Page 56 of The Viking in the Vault
Rishik narrows his eyes like he isn’t sure if Ragnar is joking. “You…eat with it?”
Ragnar tilts his head, still skeptical. “It seems like it could be a weapon.”
Ves claps him on the back, nearly sending him face-first into the hotpot. “Everything’s a weapon if you try hard enough. Now eat.”
Still frowning, Ragnar awkwardly reaches into the broth, attempting to grab a piece of meat. He clamps down too hard with the claw, and the slippery piece of food rockets across the table, smacking Cosmia’s arm.
She stares at it, then looks up at him.
Ragnar, dead serious, grumbles, “This is an unworthy tool.”
Laughter ripples around the table, and just like that, the awkwardness melts away, replaced by the easy rhythm of shared food and conversation. Cosmia takes it upon herself to interrogate Ragnar, firing off question after question about his past, his people, his time in cryo. Rishik listens with quiet,calculating interest, his scaled fingers tapping against the rim of his cup like he’s mentally cataloging Ragnar’s every word. Ves, predictably, spends most of the meal watching me, clearly entertained by the way I keep shifting in my seat, trying very hard to focus on anything but the man sitting beside me.
And it is very, very difficult.
Because Ragnar is not subtle.
Not in the way he keeps glancing over at me like the hotpot isn’t the thing he really wants to be eating, or the way his free hand rests on my thigh between feeding little morsels of food to Fenrik. I try to think about anything but Ragnar’s presence, his heat, the things he said before Ves interrupted us…and I end up thinking about how cute Fenrik was with those kids.
Then, completely unprompted, I have The Thought.
A stupid, unbidden, completely intrusive thought.
What would our kids look like? Would they play with Fenrik like that?
I freeze mid-bite. My brain short-circuits.
Nope. Nope nope nope.
That was not a thought I meant to have. That was not a thought I should be having. That was a rogue, reckless, completely unprompted train of thought that needs to be immediately purged from my system before I self-destruct in real time.
But it’s too late—because now I’m thinking about it. About them, hypothetical little Skoll children with messy dark curls and tiny antlers, running around with Fenrik, laughing, tackling each other in the snow.
“So,” Cosmia says, directing her attention at me when there’s a break in the interrogation of Ragnar. “I guess…pardon me if it’s rude, but are you two like…dating now?”
Ragnar lifts his chin like the question is offensive. “Elena is my fenvarra,” he proclaims. “My fated mate.”
I choke on my drink.
Cosmia’s eyes go wide. Ves’s grin is pure evil.
“Oh,” Cosmia says, her tone full of delighted intrigue. “Well, that’s a little more serious than dating.”
I cough, trying desperately to recover, but Ragnar—of course—doubles down.
“She is mine,” he continues, unbothered, absolute. “We are bonded by the will of Yrsa herself.”
God help me.
Rishik tilts his head, watching me wheeze into my sleeve. “And you’re…okay with that?”
“I—” I still haven’t fully processed what’s happening, and I hate that my stupid, traitorous brain immediately whispers, Yes, you are absolutely okay with it.
“Ragnar,” I say, trying for calm, measured, rational, even as my pulse pounds in my throat. “Maybe we should…explain things a little more?”
He frowns, looking at me like I’ve just suggested he denounce the gods. “Explain?”
Ves raises their eyebrows as they sip their drink. “Yeah, Ragnar. What does that mean, exactly?”
