Page 7 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

ELENA

I don’t trust him. Not yet.

But I don’t think he’s going to kill me either.

The Skoll—Ragnar, he told me—hasn’t made any hostile moves since he picked me up like a bag of flour and carried me out of the collapse.

If anything, his behavior has been more…

perplexing. He keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of miracle, his blue eyes softening whenever I meet his gaze.

He even smiles occasionally, though it’s faint and a little uncertain, as if he’s trying to reassure me. Or charm me.

It’s not working.

Mostly.

The skarnhound, Fenrik, is another story entirely.

He’s been glued to my side ever since I stopped screaming, sniffing at my boots and wagging his absurdly massive tail whenever I glance at him.

For a creature that could probably swallow my head whole, he’s alarmingly friendly.

I’ve caught myself reaching out to pet him more than once, but each time I stop short, reminding myself that I’m still trapped in an alien archive with two beings I don’t fully understand.

And the Skoll? He’s just as much of a puzzle as his oversized dog.

Ragnar walks ahead of me now, scanning the collapsed passage for a way forward.

His broad shoulders nearly brush the icy walls, and his antlers catch the dim light filtering through the cracks above, casting faint shadows that make him seem even larger.

He moves with a confidence that’s unnerving, like he’s completely at home in this chaotic, frozen environment.

Every now and then, he glances back at me, his expression unreadable.

I shiver, pulling my coat tighter around myself. The cold down here is worse than ever, biting through my layers and numbing my fingers. My breath fogs in front of me, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. Somehow, Ragnar doesn’t seem cold at all, glimmering like a golden god.

And he notices I’m cold. Because of course he does.

He pauses mid-step, brow furrowed as he turns to face me. His gaze flickers over me, and then he reaches up to unclasp his fur-lined cloak. The movement is slow, as if he’s trying not to startle me. He holds it out, his expression calm but expectant, and murmurs something in his strange language.

Fuck…he’s completely bare-chested beneath it, and he must be freezing.

Not that I really notice that when I’m seeing an eight-pack for the first time.

He holds the cloak out to me again, shaking it slightly as if to say, Take it.

“I’m fine,” I insist, though the shivering probably undercuts my argument. “I don’t need?—”

He steps closer, draping the cloak over my shoulders before I can protest further.

The weight of it settles around me, heavy and warm, and I freeze.

It’s not just warm—it’s blisteringly warm, as if it’s been absorbing his body heat for hours.

My fingers clutch the edges instinctively, and I can’t help but notice the scent clinging to the fabric: earthy and primal, spicy like cinnamon and cloves.

I vaguely remember Ves telling me that the Skoll run hot, that they’re pretty much immune to the elements.

Okay…so maybe I need the cloak more than he does.

I pull the cloak tighter, the warmth seeping into my frozen limbs, and glance up at Ragnar. He’s watching me closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as I adjust the fabric around my shoulders. There’s something intense about the way he looks at me, like he’s cataloging every tiny movement I make.

It’s unsettling.

And…well, kind of attractive.

It looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to unwrap and devour me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, not sure if he understands me but feeling like I should say it anyway. His lips twitch, fighting a smile, and he nods before turning back to the rubble.

I try to focus on the task at hand as we pick our way through the wreckage.

The passage is a maze of broken beams, shattered cores, and unstable ice formations, but Ragnar moves through it with practiced ease.

He clears debris with the kind of ease that makes it look like it weighs nothing at all, his strength making short work of obstacles that would take me hours to navigate.

Fenrik stays close to my side, occasionally nudging me forward with his cold nose when I hesitate.

At one point, the ground trembles beneath us again—an aftershock, smaller but still enough to make my heart lurch. Ragnar stops immediately, holding out an arm to steady me, and waits until the rumbling subsides before pressing on.

His caution is almost reassuring, even if I don’t fully trust him yet.

We reach a particularly narrow section of the passage, the walls closing in on either side, and Ragnar’s broad shoulders tense. He scans the area, nostrils flaring, and then gestures for me to stay close.

“Yeah, no problem,” I mutter, my voice shaky as I follow him.

The floor beneath us groans ominously as we move forward, and Ragnar’s steps become more deliberate. He glances back at me again, his expression tightening, and then?—

The ground shifts.

It happens so fast I barely have time to react. The ice beneath my feet gives way with a deafening crack, and I let out a startled cry as I stumble backward. The walls tremble, chunks of ice falling around us, and I feel my heart slam against my ribs as the passage starts to collapse.

Ragnar moves like lightning. One moment, he’s ahead of me; the next, he’s got his arms around my waist, lifting me off the ground as the floor crumbles beneath us.

I cling to him instinctively, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he leaps to the side, landing in a more stable section of the passage.

The impact knocks the breath out of me, and for a moment, I can’t do anything but gasp for air.

Ragnar holds me close, one arm wrapped securely around my waist, his other hand braced against the wall.

His chest rises and falls against mine, his breath warm against my hair as he murmurs something in his language.

“I’m okay,” I manage to choke out, though my voice wavers. “You can put me down now.”

He doesn’t. Instead, his grip tightens slightly, and his hand lingers at my waist, his fingers brushing against the curve of my hip. His gaze locks onto mine, intense and searching, and I feel a strange flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the near-death experience.

I think he’s going to kiss me–or at least, he wants to try again, like he did a couple hours ago. I slapped him then, but now…

Now, I’m not sure if I would mind it.

“Seriously,” I say, forcing a weak laugh as I try to pull away. “I’m fine.”

He hesitates, and I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t want to let me go. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this guy, it’s that he’s incredibly horny–and I’m not just talking about the antlers. But he finally sets me down, his hands lingering for just a moment longer before he steps back.

I take a shaky breath, brushing off the lingering warmth of his touch as adrenaline.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. That would be ridiculous.

Ragnar watches me, his head tilting slightly, and then turns back to the passage. He mutters something to Fenrik, who lets out a low bark in response, and the two of them move ahead to scout the area.

By the time we finally emerge into one of the archive’s intact labs, my legs are shaking like jelly.

I slump against the nearest console, taking a moment to catch my breath and take in the room.

The lights flicker weakly, but it’s functional.

The equipment seems mostly undamaged, and my eyes immediately lock onto the comm panel in the corner.

“Finally,” I mutter, brushing off frost from the controls as I make my way over. “Let’s get some help?—”

A low growl stops me cold. I whip around to find Ragnar staring at the comm panel like it’s personally offended him. He stalks toward me, his massive frame taking up way too much space in the small room, and gestures sharply at the device, his tone quick and clipped.

“What now?” I ask, throwing my hands up. “It’s just a comm. I’m calling for help.”

He shakes his head and growls something else in that language I can’t understand, jabbing a finger at the panel, then at me, then back again. His tone isn’t angry exactly—it’s more urgent, like he’s trying to warn me about something.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I snap. “Just let me?—”

Before I can finish, Ragnar slams his hand onto the comm panel. The console sparks, cracks, and crumples under the sheer force of his hit.

I freeze.

He just destroyed the only working comm in this part of the archive.

He may have just doomed us to freeze to death.

“Are you kidding me?” I yell, turning on him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ragnar crosses his arms, staring down at the shattered remains of the panel like it’s done him a personal wrong.

He growls something else, his tone sharp, then gestures around the room as if that explains everything.

His hand keeps moving between me and the destroyed comm, his expression intense, but all I can see is the smoking pile of circuits he just smashed.

“Great. Just great,” I mutter, planting my hands on my hips. “Now what? We’re trapped here, and you just destroyed our only way out.”

Ragnar frowns, the frustration on his face softening for just a second. He says something quieter this time, which I think might be an apology based on his tone.

But the damage is already done.

The one thing we needed is gone, and now we’re stuck in this freezing, crumbling archive with no way to contact anyone.

I shake my head. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

Ragnar steps back, glancing at the ruined console like he might be second-guessing himself. For a moment, I almost feel bad for yelling at him—until I remember that he’s the one who smashed it in the first place. Whatever he thought he was doing, it just made things ten times worse.

Fenrik whines from the corner, padding over to nudge my shoulder. I reach over to scratch behind his ears, using the motion to ground myself before my frustration boils over again. Ragnar doesn’t say anything else, just stands there watching me.

I don’t know what his deal is, but one thing’s for sure—this rescue just got a whole lot more complicated.

Because without using a comm, I can’t call for help.

And this guy seems intent on destroying every bit of technology he sees.