Page 23 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

ELENA

T he streets of Snowveil are alive with light.

Glowing ice lanterns line the paths, their delicate, crystalline structures pulsing softly with bioluminescent energy. The warmth of the nearby shops and restaurants spills out into the streets, the scents of sizzling food mixing with the crisp bite of winter.

And none of it matters…because my brain is totally short-circuiting.

Because Ragnar is walking beside me—tall, broad, absolutely impossible to ignore—and every time I glance at him, I remember the way he looked at me earlier.

The way his voice dropped to a low, deliberate murmur when he asked if he could touch me.

The way his hands—his very nice hands—curled around my waist like he had every intention of getting me out of my coat, my sweater, my?—

Stop. Stop.

I shake myself and push the thoughts away. This is not the time to be having a full-on meltdown about my fated mate and whether or not I’d survive the logistics of sleeping with a four-thousand-year-old alien viking.

The streets are crowded with people bundled up against the cold, chattering excitedly as they move toward the city center.

Snowveil is a melting pot, just like every other city on M’mir, so it’s not unusual to see a mix of different species, different cultural influences—but even here, Ragnar stands out.

People stare as we pass. Some whisper behind their hands.

Some keep their distance, eyeing Fenrik, who pads along beside us with his massive wolfish frame and glowing eyes, his tail wagging happily as he takes in the festival.

A few children dart closer, fascinated, and Fenrik immediately turns into a giant, fluffy menace, flopping onto the ground so they can crawl all over him.

I nudge Ragnar, who’s watching with mild confusion. “I thought he was a big scary skarnhound,” I say. “Not a babysitter.”

Ragnar frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “He is a warrior.”

A very large, terrifying warrior currently getting his ears scratched by an Ardaxian toddler.

“Uh-huh,” I say, watching as Fenrik rolls onto his back, letting a pair of Skoll twins with tiny antlers pat his stomach.

Ragnar sighs, rubbing his temples. “He was not like this before.”

I hide a smile.

Someone calls my name, and I look toward the restaurant we’re heading to. “Elena!” Cosmia waves from the entrance, her golden skin radiant in the glow of the lanterns, her delicate, gossamer-like wings fluttering in the crisp air.

Rishik stands beside her, bundled up in a high-collared coat, his reptilian features partially obscured by the rising steam from a nearby food stall. “Took you three long enough,” Rishik grumbles. “Ves told us to get a table an hour ago.”

Ves snorts. “We would have been here faster if these two weren’t canoodling in the exam room.”

I do not look at Ragnar. I don’t have to. My entire body is too aware of him, and I can practically feel the way Ves’s gaze flickers between us, sharp and obnoxiously perceptive.

“Shut up, Ves,” I mutter, pulling my coat tighter around myself like that will somehow shield me from this conversation.

We step up to the restaurant, the door sliding open with a rush of warm, spiced air. Cosmia’s eyes go straight to Ragnar.

“So, you’re the ancient Skoll,” she says, giving him an unapologetic once-over. “Gods, you’re huge.”

Ragnar tilts his head slightly, glancing between her and me, then to Rishik, who is much taller than Cosmia but still significantly smaller than him.

“This one is smaller than you,” he observes.

Rishik lets out a low hiss of amusement. “Very perceptive.”

I sigh. “Ragnar, these are my friends—Cosmia, Rishik, and Ves. Everyone, this is Ragnar.”

There’s a brief pause, as if everyone is letting the weight of it settle in—the fact that I’ve casually brought a four-thousand-year-old frozen warlord to dinner like this is normal.

Then Cosmia grins. Unapologetic. Bright. “You ever had Alamancian hotpot before? Because you’re about to.”

Ragnar frowns. “I do not know what that is.”

Ves claps him on the back, guiding him toward the door. “Don’t worry, big guy. We’ll educate you.”

The interior is warm and inviting, heavy wooden beams arching overhead, soft cushions lining the sunken dining tables.

Fenrik, much to my surprise, behaves himself and curls up at Ragnar’s feet…

and I think the Mlok hostess is just a little too nervous to say anything.

A massive circular pot sits in the center of our table, bubbling with fragrant broth, surrounded by plates of thinly sliced meats, vegetables, and noodles.

Ragnar looks deeply suspicious.

“You cook it yourself?” he asks, frowning as Cosmia tosses a bundle of noodles into the broth.

“That’s kind of the whole point,” Ves says, already stacking their plate with an ambitious amount of food.

Ragnar makes a noncommittal grunt but takes the Mlok tongs Rishik hands him, shaped like two curved talons that can clamp together with the press of a lever.

Ragnar stares at it.

Then at Rishik.

Then back at the claw utensil.

His brows furrow. He turns it over in his hands, experimentally squeezing the lever so the talons snap shut.

“…Is this a weapon?” he asks.

Cosmia snorts into her drink.

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?”

I shoot them a murderous look.

“It means,” Ragnar says, undeterred, “that our souls were forged to complete one another.”

Cosmia looks downright enchanted. “That’s…kind of romantic,” she admits, sipping her drink.

Rishik, ever the academic, seems to be deep in thought. “So it’s a metaphysical bond? Biologically enforced? Cultural? You say ‘bonded’—is there a process? A ritual?”

Ragnar nods solemnly, like this is the most natural conversation in the world. “Yes. Once the bond is recognized, the Skoll must claim their mate. To ensure their connection is secured, it is best done through physical?—”

“Okay!” I slam my hands on the table, my entire body on fire, brain melting into goo, everything in me screaming for an emergency topic change.

The entire table erupts into laughter.

I want to die. I want to crawl into the bubbling hotpot and let it swallow me whole.

Ragnar frowns, confused, as if he truly doesn’t understand why everyone finds this so funny. “Did I say something amusing?”