Page 12 of The Viking in the Vault
Her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across her face, but she does not move. I glance at Fenrik, who watches the exchange with a curious tilt of his head, and gesture for him to lie down. The skarnhound obeys, settling at her feet and letting out a soft huff of contentment.
I straighten, meeting her gaze once more. “I will not harm you,” I say firmly, hoping my tone conveys the truth of my words. “You are safe with me.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t strike me again, either. Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me, muttering something under her breath.
I smile faintly, my admiration for her growing with every passing moment.
She may not understand it yet, but she is mine. And I will protect her, no matter what.
I point at my chest, wanting her to understand. “Ragnar,” I tell her. Then I point at my skarnhound, whose tail thuds against the ice. “Fenrik.”
She looks between us, nodding–then she points at herself. “Elena,” she says.
Her name fills me with a strange sensation…the name of my fenvarra sending a thrill through every inch of me. I want to hold her to me and kiss her, but I know she is still too easily startled.
I will let her walk on her own now, to ensure she feels a sense of control.
But when she needs me again…I’ll be there to catch her.
7
ELENA
Idon’t trust him. Not yet.
But I don’t think he’s going to kill me either.
The Skoll—Ragnar, he told me—hasn’t made any hostile moves since he picked me up like a bag of flour and carried me out of the collapse. If anything, his behavior has been more… perplexing. He keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of miracle, his blue eyes softening whenever I meet his gaze. He even smiles occasionally, though it’s faint and a little uncertain, as if he’s trying to reassure me. Or charm me.
It’s not working.
Mostly.
The skarnhound, Fenrik, is another story entirely. He’s been glued to my side ever since I stopped screaming, sniffing at my boots and wagging his absurdly massive tail whenever I glance at him. For a creature that could probably swallow my head whole, he’s alarmingly friendly. I’ve caught myself reaching out to pet him more than once, but each time I stop short, reminding myself that I’m still trapped in an alien archive with two beings I don’t fully understand.
And the Skoll? He’s just as much of a puzzle as his oversized dog.
Ragnar walks ahead of me now, scanning the collapsed passage for a way forward. His broad shoulders nearly brush the icy walls, and his antlers catch the dim light filtering through the cracks above, casting faint shadows that make him seem even larger. He moves with a confidence that’s unnerving, like he’s completely at home in this chaotic, frozen environment. Every now and then, he glances back at me, his expression unreadable.
I shiver, pulling my coat tighter around myself. The cold down here is worse than ever, biting through my layers and numbing my fingers. My breath fogs in front of me, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. Somehow, Ragnar doesn’t seem cold at all, glimmering like a golden god.
And he notices I’m cold. Because of course he does.
He pauses mid-step, brow furrowed as he turns to face me. His gaze flickers over me, and then he reaches up to unclasp his fur-lined cloak. The movement is slow, as if he’s trying not to startle me. He holds it out, his expression calm but expectant, and murmurs something in his strange language.
Fuck…he’s completely bare-chested beneath it, and he must be freezing.
Not that I really notice that when I’m seeing an eight-pack for the first time.
He holds the cloak out to me again, shaking it slightly as if to say, Take it.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though the shivering probably undercuts my argument. “I don’t need?—”
He steps closer, draping the cloak over my shoulders before I can protest further. The weight of it settles around me, heavy and warm, and I freeze. It’s not just warm—it’s blisteringly warm, as if it’s been absorbing his body heat for hours. My fingers clutch the edges instinctively, and I can’t help but notice the scent clinging to the fabric: earthy and primal, spicy like cinnamon and cloves. I vaguely remember Ves telling me thatthe Skoll run hot, that they’re pretty much immune to the elements.
Okay…so maybe I need the cloak more than he does.
I pull the cloak tighter, the warmth seeping into my frozen limbs, and glance up at Ragnar. He’s watching me closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as I adjust the fabric around my shoulders. There’s something intense about the way he looks at me, like he’s cataloging every tiny movement I make.
