Page 9 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

ELENA

I wake up to the distinct scent of man and dog…and to the sensation of being squished between a warm, fluffy body, and a distinctly muscular one.

We're still bundled up by the emergency heater, Fenrik snoring softly while Ragnar holds me tight against him.

At some point we must have laid down, because Ragnar's body is curled around mine, his arms holding me tight, his chin on top of my head and tucking me into his embrace.

His breathing is steady, muscular chest rising and falling in that ridiculously tight coat.

Where the hell did he come from?

I know everyone who works here–scientists, historians, artists, the whole bunch. My best friend on the planet is Skoll; they would know who this guy is. But Ragnar…

I can tell he's not supposed to be here. He doesn't speak any language my translator can–or could, given that it's lying in pieces somewhere in the archive–comprehend. He was wearing ancient clothes before I gave him a coat. The dog he's with is supposedly extinct, at least at that size.

If I didn't know any better, I would have to assume he crawled out of a thousand-year ice nap. Maybe longer.

And the craziest part? I can't come up with any better explanation.

I reach out my hand to hesitantly trail down his chest, finding Skoll symbols tattooed across it.

I know I shouldn't, but…ugh, I can't help it.

He's easily the sexiest man I've ever touched, not that my experience is all that vast. I remember reading a novel in high school about some ice planet alien claiming a human woman as his mate and waking her up in a very creative way, and I don't know if I would've minded Ragnar doing the same thing.

Because it might be nice, right? To wake up somewhere far away from all this, somewhere I wouldn’t have to make impossible decisions or shoulder the weight of my planet’s future. I could just be…someone else. Someone warm and held and safe.

I shake the thought off, disgusted with myself. Great, Elena–you’ve been alone with a gorgeous alien for a couple of hours, and you’re already prepared to throw your entire life away for the chance to be carried off into the unknown.

As if on cue, Ragnar stirs beside me, a low rumble vibrating from his chest. He shifts slightly, his arms tightening around me, and I freeze.

He’s…oh my god, he’s hard. And huge, a cock the size of the empire state building pressing against my thigh.

I untuck my head from his chest and his ice blue eyes fix on mine, half-lidded and hazy with sleep.

He reaches up and touches my face like he did yesterday, and I almost give in right then.

I haven’t been with anyone since I got to M’mir, and this guy…

well, it’s frankly unfair how good he looks like this, all mussed up and warm and… ugh.

“Morning,” I mumble, my voice strained and cracking slightly.

Ragnar grunts, shifting his weight to sit up and look around. He looks across me at Fenrik, who’s snoring like a freight train on the other side of me, plastered to my back.

Even with Fenrik still here, the loss of Ragnar’s warmth is immediate, and I hate how much I feel it.

The chill seeps back in, and I pull the edges of Ragnar’s cloak around me as I sit up.

My cheeks burn when I remember the ridiculous direction my thoughts had gone earlier, but I shake it off and stand, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of Ragnar’s lingering heat.

“We should keep moving,” I tell him, more to remind myself there’s a world out there than to actually communicate with him. “There’s got to be some way out of here.”

Ragnar frowns, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. For a moment, I wonder if he’s understood me–there’s no way, right?–and then he gestures toward the exit. “Go?” he says.

The single English word sends a thrill through me. I nod vigorously, hoping he’s finally starting to get it. “Yes! Go.”

He nods once, his expression serious, then lets out a low whistle.

Fenrik jerks awake immediately, tail wagging as he scrambles to his feet and shakes the frost from his fur.

Ragnar stands too, towering over me in that ridiculous blue puffer coat.

It barely fits his broad shoulders, the fabric stretched tight across his chest and arms, and for a moment, the absurdity of it makes me smile despite myself.

Ragnar smiles too, then gestures toward the tunnel, his intent clear. He wants me to lead.

“Alright,” I murmur, pulling the cloak tighter and squaring my shoulders. I glance up at him once more, trying to gauge his expression. His face is unreadable, but there’s something almost…encouraging in his eyes, like he believes I can figure this out.

I can do this. I have to do this.

And hopefully he won’t destroy the next comms panel we find.

We take the heater with us, Ragnar holding the handle and using it as a lantern. The icy corridors stretch out in every direction, illuminated by the fractured glow of light filtering through cracks in the ice, the heater’s red-gold reflections all around us.

I glance back at Ragnar as we walk, his imposing figure just behind me.

He moves with a calm, steady grace, his eyes constantly scanning the tunnels.

His presence should be intimidating—and maybe it is, a little—but there’s also something reassuring about having him there. Like he’s watching my back.

Fenrik pads along beside me, his wagging tail brushing against my leg every so often. He sniffs at the ground, his ears flicking toward every sound, and I wonder if he senses something I don’t.

The tunnels shift as we move deeper, the walls narrowing in places and opening into wide, cavernous spaces in others. Frost glitters in delicate patterns across the ice, refracting the light into shimmering rainbows. It’s beautiful, but I can’t bother with that right now.

My focus is on the way forward.

We pass another collapsed section of the archive, the rubble blocking off what looks like an auxiliary chamber.

Ragnar stops, his hand brushing my shoulder as he pulls me back gently.

He steps forward first, testing the stability of the ground before waving me onward.

His caution is surprising—it’s clear he’s taking no chances with me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, even though I know he can’t understand me.

He glances back, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile before he turns away.

The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with the soft crunch of our footsteps on the frosted ground and the occasional sniff from Fenrik. The tunnels seem to stretch on forever, each turn looking more like the last, and a creeping sense of unease settles over me.

But then, up ahead, I catch a faint glimmer of something—light reflecting off polished metal. My pulse quickens, hope flaring in my chest. “There,” I say, pointing toward the faint glow. “That could be something.”

Ragnar follows my gaze, his eyes narrowing as he steps past me to take the lead. He moves with purpose, his shoulders tense, and I find myself trailing after him without hesitation. Fenrik darts ahead, his tail wagging furiously.

When we finally reach the source of the light, I realize what it is—a partially intact lab, the door hanging ajar and the interior faintly illuminated by emergency lights. Relief floods through me, and I quicken my pace, brushing past Ragnar to step inside.

“We might actually have a chance now,” I whisper, half to myself.

I press inside before he can go first and destroy any active technology.

I find myself in a room I’ve never been in before–a historical exhibit, from the looks of it, with a few artifacts in protective casing that they’ve pulled out of the ice cores.

I recognize modern Skoll all over the place, though I can’t read it without my translator, and I realize we must be in the archaeology lab.

That means we’re getting closer to the surface, thank God.

I search for a comms panel that’s actually working, which means I don’t notice as Ragnar steps inside with me.

At least, I don’t notice him until he inhales a sharp breath.

He’s looking down at an ancient scroll, surrounded by decaying weapons, bones, and jewelry. He reaches out and grazes his fingers over the display. I join him, looking down at it, then back up at him.

“You recognize this?” I ask.

He barely acknowledges me.

I look back down at the display, and when I touch it too, language options appear. I pick out English from the list, frowning.

“A Chronicle of the Lost Expeditions,” I murmur. “Translation courtesy of Vesta Iverzoll…oh, Ves! Okay.”

I skim over the text, continuing to read softly to myself.

“‘We sent our finest warriors out amongst the sea of stars, far beyond the Skoll Wilds, in search of new worlds and allies in our war against the Boreans,’” I read.

“‘The way was dangerous. Many perished. And many more were lost forever. The brave souls aboard the warship Stormcaller sent a distress signal, but were never found. We praise them for their sacrifice.’”

Ragnar shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. Fenrik whines and nudges his hand, but Ragnar completely ignores the skarnhound, looking at me instead. He gestures to the scroll, then to himself.

My eyes widen.

“You…you were part of this?” I ask, pointing at the scroll and then at him. My heart pounds as I glance between him and the display piecing it together. The ancient clothes, the extinct skarnhound, the language my translator couldn’t process. It all fits.

We’ve found all kinds of things in the ice cores…artifacts, flora, even fauna.

Who’s to say there wasn’t a man in there?

I step back, stunned, my mind racing as I try to process what this means. For him, for me…for everything. God, the person who will be most excited is Ves–they’re a historian, they study these guys.

They probably even speak his language.

But as I’m getting more excited–standing here with a piece of living history–Ragnar’s breathing grows heavier.

His shoulders rise and fall as his gaze sweeps over the artifacts.

His hand drops from the display case to his hip, and I stumble further away when he pulls a blade the length of his forearm from its scabbard.

“Ragnar,” I say, putting my hands up. “What are you–”

He doesn’t brandish it at me, just holds it up to the display case–and I realize it matches one of the swords in the case perfectly, right down to the filigree along the hilt. His hands shake and he drops the sword to the floor with a clatter, stumbling back.

My first instinct is to run, but I can’t leave him like this. Not when he’s clearly spiraling. He scares me, I can’t communicate with him…but I can see he’s going through something.

For us, this is an exciting discovery. But for him…it occurs to me that he just realized everyone he ever knew is dead.

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, his massive frame folding in on itself as he buries his face in his hands.

Fenrik goes up to nudge him, and I move closer.

God…he’s sobbing. I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, wishing this stupid puffer coat wasn’t between us.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know…”

Then I hear something from out in the corridor.

Voices.

Ragnar and Fenrik seem to notice at the same time, distracted before by our discovery. Fenrik’s hackles go up and he growls, Ragnar jolting up to his feet. He looks back toward the corridor, then he strides forward and grabs his sword off the floor, pulling a matching blade from his other hip.

“Wait!” I cry. I can recognize Ves’s voice out there, murmuring with a couple others. My friends…they’re coming for me. “Ragnar, they’re my friends! You can’t hurt them.”

He doesn’t listen, snarling as he tries to get between me and the door, his back to me. I manage to slip past him, raising my hands in front of me. “It’s okay!” I tell him. “Please put the swords away–”

“Elena?” Ves calls from the corridor.

“I’m here!” I call back over my shoulder. “Just…move slowly, okay? And speak English, my translator was damaged–”

“Why?” Dr. Kallisto’s voice comes next, clearly agitated. “Are you–”

She stops dead when they come around the corner…and I realize everyone else just got a peek at the ancient alien I found in the Eiskammer.

I glance back and see my friends standing there–Ves, Rishik, and Cosmia, along with Renata Kallipso. Dr. Kallipso is utterly transfixed, while Ves’s eyes light up at the sight of Ragnar.

“What the…” Ves starts.

Ragnar takes a menacing step forward, growling low in his throat. That growl, terrifying as it is, somehow forms words–words in his language–and from the look on their face, Ves seems to understand. They respond in that same language, a little slower.

That seems to calm Ragnar down, or at least throw him for a loop. He relaxes his stance just a smidge, cocking his head.

“What did you say to him?” I ask Ves.

“I told him we’re not going to hurt him,” they say. “He thinks we’re in a Borean prison and doesn’t know what’s going on.”

I look back at Ragnar, whose eyes dart back to me.

I can’t imagine how he feels right now; what felt like a good night’s sleep to him was actually thousands of years.

I step toward him, reaching out and touching his forearm.

He jerks slightly, that blade coming dangerously close–then he checks himself and lets me lower his hands.

“You’re safe,” I tell him. I can hear Ves translating behind me, their voice stilted in Ragnar’s language. “This is not a Borean prison. The Boreans are gone, and you’re on M’mir in the Skoll Wilds.”

Ragnar’s eyes dart around, up toward the ceiling, to me, to Ves. His breath is shaking as he lets out a stream of words, voice hoarse.

“He says this couldn’t possibly be M’mir,” Ves translates. “That…hold on, I’ve never actually heard someone speak this language before. He says…he says M’mir is still primitive. Nothing like this exists there. He…oh no.”

I glance back at them. “What?”

Ves gulps. “He wants to know what year it is. What should I tell him?”

I step forward, motioning for Ragnar to put his weapons away. He frowns, clearly wanting to keep them out…but then he assents. Once they’re gone, I take his hands in mine.

“Tell him the truth,” I murmur.

Ves nods, then I hear another stream of those ancient words. Ragnar blinks, brow furrowed…and his shoulders slump as he mutters a few bitter words.

“How’d he respond?” I ask.

Ves sighs. “I told him the Lost Expeditions vanished over four thousand years ago,” they say. “And he just said that he should be dead.”