longer. The moment she stepped into this room, looking at me like I was something worth returning to, I knew.
She is mine. And tonight, I will claim her.
21
ELENA
The streets of Snowveil are alive with light.
Glowing ice lanterns line the paths, their delicate, crystalline structures pulsing softly with bioluminescent energy. The warmth of the nearby shops and restaurants spills out into the streets, the scents of sizzling food mixing with the crisp bite of winter.
And none of it matters…because my brain is totally short-circuiting.
Because Ragnar is walking beside me—tall, broad, absolutely impossible to ignore—and every time I glance at him, I remember the way he looked at me earlier. The way his voice dropped to a low, deliberate murmur when he asked if he could touch me. The way his hands—his very nice hands—curled around my waist like he had every intention of getting me out of my coat, my sweater, my?—
Stop. Stop.
I shake myself and push the thoughts away. This is not the time to be having a full-on meltdown about my fated mate and whether or not I’d survive the logistics of sleeping with a four-thousand-year-old alien viking.
The streets are crowded with people bundled up against the cold, chattering excitedly as they move toward the city center. Snowveil is a melting pot, just like every other city on M’mir, so it’s not unusual to see a mix of different species, different cultural influences—but even here, Ragnar stands out.
People stare as we pass. Some whisper behind their hands. Some keep their distance, eyeing Fenrik, who pads along beside us with his massive wolfish frame and glowing eyes, his tail wagging happily as he takes in the festival. A few children dart closer, fascinated, and Fenrik immediately turns into a giant, fluffy menace, flopping onto the ground so they can crawl all over him.
I nudge Ragnar, who’s watching with mild confusion. “I thought he was a big scary skarnhound,” I say. “Not a babysitter.”
Ragnar frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “He is a warrior.”
