Page 6 of Her Viking Lord
It wasn’t really a question. I was being dismissed like a child while the men discussed carving up my country’s resources. The familiar anger stirred, but beneath it, something else. Pay close attention, myHerrahad said.
“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I’d love to hear more about the proposal. After all, as you said, I understand the importance of progress.”
Takken’s jaw tightened. “This is rather technical?—”
“Nonsense,” Horakovsky interrupted, his scarred face splitting into what might have been a smile on someone else, but looked predatory on him. “A woman of Fru Norquist’s intelligence should certainly be included. Besides, we may benefit from a… feminine perspective.”
The way he said ‘feminine’ made my skin crawl, but I smiled as if I’d been complimented. “How thoughtful.”
We moved toward a side door that led to one of the building’s private conference rooms. As we walked, I caught a glimpse of Katya and Mila at their post by the terrace doors. They hadn’t moved a millimeter, standing like beautiful statues despite the crowd flowing around them. A waiter approached with a tray of champagne, and I watched Mila’s eyes track the movement before snapping back to their fixed point. She wanted it—I could see the thirst in the subtle shift of her throat—but she didn’t even consider reaching for a glass.
At the last moment, I saw Horakovsky glance over at them and raise his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Instantly they began to glide toward us. The ease of their master’s control of these gorgeous young women sent a shiver up my spine—one that I had absolutely no desire to interrogate.
The conference room featured much dark wood and leather, obviously designed to make billion-kroner deals feel intimate. Horakovsky settled into a chair that groaned under his bulk, while Takken took the seat across from him. I perched on a smaller chair to the side, the positioning making it clear I was meant to observe, not participate. My heart fluttered nervously as Katya and Mila also entered, then went to stand unobtrusively by the wall.
“The eastern routes are problematic,” Horakovsky began without preamble. “Too much local interference. But if we run the primary conduits through the Nordvik corridor…” He pulled out a tablet, swiping to reveal a map covered in red lines that carved through Jagland like surgical incisions.
I studied the map, my stomach sinking. The Nordvik corridor ran through three protected nature reserves and at least a dozen traditional fishing villages. The environmental impact would be catastrophic, but worse, it would give foreign entities direct access to infrastructure that controlled power to half our population.
“The locals will resist,” Takken said, though his tone suggested this was a minor inconvenience rather than a legitimate concern.
“Locals always resist,” Horakovsky replied with a dismissive wave. “That’s why we have… incentive programs.”
The door opened suddenly, and Brenteuil entered with two more men I didn’t recognize. One was thin and nervous-looking, constantly adjusting his glasses. The other had the dead eyes of a professional mercenary.
“Ah, excellent timing,” Horakovsky said. “Dmitri here handles the technical aspects. And Kristoff… well, Kristoff handles problems.”
Kristoff’s gaze swept the room, lingering on me in a way that made my skin prickle. I forced myself to remain still, to play the decorative wife, even as my mind raced. This wasn’t just about energy contracts. This was about something much darker.
Takken leaned back in his chair, that familiar smugness settling over his features. “I think the matter is in good hands,” he said, his tone suggesting the deal was already done. “You have my word that Jagland will honor whatever agreement we reach here.”
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, but his gray eyes remained calculating. “Tell me, Prime Minister, do you have enough loyalists in the Nordvik corridor’s police force? The locals can be… excitable when they feel their traditions are threatened.”
“With Kristoff’s assistance,” Takken replied smoothly, nodding toward the dead-eyed mercenary, “I’m confident the situation will remain under control. We’ve already identified the potential troublemakers.”
“Good to hear.” Horakovsky’s attention shifted as Kristoff moved from his position by the door. The mercenary crossed to where Katya and Mila stood, and without any preamble, his hand settled on Mila’s breast, squeezing roughly through the fabric of her dress.
“Please, no—” Mila started, her carefully maintained composure cracking.
“Girl.” Horakovsky’s voice cut through the room like a whip crack. “You are not permitted to talk back to my associates.”
Mila’s face went white, her mouth snapping shut. But I could see the trembling in her hands, the way her breath came in short, panicked bursts.
“Kristoff,” Horakovsky said conversationally, as if discussing the weather, “put her over the back of that chair. Pull her skirt up and take down her panties.”
My blood turned to ice. Surely this was some kind of sick joke. But Kristoff was already moving, grabbing Mila’s arm and bending her over the leather chair nearest to the wall. Her hands gripped the seat cushion as he flipped the skirt of her designer dress up over her back, revealing black lace panties that he yanked down to her knees with brutal efficiency.
“We’re leaving,” Takken said sharply, standing and grabbing my arm. For once, I was grateful for his intervention.
“On the contrary,” Horakovsky said, rising to his feet himself, his hand moving to his belt buckle. “You really should stay. It’s important that our partners understand exactly what kind of people they’re doing business with.”
The metal buckle clinked as he pulled the belt free from his loops. The leather was thick, expensive, the kind that would leave marks. My stomach churned as I watched him fold it in half, testing its weight with a casual swing through the air.
“This is unnecessary—” Takken started.
“Is it?” Horakovsky’s scarred face turned toward my husband. “You’re about to hand over control of your nation’s energy infrastructure. You should know who you’re dealing with. Men who maintain discipline. Men who ensure obedience.”
Horakovsky’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the room, each heavy tread making my heart pound harder. Kristoff had both of Mila’s wrists pinned against the small of her back with one massive hand while the other pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her bent at that humiliating angle. She struggled briefly, her body twisting against his grip.
