Page 1 of Her Viking Lord
CHAPTER 1
Lorna
I honestly wanted to kill my husband. The fact that he was the prime minister of Jagland made the potential crime seem more serious, but I didn’t think I’d get any more prison time for killing Takken than I would for killing any other fucking asshole. Maybe less, with the right magistrates sitting on the bench.
The thought should have horrified me—Fru Norquist, the perfect political wife, contemplating murder—but instead I found myself mentally cataloging the opportunities. The state dinner next week, perhaps. A tragic choking incident. Or maybe something more poetic: a fall from our residence’s balcony, the modernist architect’s glass barriers he’d insisted on installing proving, alas, inadequate.
I smoothed my ash-blonde hair, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror as Takken’s voice drifted from his study. Another late-night call with his ‘advisors.’ The same advisors who’d been pushing him to sign away Jagland’s energy independence toforeign interests, no doubt. My fingers tightened on my clutch until my knuckles went white.
“Darling?” His voice cut through my violent fantasies. “Could you come here a moment?”
I straightened my spine—an automatic response drilled into me by years of public appearances—and walked to his study. He sat behind his pretentious glass desk, his gray eyes calculating as always. The carefully maintained blond of his hair caught the light from the desk lamp.
“We need to discuss the Synergy Group reception tomorrow,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “You’ll wear the blue Valentino. And for God’s sake, try to look interested whenMonsieurBrenteuil discusses the partnership opportunities.”
“Of course,” I replied, my voice perfectly measured, perfectly diplomatic. Inside, my anger stirred again. It felt somehow primal… ancient. As if what I had inside came from a different time, and I had chosen myself to be the protector of my country’s traditional, truly conservative values: the sea and the land, the whisper of wind through pine forests, the crash of waves against fjord walls. Something that predated his progressive buzzwords and foreign deals by centuries.
This nation, carved so recently from the no-longer-quite-so-frozen north where the Vikings had held sway, needed a better government than Takken Norquist, the man who had scarcely touched me since our wedding night two years ago, could provide. Short of throwing him off a high building, I had no idea how to make that happen, but I thought I probably had to try.
He set down his tablet and leaned back, that familiar smugness settling over his features. “The Synergy Group is prepared tooffer us very favorable terms. Twenty percent above market rate for our hydroelectric output, locked in for ten years.” His lips curved in what he probably thought was a conspiratorial smile. “Of course, the oversight committee will never see the full contract. The additional five percent will be directed to our Zurich account. Clean, simple, untraceable.”
I kept my expression neutral, though my stomach turned. After two years of marriage, I knew better than to protest his schemes. Any objection would be met with that cold stare, followed by a reminder of how easily accidents could happen to difficult wives. He’d never said it outright, but the implication hung between us like a blade.
“You understand the importance of this, don’t you?” He studied me with those calculating eyes. “Brenteuil needs to see a united front. A progressive couple ready to embrace the future.”
Progressive. The word tasted like ash. I thought of how differently he’d presented himself during our courtship—the passionate environmentalist, the defender of Nordic heritage. How skillfully he’d played that role until our honeymoon in the Seychelles, when the mask had finally slipped.
No… it hadn’t slipped. He’d simply taken it off. I could still remember the casual way he’d mentioned his ‘arrangements’ with Russian oligarchs while we’d sat on that pristine beach, his hand on my thigh, completely confident I’d be thrilled by the promise of wealth.
“I understand perfectly,” I said.
“Good.” He stood, adjusting his cufflinks. “I have a meeting tonight. Don’t wait up.”
A meeting. I knew exactly what kind of meeting required him to shower again and apply fresh cologne. TheMaison de Joie, most likely—a discreet establishment on Storgata where the wealthy could indulge their appetites without fear of scandal. At least his complete lack of sexual interest in me meant I was spared the indignity of performing for him personally.
The memory of our wedding night rose unbidden. How naive I’d been, expecting the passionate lover who’d courted me so ardently. Instead, I’d gotten five minutes of mechanical thrusting, his eyes vacant, his hands perfunctory. He’d finished with a grunt, rolled off me, and checked his phone for messages. The tender, attentive man who’d written me poetry had evaporated like morning mist, leaving only this cold, corrupt stranger who saw me as nothing more than a political prop.
“Lorna?” His voice sharpened. “You’re wool-gathering again.”
“Just thinking about tomorrow’s reception,” I lied smoothly.
“Well, focus on being charming. Brenteuil has particular tastes—he likes his women submissive but intelligent. Play the part.”
Submissive. If only he knew the rage that burned beneath my practiced smile. But I nodded, the perfect political wife, while imagining how his body would look crumpled on the marble floor of our foyer.
The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the modernist prime minister’s residence like a gunshot. I waited, counting to one hundred, listening for any sign he might return for something forgotten. When silence persisted, I moved.
My study—the one room Takken never entered, dismissing it as my ‘little hobby space’—waited at the end of the hall. Inside,behind a false panel I’d installed myself during one of his trips to Brussels, sat an ancient laptop I’d bought with cash from a pawn shop in the old quarter. The cybersecurity office tracked every device on our network, but this machine had never touched it. I connected through a neighbor’s unsecured Wi-Fi, then bounced the signal through three VPN layers.
My fingers trembled as I navigated to the forum I’d been lurking on for months. NordicTruth, they called themselves. Conspiracy theorists, mostly, but occasionally someone posted data that made my blood run cold. Energy consumption reports that didn’t match public records. Brownout patterns that coincided too perfectly with spikes in industrial usage across the border.
I created an account: TrueNorth1917. Generic enough. My heart hammered against my ribs as I typed:
Check correlation between Jagland power interruptions (Jul-Sep) and Kaliningrad industrial sector reports. Someone’s selling what isn’t theirs.
I hit post and immediately cleared the browser cache. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the laptop as I powered it down. What had I done? If Takken found out?—
My phone buzzed.
