Page 13 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

Holds up four fingers, then points at himself.

My heart breaks a little at the sight of him like this–looking at pictures of my family, when he just learned each of his siblings–three siblings he was trying to save–died thousands of years ago.

Ragnar stares at the picture for a long time, his fingers still resting lightly on the page. His silence feels heavy, like the weight of something he’s been carrying for centuries but can’t put into words. I watch him, unsure of what to say, my heart aching for him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though I know he doesn’t understand.

His head turns slightly, his blue eyes meeting mine. There’s a deep sadness in them, but also a flicker of something else—gratitude, maybe, or understanding. He nods once, a small, almost imperceptible movement, before flipping to the next page.

It’s a picture of me and my mom, sitting on the porch of our old house, laughing about something I can’t even remember. My mom’s arm is around me, her smile as warm as the sunlight streaming down on us. Ragnar traces the edge of the photo with his finger, his expression softening.

“Varra,” he murmurs.

I frown. “Fenvarra?”

He shakes his head, though it’s with a smile. “Varra…” he points at me and my mom in the photo. “Varra.”

Ah…I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Family,” I guess.

For a moment, the room feels impossibly small, the crackle of the fire and the soft hum of the TV the only sounds between us.

I want to ask him more, to know everything about the family he lost, about who he was before the world moved on without him.

But I don’t want to push, not when he’s already carrying so much.

He closes the album gently and hands it back to me, his hands brushing mine again. His touch is warm, steady, and it lingers just long enough to make my heart stutter. I take the album and slide it back into the drawer, my fingers trembling slightly as I shut it.

When I sit back, Ragnar is still watching me, his gaze steady and unreadable.

For a second, I think he might say something, but then he leans back against the couch, his head tilting slightly as his eyes drift to the TV.

The firelight dances across his face, softening the harsh lines of his jaw, and I realize just how tired he looks.

“Long day,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.

Ragnar nods, his eyes heavy, and I realize he’s fighting to stay awake. Fenrik has already claimed the spot by the fire, his tail thumping lazily against the rug as he snores softly. I smile at the sight, then stand and grab the blanket draped over the back of the couch.

Ragnar doesn’t even stir as I gently spread it over him, his breathing deep and even. His face, tense since I met him, is peaceful now, the weight of the world momentarily lifted.

I hesitate, my hand hovering near his hair, the urge to brush it back almost overwhelming.

But I pull away, shaking my head at myself.

What am I doing?

I turn off the TV, leaving only the glow of the fire to light the room, and retreat to my bedroom. My communicator flashes with a missed call from Marcy, but I send her a quick message: Long day–but I’m safe. Talk tomorrow?

I get the response a few minutes later. Of course. Love you, El.

I step into my room and close the door quietly behind me, leaning back against it for a moment. My heart is still racing from…everything. Finding him in the ruins of the sublevels…Ragnar rescuing me.

Ragnar in my apartment. Fenrik nearly destroying my kitchen.

And Ragnar’s chest. His broad, bare chest, so defined it’s practically etched into my memory.

“Get it together, Elena,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head as if I can physically dislodge the image.

Not that you can easily dislodge an eight-pack.

I grab a fresh pair of pajamas and head to the bathroom, keeping my footsteps light so I don’t wake him.

The bathroom is small, with just enough space for a standing shower and a sink crammed next to the toilet, but it’s mine.

I lock the door behind me, letting out a long, shaky breath as I lean against the sink.

My reflection in the mirror stares back at me, cheeks flushed, hair a tangled mess from the wind and cold. I look as frazzled as I feel.

“Shower,” I mutter, turning on the water and adjusting it until steam begins to rise. “Just take a shower.”

I peel off my sweater, then the rest of my clothes, and step under the hot spray. The heat is bliss, washing away the cold that’s been clinging to me since we left the library. I close my eyes, letting the water run over my face and shoulders, and take a deep breath.

But then…his face flashes in my mind.

And his abs. Again.

And that stupid smirk he puts on when I’m doing something he thinks is silly, and his laugh…

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Stop it, Elena. He’s…he’s just a guy. A Skoll guy who’s clearly been through hell. He doesn’t need you drooling over him like some lovesick teenager.”

I finish my shower quickly, determined to shake off these ridiculous thoughts, and towel off before pulling on my pajamas—a simple set of flannel pants and a soft, oversized T-shirt. My hair is still damp as I climb into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

The room is quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire through the door. I close my eyes, determined to focus on something else. Anything else. But the harder I try not to think about him, the more vivid the memories become.

When I woke up next to him…it’s so stupid, but I had this crazy vision of a future with him. Being able to talk to him is a dream I want more than almost anything else.

He’s a distraction.

I can’t have that.

My heart aches a little, but not just because of how undeniably attractive he is.

It’s more than that. It’s the weight he carries, the quiet pain in his eyes.

He’s lost everything—his family, his world, even time itself.

And yet, there’s a strength in him that’s impossible to ignore, a steadfast resilience that draws me in whether I like it or not.

I roll onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re just tired,” I tell myself, my voice barely a whisper. “That’s all.”

But even as I drift off to sleep, his face lingers in my mind—not just his body, no matter how much I want to believe this is just physical.

It’s his personality, too…a personality I’m certain will be incredible once we can actually talk.

I should forget about him, go back to work…

but he’s suddenly the most interesting thing about my life.

And somewhere deep down, I know that no matter how much I try to deny it, Ragnar Stormborne is going to be impossible to forget.