Page 11 of Brutal Reign
“This is oddly specific, but do you know any museums that cover the Viking invasions of Anglo-Saxon England?”
She giggles. “Yeah, that is oddly specific, but I actually do know the answer to that question.” A smile lights up her face. There she is, the history major. “The British Museum has a killer collection, but if you want somewhere quieter, try the Museum of London Docklands. They’ve got a whole Viking exhibit running right now.” She tilts her head. “So, is this like an interest of yours, or what’s the deal?”
“Work, actually.” I rub the back of my neck, playing up the modest angle. “I write historical fiction. Viking sagas, that sort of thing.” I engineered this identity knowing it would appeal to her interests. Even had an author website made for me.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, cool. Any books I might have heard of?”
“Probably not. All my books are in Swedish, but I’m working on my first English-language novel. One of the reasons why I’m here in London, meeting with publishers.”
She rests her hands on the bar, leaning forward. “So, what’s the book you’re writing about?”
“ThinkGame of Thronesmeets tenth-century Viking explorers, but with more emotional trauma and people dying of exposure on frozen battlefields.”
She snorts. “That sounds thoroughly depressing.”
“I prefer ‘emotionally complex,’” I say, laying a hand over my heart in mock offense. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t read about political scheming, family betrayal, and morallyambiguous characters fighting for the fate of their clan? All while wearing fur loincloths.”
She narrows her eyes. “Vikings never wore loincloths.”
“Oh yeah? And how do you know?”
“Because I didn’t learn my history from TV shows. I actually paid attention in class.”
“Fair point.”
I study her face, drawn in by the spark in her eyes when she challenges me. But I also can’t help noticing the faint shadows beneath them from too many double shifts.
“I’m Lukas, by the way. Lukas Viklund,” I say, offering my hand across the bar.
She hesitates for a second, then takes it, her hand soft and warm. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lily.”
Before she can say more, a man materializes from behind her. He’s barrel-chested, thick-necked, with eyes like a pit bull. Darren. The owner of this dump. I recognize him from surveillance and the reports I pulled. He has two prior complaints of inappropriate behavior, one of them settled out of court. He’s got a temper and an ego. A dangerous combination.
She startles when his voice growls in her ear. “Did you forget you’re working, sweetheart?”
Her back goes rigid as she turns to face her boss. From the tight set of her shoulders, I can tell how much it costs her to deal with him.
“Your bartender was taking my order, which is her job, isn’t it?” My words come out between clenched teeth.
He shoots me a scowl, then lets his gaze rake over her in a slow, deliberate pass. He doesn’t like her giving another man attention. Assholes like that never do.
“It doesn’t take five minutes to take an order. And funny, you already have a drink.”
I’ve perfected the gentle Scandinavian writer persona, but right now, I don’t bother hiding who I really am. I give him a hard look, letting him see the predator beneath the surface, the man who isn’t going to let this go.
He’s either too stupid or too drunk on his own power to recognize the threat. Looks like I need to be a lot less subtle.
“My office. Now,” he hisses at Hope, then turns and stomps away.
Cheeks burning, she glances at me, her earlier warmth gone. “If you need another drink, Chloe can help you.”
She doesn’t wait for my reply before she turns and walks away.
Something dangerous rises in me as I watch that motherfucker strip the smile from her face and make her feel small.
Hope King may not be long for this world, but no one gets to talk to her like that and think there won’t be consequences.
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