Page 43 of The Viking in the Vault
I nod, already regretting letting that slip. “Apparently, yeah. It’s this whole thing in their culture—fenvarra. He thinks it’s fate or destiny or whatever.”
Marcy stares at me for a long moment before letting out a low whistle. “Wow. You don’t do anything halfway, do you, El?”
I groan, rubbing my face with my free hand. “It’s not like I planned this, Marcy. I just…I don’t know what to do. He’s from a completely different time and culture, and he barely speaks the same language as me. And now he’s stuck in quarantine, and I’m just sitting here because I don’t trust anyone else to look out for him.”
Marcy’s smile softens, the teasing glint in her eyes replaced by something gentler. “You care about him,” she says, nojudgment in her tone. “That’s not a bad thing, El. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like he cares about you, too.”
I shrug, though I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks again. “It’s…more than that for him. This fenvarra thing—it’s everything to him. He’s said he’ll protect me no matter what, and I think he really means it. But, Marce, it’s overwhelming. I’m not sure I’m ready for this kind of responsibility.”
She tilts her head, considering me carefully. “Do you feel the same way about him?”
I hesitate, the question hitting me harder than I expected. Do I? How do I even begin to untangle the mess of emotions Ragnar has stirred in me? The way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored in this strange new world. The way he held me last night, so steady and strong, like he was afraid to let go. The way his voice wraps around my name, low and reverent, like it’s something sacred.
The way he kissed me…
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe. Probably. He’s…different. In a good way. But it’s a lot.”
Marcy nods slowly, her expression thoughtful. “El, you’ve always had a tendency to overthink things. Maybe this is one of those times where you just…feel it out. Take it one step at a time.”
I sigh, leaning back against the chair and staring up at the ceiling. “Easier said than done.”
“Maybe,” she says with a small smile. “But you’re the smartest, most capable person I know. If anyone can figure this out, it’s you.”
I nod, a small but genuine smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks, Marce.”
“Anytime,” she says, her tone warm and reassuring. “And El…just be careful, okay? I know you’ve got a good head on yourshoulders, but this is big. Bigger than anything you’ve dealt with before.”
“I will,” I promise, though the weight of her words settles heavy in my chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Let me know if you hear anything about the house.”
“Will do,” she says, adjusting her son slightly as he stirs in his sleep. “Take care of yourself, El. And take care of your…Skoll warrior.”
I can’t help but laugh at the way she says it, though the sound is tinged with nerves. “I’ll try.”
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, tucking my communicator back into my bag. The lobby feels quieter now, the weight of my conversation with Marcy settling over me. But her words stay with me.
They give me the strength to stand and head down the hallway.
I know I shouldn’t. I know I should just go home, get some sleep, and come back tomorrow when everything’s calmed down. But my feet keep moving, carrying me toward Ragnar’s room like they have a mind of their own.
When I pass the guard and step inside, the sight of him nearly takes my breath away. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his massive frame tense and hunched over as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders. He’s wearing one of the shirts me and Ves bought for him, a pair of loose pants, no shoes. Fenrik is curled up on a mat nearby, free of his IV. Ragnar’s head snaps up when he hears me, and the relief that floods his expression makes my chest ache.
“Elena,” he says, my name rumbling out of him like a prayer. Before I can say anything, he’s on his feet, crossing the room in two long strides. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest, and I’m enveloped in his warmth, his strength, his scent.
I stiffen for half a second, startled by the intensity of his embrace–still unsure if I want anyone to know about our connection–but then I melt into him. My hands find their way to his back, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I let myself lean into him. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I’m here,” I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhales a shuddering breath, his arms tightening around me for a moment before he finally pulls back just enough to look at me. His silver-blue eyes search mine, and I can see the worry etched into his features, the questions he’s too afraid to ask.
Without thinking, I reach up and brush a strand of his dark hair away from his face. He didn’t have any time to braid it back again, and it’s down in glossy waves around his shoulders.
He’s so, so gorgeous.
Perfect.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re safe…my fenvarra.”
His breath catches at my words. I can feel it in the way his chest stills beneath my hands, in the way his fingers dig slightly into my back. His silver-blue eyes soften, their intensity shifting into something deeper, more vulnerable.
