Page 61 of The Viking in the Vault
He frowns but does as I say, stirring in slow, deliberate circles. His movements are measured, focused, like he’s taking this task just as seriously as any battle. The contrast is almost too much. A towering, ancient warlord, tending to a pot of milk like it’s a sacred duty.
“You’re a natural,” I tease, hoping to diffuse some of the tension still thrumming between us.
Ragnar glances at me, unimpressed. “It is stirring.”
“Well, yeah, but—” I shake my head, grabbing the cocoa tin. “Nevermind. Here, add this.”
I measure out a scoop of cocoa powder, then a little chili powder, dropping them into the pot. Ragnar watches, then takes the tin from my hands and adds another scoop.
I blink at him. “A little bold, don’t you think?”
He stirs again, the dark powder swirling into the milk. “You said this is a comfort,” he says. “Then it should be good. You need to enjoy it.”
I press my lips together, trying not to react to that—to the way he’s paying attention, the way he’s trying to care for me in the only way I’ve let him. I clear my throat. “Okay. Fair point.”
We stand side by side, watching the cocoa come together, the scent of warm chocolate filling the air. Fenrik lets out a contented huff from where he’s sprawled near the fire.
“So,” I say. “I know you liked the hot cocoa, but you’d never had it before the other day, huh?”
He nods. “My people like to imbibe, but I’ve never experienced such sweetness.”
“Huh,” I say. “What do Skoll drink for comfort?”
Ragnar keeps stirrin. “Warm mead. Spiced tea.”
I grin. “That sounds nice.”
He nods. “It is.”
I hesitate, then take a breath. “And, uh…what about after a battle?”
He gives me a sharp, curious look. “What do you mean?”
I shrug, trying not to feel too exposed by my own question. “Like…do you drink? Celebrate? I mean, if it were me, I’d probably want to unwind. Do something to, I don’t know…release all that tension.”
His stirring slows. The milk is beginning to simmer, so he turns off the stove like he’s been using modern appliances his whole life.
“Elena,” he rumbles. “Are you asking how I take pleasure after battle?”
I choke. “No! I mean—maybe? Not like that! Just?—”
I clap my hands over my face. I really need to shut up.
Ragnar lets out a low, knowing chuckle. I peek between my fingers, only to find him watching me with something wicked in his expression.
“You wish to know how I take my pleasure?” he asks again, voice like molten sin.
I flail. “No, I—this was about cocoa!”
He steps closer. Not touching, but close.
“There are many ways I have taken my pleasure, fenvarra,” he continues, unbothered by my suffering. “Some, you may enjoy. Some, you may not be ready for.”
My entire soul short-circuits.
I need to change the subject before I spontaneously combust. Right now.
I turn around to grab mugs and I thrust one into his hand. “For your cocoa,” I blurt out.
