Page 25 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)
ELENA
T he walk back to the cottage is spent in intense, awkward silence.
The streets of Snowveil are still alive with light, the glow of ice lanterns casting shifting colors against the snow. The distant hum of conversation and music filters through the air, but I barely hear it over the sound of his footsteps beside me.
Ragnar.
Neither of us speaks—which is weird, because we can finally communicate and I have a million things to say to him, to ask him…
but I can't figure out how to broach any of it.
Hey, Ragnar—awkward, I know, but I'm kind of a virgin and I'm really nervous.
Hey Ragnar, you're about two feet taller than a normal guy, are you sure it'll even fit? Hey, Ragnar...
I swallow hard, trying not to think about it.
We reach my door, and I key in the code with slightly unsteady fingers. It slides open with a soft hiss, and Ragnar follows me inside. He has to duck to get through the front door, antlers nearly scraping the ceiling.
Fenrik immediately trots in and makes himself at home in front of the fireplace, curling up with a disgruntled huff as if I'm not moving fast enough to turn it on. Meanwhile, I’m too aware of Ragnar behind me—his warmth, his breath, the way his gaze pins me in place before he even says a word.
I shuffle toward the small closet near the kitchen, forcing normalcy. “I'm going to make some hot chocolate,” I say as I take off my coat to hang it up. “Do you…”
I trail off when I feel his looking presence behind me—his hands coming to my shoulders, thumbs hooking on the neck of my sweater. I shudder as one hand glides up my cheek, fingers brushing against my lips.
Oh…oh my gosh.
“You never answered my question, fenvarra,” he murmurs, voice rumbling in his chest.
“What question?” I squeak.
“What do you like…” he starts. “How do you want me to touch you?”
I shudder as one big hand slides over my chest, toward my breast?—
And I turn around, pressing my hands to his abdomen, pushing myself away.
“I like hot chocolate,” I blurt out, eyes darting up to his.
I can see the rejection there, and it almost physically aches—which is exactly why I need to be careful. I want to please him. I want to satisfy him. But I’ve also never been impulsive, and everything with Ragnar has just been impulse impulse impulse.
Ragnar stiffens, gaze never leaving mine. “You are saying…” he starts, “that you wish for a sweet drink, instead of my hands on you.”
I wince. “Well, it’s not really like that.”
He drops his hands to his sides. “You don’t want my hands on you?”
I flail. “That’s not?—”
“You don’t want my mouth on you?”
Oh my goodness, I want his mouth on me very, very badly, actually. I want his hands on me, I want it all, and his lips curve as the thoughts race through my mind and he inhales deeply.
Jiminy Christmas. He’s smelling me.
“I can scent your desire, Elena,” he says. “But I do not wish to touch you without your consent. Explain.”
My face is on fire. “It’s just—there’s nuance!”
His scowl deepens. “What is nuance?”
I reach up to squeeze the bridge of my nose, already feeling a stress migraine coming on.
“Nuance is…complicated. Nuance is not just black and white. Nuance is me saying yes, I want you to touch me but also maybe not right now because my brain is still catching up to my body and I need a second to process all of this before I throw myself into it, and also, I’m very nervous and also I need cocoa. ”
I finally pause, sucking in a breath.
Ragnar just stares at me.
Then he grunts, as if this is the most exasperating thing he’s ever dealt with. “So, to be clear.”
I brace myself.
“You wish to be touched,” he says. “But not yet.”
“…Yes.”
“You wish to be kissed.”
I open my mouth, then close it. “Yes.”
He watches me, deadly serious. “But not yet.”
I nod. “Not yet.”
“And in order to decide…you need cocoa.”
I swallow hard and nod.
And finally—finally—Ragnar takes a step back and gestures toward the kitchen. “Show me how so I can give my mate what she desires,” he says.
I exhale in relief. “Okay.”
I slide around Ragnar and head to the kitchen, Ragnar following closely behind with Fenrik on his heels.
I can feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer weight of his attention locked onto me as I rummage through the cupboards for the cocoa tin.
I can’t let myself think about that; I need to focus on the cocoa or I think I might melt into a puddle on the floor.
“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “First, we need milk.”
I grab the milk from the fridge and put it on the counter, then gesture at it. “You heat it up, mix in cocoa, and voilá! Hot chocolate. Easy peasy.”
He cocks his head. “That didn’t translate.”
“Oh,” I say. “Um…right. Nevermind. Just—you pour the milk.”
Slowly, he uncorks the bottle, watching the milk slosh inside, then looks to me for confirmation. I nod encouragingly. For the love of all that is good, this man can wield a sword with terrifying ease, but milk baffles him.
I take a step back, letting him pour. He’s careful, precise—pouring just enough before setting the bottle aside and looking back at me. “Now?”
I take a step back, letting him pour. He’s careful, precise—pouring just enough before setting the bottle aside and looking back at me. “Now?”
I nod, grabbing a wooden spoon and handing it to him. “Now we stir while it heats up.”
Ragnar turns the spoon over in his hand, testing its weight like he’s considering how it would fare as a weapon. I fight a laugh and point to the pot. “Just…gently, okay? We don’t want it to boil.”
He gives me a sharp look. “Why not?”
“Because it’ll scald,” I explain. “And then the cocoa won’t mix properly.”
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.
He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me…and I’m sure he does.
“I’m going to go put on something more comfortable,” I say, putting my foot in my mouth yet again. “Not…not something sexy, just comfortable.”
“Anything you wear is ‘sexy,’ my fenvarra,” Ragnar rumbles.
“Oh,” I say, my voice much too high for someone who’s completely calm. “Well, um…if you want to change, you know where all your stuff is, right? The stuff we got for you?”
He nods. “I’ll be waiting.”