Page 10 of Her Viking Lord
He lifted one of the tiles, and I gasped. The symbol carved into it seemed to pulse with light—not magical light, I told myself firmly, but something my brain was interpreting as light because of whatever technology was in this collar.
“Your husband is selling Jagland to the highest bidder,” Aksel said, his voice taking on a harder edge. “The Synergy Group, the Russians, anyone who will line his pockets. He doesn’t understand what he’s destroying—the ancient contract between the land and its people.”
“I know,” I whispered, my voice rough. “I’ve been trying to find evidence, to stop him somehow?—”
“Evidence?” Aksel’s laugh was sharp. “Evidence means nothing when the entire system is corrupt. No, Lorna. We needsomething more fundamental. We need you to remember what you are.”
He placed the tile in my hand. The moment it touched my skin, images flooded my mind—not memories exactly, but something deeper. I saw women in rough-spun dresses standing before warriors, their eyes milky white as they spoke prophecies. I saw myself, but not myself, kneeling before a man whose face I couldn’t quite see, accepting his collar, his command, his seed. I saw threads of light connecting everything, showing how Takken’s betrayal would ripple outward, destroying not just Jagland, but something essential about the North itself.
“What do you see?” Aksel asked, his voice seeming to come from very far away.
“Threads,” I gasped. “Connections. Takken… he’s not just corrupt. He’s part of something bigger. The Synergy Group is using him to—” I broke off, the vision fragmenting. “I can’t… it’s too much.”
Aksel’s hand settled on the back of my neck, warm and steadying. The contact grounded me, pulling me back from the overwhelming cascade of images.
“You can sense this much already because of how I’ve disciplined you,” he said, his thumb stroking along my hairline in a gesture that was almost tender. “The pain, the submission—it opens pathways that have been closed for generations. But to truly unlock what’s inside you, I’ll need to train you thoroughly as my bed thrall.”
The words sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the cold air on my naked skin. Bed thrall. Such an archaic term, yet it resonated in my bones like a struck bell.
“Stand,” he commanded, and I rose on unsteady legs. He took the bone tile from my trembling fingers and returned it to its box. “Your initiation begins now.”
Without another word, he turned and walked toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind one of the carved pillars. I followed, my bare feet silent on the concrete, the collar warm against my throat. The doorway opened onto stone steps that descended into darkness. Ancient steps, I realized, far older than the warehouse above.
As we descended, lights flickered on—not electric but something else, a soft blue glow that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. The air grew thick with the scent of pine resin and something deeper, earthier. My heart hammered against my ribs as we emerged into an underground chamber whose size made my eyes go wide—and then even wider as I saw what the space contained.
A longboat dominated the center of the subterranean space.
My breath caught. It was beautiful and terrible, its dragon-headed prow rising toward the vaulted ceiling, its sides decorated with shields and weapons that looked both ceremonial and deadly real. Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their light dancing across the polished wood of the vessel.
“This is a replica,” Aksel said, moving toward the boat with reverent precision. “The original was burned with its owner a thousand years ago. But we’ve maintained the traditions, the rituals that bind us to our ancestors.”
He beckoned to me with one scarred finger, and I found myself moving toward him before I’d made any conscious decision toobey. That strange detachment descended over me again, as if I were watching myself from somewhere outside my body. My bare feet carried me across the cold stone floor while my mind scrambled to understand what force compelled me. Was it the collar’s technology? The neural implant he’d mentioned? Or was it something inside me, some shameful part that wanted this?
I shied away from that last thought, unable to face what the answer might mean.
The moment I came within reach, Aksel’s controlled precision changed in an instant. His hands seized me with sudden force, one arm sweeping beneath my knees while the other supported my back. I gasped as he lifted me effortlessly, my naked body pressed against the rough fabric of his shirt.
“The Sons of Odin believe in doing things the old-fashioned way,” he said, his voice carrying a note of dark satisfaction as he strode toward the longboat’s side.
“No, wait—” I struggled in his arms, pushing against his chest, my legs kicking uselessly in the air. But even as I fought, I felt that treacherous heat building between my thighs, my body’s response to his strength, his control. The contradiction made me struggle harder, desperate to deny what I was feeling.
Aksel stepped over the longboat’s side with an easy long-limbed movement, barely jostled by my resistance. The ancient wood creaked beneath his weight as he carried me to one of the rowing benches. He laid me down on the smooth wood, on my front, with a care that suggested not his regard for my feelings but his appreciation of my value to him. Then his hands went to work, producing rope from somewhere I couldn’t see.
“Please,” I gasped, without any knowledge of what kind of plea to make. My wrists were already bound to the bench’s support beam, the rope soft but unyielding. He worked with an engineer’s efficiency, testing each knot with precise tugs.
“Your resistance requires correction,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. I pulled against the bonds, acutely aware of how the position left me exposed, vulnerable, my breasts thrust forward and my legs spread on either side of the bench.
From beneath another bench, he retrieved something that made my stomach clench with dread. The strap was thick leather, darker with age, its surface worn smooth by what I didn’t want to imagine. Nordic runes were burned into the handle.
“A Viking strap,” Aksel said, running his hand along its length. “Used for centuries to discipline wayward women. Three strokes for your resistance.”
Before I could protest, he moved behind me. I heard the whistle of leather through air a split second before fire exploded across my already tender bottom. The crack echoed through the chamber, followed immediately by my scream. This was nothing like his hand—this was pure, focused agony that seemed to reach into my very bones.
The second stroke landed just below the first, and I sobbed openly, biting down on my lip so hard I tasted blood. The third stroke caught the tender spot where my bottom met my thighs, and my vision went white with pain. I sagged against the bonds, my entire body trembling, tears streaming down my face to splash on the ancient wood beneath me.
“There,” Aksel said, his voice carrying that same measured tone, as if he’d just completed a routine maintenance task. “Your correction is complete.”
CHAPTER 6
