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CHAPTER 1

M ary

I looked at Professor Hallstrom with what I hoped came across as academic interest, but feared looked more like undisguised lust. His steel-blue eyes seemed to travel right through mine, into my mind, as he spoke, his deep voice resonating with authority and passion for the subject. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, acutely aware of the heat spreading through my body.

“The Icelandic sagas,” Professor Hallstrom continued, “offer us a unique window into Norse culture. They are not just historical records, but complex narratives filled with intrigue, violence, and yes, even explicit sexuality.”

At the mention of sexuality, I felt my cheeks flush hot. I tried to focus on taking notes, but my mind kept wandering to inappropriate places. What would those large, scholarly, but surely very strong hands feel like on my skin? How would his beard scratch against my neck if he…

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thoughts. This was ridiculous. I had made it through my freshman year at Selecta East without feeling anything like a schoolgirl crush. Here in my study abroad semester in Rouen, though, when I should have known so much better, I couldn’t stop thinking about a professor almost, I felt certain, twice my age. Something about Sven Hallstrom, though… it called to a part of me I couldn’t, or maybe didn’t want to, put my finger on.

It must just be how simply cool it felt to be here in Rouen, with my French good enough to understand every word of Professor Hallstrom’s lecture—even to the point that I could tell he had a slight, delightfully exotic Scandinavian accent. My own American accent still gave me away, of course, and every time I tried to follow my new friends’ conversations I tended to get lost after the second sentence. The sheer joy of being able to understand and to communicate complex ideas in the classroom, though, had probably caused me to think I had a crush on this admittedly gorgeous man.

As the lecture continued, I found myself hanging onto his every word, not just for the fascinating content, but for the rich timbre of his voice. When he described the brutal raids of the Vikings, I felt a forbidden thrill run through me. It was so very on the nose, but… what would it be like to be a captured young woman, at the mercy of such a powerful warrior?

A virgin, taken in a Viking raid. I shifted in my seat. I didn’t feel particularly happy about my virgin status, but the Selecta university system, with its return to traditional gender roles, hadn’t made it easy even for an eighteen-year-old like me to do much about it.

The class ended far too soon. As the other students filed out, I lingered, gathering my courage. My heart pounded as I approached his desk.

“Professor Hallstrom?” I managed, my voice sounding breathier than I intended. “I was wondering if I could speak with you about a potential topic for my final paper.”

He looked up at me, those piercing eyes seeming to see right through my flimsy excuse. “Miss O’Toole, is it? Of course. My office hours are tomorrow afternoon.”

“I was hoping…” I swallowed hard, hardly believing my own boldness. “I was hoping we could discuss it sooner. Perhaps… this evening?”

Something flashed in his eyes—surprise? Interest?—before his expression settled into careful neutrality. “I’ll be working late tonight. If you’d like to stop by my office around seven, we can discuss your ideas then.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the way my pulse raced at the thought of being alone with him. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll see you then.”

* * *

The hallway was eerily quiet as I approached Professor Hallstrom’s office, my footsteps echoing off the polished floors. A single beam of light spilled from beneath his door, a beacon in the darkness. My heart raced, a mix of anticipation and nerves whirling inside me. I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles could make contact, the door swung open.

In an instant, everything changed. Strong hands gripped my arms, yanking me inside. I caught a glimpse of bookshelves, chairs, an old desk, but I barely had time to gasp at the terrifying feeling of capture before something was shoved into my mouth—firm, chewy, filling my oral cavity. A gag, made of leather. Panic surged through me as I tried to cry out, but only muffled whimpers escaped.

“Shh, lille en .” Professor Hallstrom’s voice, usually so controlled, now held a dangerous edge. “Be still.”

My arms were wrenched behind my back, rough rope biting into my wrists as he bound them tight. I struggled, more out of instinct than any real hope of escape. His grip was like iron, implacable and unyielding.

Darkness descended as a hood was pulled over my head, cutting off my vision entirely. The fabric was thick, smelling faintly of leather and some musky scent I couldn’t place. My other senses heightened in compensation—I could hear the rustle of clothing, feel the warmth radiating from his body as he maneuvered me across the room.

He pushed me down onto what felt like a chair, his large hand on my shoulder keeping me in place. I trembled, fear and confusion warring with an unwelcome thrill of arousal. What was happening? Why was he doing this?

The sound of a phone being dialed cut through the silence. Then, Professor Hallstrom’s voice, but not in any language I recognized. The words flowed like water, lilting and musical despite the gravity in his tone. Norwegian? Swedish? I couldn’t be sure, but the Scandinavian quality seemed unmistakable.

I strained to make out individual words, to glean some understanding of what was happening, but it was useless. The conversation continued, terse and clipped. I caught what sounded like my name—‘Mary’—amidst the foreign syllables, sending a fresh surge of fear through me.

What had I gotten myself into? And why, even in my terror, did a part of me feel a perverse excitement at being so utterly at his mercy?

My muscles tensed as I gathered my courage, preparing to make a desperate attempt at escape. With a sudden burst of energy, I lurched upward from the chair, my bound hands scrabbling uselessly behind my back. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might succeed in breaking free.

That hope was swiftly extinguished as Professor Hallstrom’s iron grip clamped down on my shoulder, forcing me back into the seat with effortless strength. His fingers dug into my flesh, and even through the fabric of my blouse, I could feel the heat of his skin.

“Obey me, Miss O’Toole,” he growled in English, his voice low and dangerous. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sit still and do exactly as I say.”

A shiver ran through me at his words. To my horror, it didn’t come from fear alone. My body betrayed me, a rush of warmth flooding between my legs despite the panic in my belly. I squirmed in the chair, confused and ashamed at my reaction.

“P-please,” I tried to whimper through the gag, the word coming out as little more than a muffled cry. “Let me go…”

Instead of answering, Professor Hallstrom yanked me up by my arm. In one fluid motion, he sat down and pulled me across his lap. I found myself bent over his knees, my bottom raised vulnerably in the air. My skirt had ridden up, leaving me mortifyingly exposed in only my thin cotton panties.

“You need to learn your place, lille en ,” he said, his accent thicker now, almost guttural. “Consider this a quick introduction to how the Vikings handled the girls they captured for use on the rowing benches.”

Before I could process his words, his hand came down hard on my upturned bottom. The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the quiet office. I yelped into the gag, more from surprise than pain. But then he struck again and again, each spank harder than the last.

The sting built rapidly, spreading across my buttocks and down my thighs. Tears pricked at my eyes, soaking into the fabric of the hood. I squirmed and bucked, trying to escape the relentless assault, but his other arm held me firmly in place.

“This is nothing compared to what those fierce Norsemen would have done,” Professor Hallstrom lectured, punctuating his words with stinging slaps. “They took what they wanted, claimed the spoils of their raids. Pretty little things like you were prizes to be won and enjoyed.”

To my horror, I felt myself growing wetter with each strike. The pain blurred into a hazy pleasure, igniting nerve endings I didn’t know I had. My hips began to move of their own accord, no longer trying to escape, but almost… seeking out his punishing hand.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Show me what kind of thrall you’re going to be.”

The spanking continued, each strike sending shockwaves of pain and shameful pleasure through my body. I lost track of time, rapt into a haze of sensation. My bottom burned, the sting spreading across my skin like wildfire. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the fabric of the hood as I screamed into the gag. The sounds were muffled, but the raw emotion behind them seemed all the greater because this man had stopped my voice.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, when the pain had overwhelmed any trace of arousal, Professor Hallstrom’s hand stilled. I lay there, panting and trembling, my body taut with anticipation. What would he do next?

I felt his fingers at the waistband of my panties, and a fresh thrill of panic washed over me. Surely he wouldn’t… Then I felt the cool air on my heated skin as he slowly, deliberately pulled them down. I squirmed, trying to press my thighs together, but his strong hands easily parted them.

“My, my,” he murmured, his voice rich with amusement and something darker, like hunger, that sent a shudder through me. “What do we have here?”

I felt his fingers ghost over my private lips. I felt my face turn red as a beet, and I had an absurd feeling of gratitude that he couldn’t see my blush. Despite my fear, despite the pain, my body responded traitorously to his touch. I was mortified to realize how wet I had become.

“Such a pretty little fisse ,” Professor Hallstrom continued, his fingers exploring with maddening slowness. “And look at this adorable red hair. It matches the pink of your hind cheeks perfectly.”

I whimpered into the gag, equal parts humiliation and arousal coursing through me. His fingers found my clit, circling it with expert precision, and I couldn’t help but buck against his hand.

“We’ll have to shave this, of course,” he said matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather rather than the violation of my body. “It’s an important lesson in submission. To put your body under my command… before remolding you into what I desire.”

His words should have terrified me, should have made me fight harder. Instead, I felt a perverse thrill at the idea of being shaped by his will. What was wrong with me?

“You like this, don’t you, lille en ?” Professor Hallstrom’s voice was knowing, almost smug. “I’d wager you play with yourself quite frequently. Is that right, Mary? Do you touch yourself in the shower, imagining scenarios like this?”

I shook my head frantically, denying it even as my hips betrayed me, grinding shamelessly against his hand. But he was right. Every morning in the shower, I would let my hands wander, imagining strong arms around me, a deep voice commanding me… I had never put a face to those fantasies before, and my mind resisted doing it even now, but his voice fit, to my dismay.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled. “A Celtic girl like you, forbidden by her upbringing to seek her own pleasure… I know the truth. You’re going to come for me now, so you can start to learn about your needs.”