Despite their roaring, chest-pounding, overprotective objections, I return to work.

Stepping into the trauma unit in my scrubs feels like emerging from a long, dark tunnel into the blinding light.

The familiar sterile scent of the hospital, the beeping monitors, the hushed conversations of doctors and nurses, all greet me like old friends.

I’ve missed this. The routine, the purpose, the distraction.

The hospital staff welcomes me back warmly, even those I don’t know outside the ER. But there’s an undercurrent of curiosity and pity in their eyes. Everyone knows about my situation.

My captivity was all over the news. And the stalker…well, small towns like Sitka don’t keep secrets.

Doesn’t help that I have security stationed at every entry point and following me everywhere.

Now that we know the stalker dismembers people who touch me, I’m not the only one with personal guards. Leo, Kody, and Monty don’t leave the house without their own armed shadows. Additionally, we all have GPS tracking on our phones and can monitor one another’s whereabouts at all times.

Whispers and sympathetic gazes follow me through the hospital. I ignore it and focus on my tasks, relishing the sense of normalcy.

But normalcy is a fragile thing.

An hour into my shift, I’m standing at the nurses’ station, updating patient records with my back to the door, when a gasp sounds beside me.

“Holy Thor.” Nurse Letty claps a hand to her chest. “Did anyone else just lose their breath?”

I freeze.

Oh, no.

“I’ve died and gone to Valhalla,” another nurse says. “I didn’t know they made men like that anymore.”

No, no, no.

I spin and come face to face with glowing, savage, mismatched eyes.

“What are you doing here?” I glance down the hall.

Every woman in the vicinity stares in our direction.

At him.

If they didn’t have a Viking kink, they have one now. He’s going to cause a damn riot.

Leonid Strakh stands under the fluorescent lights looking for all the world like Ragnar Lothbrok has arrived to conquer Britain.

If Britain was me.

Small, tight braids run from his temples, down behind his ears, and twist into a knot on the back of his head, leaving the rest of his hair tangled around his corded neck. Add the sculpted features, chiseled jawline, and leonine scowl, and the man epitomizes Viking savagery and warrior ethos.

When he notices all the female onlookers, he curls his lip like a carnivore, sending them stumbling back and gasping.

Some of them giggle.

I can’t feel my legs.

A white T-shirt molds to his muscled frame. Those low-waisted jeans should be illegal on his powerful physique. But it’s his eyes that strike terror in the trauma unit. One molten gold, the other icy blue, they burn and freeze simultaneously, exuding a dangerous aura that buzzes the air.

The women in the corridor can’t help but stare. And swoon. If a heart monitor sounded right now, no one would respond. Even the men have fallen under his trance.

“Leo.” Forcing a smile, I stride toward him, grab his wrist, and drag him around the corner. “You can’t be here.”