Page 24 of Viking (Dixie Reapers MC #24)
Karoline
I carefully closed Athena’s door, leaving it cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill across her sleeping form.
She’d fought sleep hard, those little fingers clutching at my shirt, at Viking’s hand, at anything solid she could hold onto after the terror of the night.
But exhaustion had finally won, her copper lashes fluttering closed as I sang the lullaby that had become our ritual.
When I turned, I nearly bumped into Viking’s solid chest. He leaned against the wall opposite Athena’s door, watching me with those ice-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through to my soul.
Blood still stained his shirt -- not his, he’d said, but I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“Is she finally asleep?” His voice was pitched low, rougher than usual.
I nodded, unable to look away from the dark smear across his cheek, the split in his bottom lip. “She didn’t want to let go of either of us.”
“Can’t blame her.” His gaze shifted to the partially open door, something soft and protective crossing his features. “Kid’s been through more tonight than most adults could handle.”
“She said your name,” I whispered, the memory still raw. “In the bathroom, when we were hiding. She kept asking for you.”
Viking’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his beard. “I heard shooting near the house. Thought I might be too late.”
My hand moved without conscious thought, reaching up to touch the cut on his cheekbone. He flinched slightly, not from pain but surprise, before leaning into my touch. His skin was hot beneath my fingertips.
“You weren’t too late,” I said. “You came back, just like you promised.”
His eyes darkened at my words, that same intensity I’d seen in them before Wire had interrupted us with news of the attack. Before the kiss that had changed everything.
“Not everyone made it,” he said, and I caught the grief beneath his controlled expression. “We lost Lincoln. One of our young Prospects.”
My chest tightened. “I’m so sorry.”
Viking nodded once, his throat working as he swallowed. “There’ll be time for mourning tomorrow. Right now…” His gaze swept over me. “You look exhausted. And like you’ve been through hell.”
“Pretty sure I have been,” I admitted, attempting a smile that faltered halfway.
“Take a shower.” His suggestion somehow seemed both practical and unbearably intimate in the narrow hallway. “Hot as you can stand it. It’ll help.”
I hesitated, suddenly aware of how close we stood, of the heat radiating from his body. “What about you?”
“I need to check the perimeter one more time. Make sure everything’s secure.”
Even now, after everything, he was still the protector. Still putting our safety before his own needs. The realization made my heart ache in ways I couldn’t fully examine.
“Viking.” I reached out to catch his wrist as he turned to go. “Before, in the hallway, when Wire interrupted us…”
His entire body went still, his focus sharpening on me with predatory intensity. “I meant what I said. Every word.”
I swallowed hard, remembering the feel of his mouth on mine, the certainty I’d felt in the bathroom when I’d realized I loved him. “So did I. When I said I wanted you to show me this was real.”
Something sparked in his eyes, hungry and hopeful and cautious all at once. “And now? After seeing what loving me might mean? The danger, the violence?”
“Now I’m even more sure.” The truth of it settled deep in my bones. “I chose you before the bullets started flying. I’m choosing you now that they’ve stopped.”
Viking’s breath hitched. Slowly, deliberately, he placed his hand at the small of my back, the weight of it warm and solid through my thin shirt. “Shower,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that sent heat spiraling through me. “I’ll get you clean towels.”
He guided me down the hallway toward the master bathroom, his palm pressed against my spine like a brand.
Each step felt charged with possibility, with the promise of what would happen once we reached our destination.
The night’s violence had stripped away pretense, burned through hesitation.
Life felt too fragile, too precious to waste on uncertainty.
At the bathroom door, I paused, turning to face him.
In the dim light, the angles of his face seemed sharper, the blue of his eyes almost luminous.
This man who had killed to protect me, who had welcomed my niece without question, who looked at me like I was something precious rather than a burden -- he’d become essential to me in ways I was only beginning to understand.
“Don’t take too long checking the perimeter.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “I might need help washing my back.”
His pupils dilated, black nearly swallowing blue. “Is that what you want, Karoline?”
The way he said my name -- like a prayer, like a promise -- made my knees weak. “It’s what I need. What we both need.”
Viking’s hand slid from my back to curve around my hip, his thumb brushing the strip of skin where my shirt had ridden up. “Then I’ll make it quick.” His gaze dropping to my mouth. “Five minutes.”
I nodded, unable to form words past the anticipation tightening my throat.
He stepped back, allowing me to enter the bathroom alone, but I felt his gaze on me until I closed the door between us.
As I turned toward the shower, my hands shook with something that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the man who would soon return.
The hot water pounded against my skin, washing away the grime and terror of the night but doing nothing to calm the anticipation building inside me.
I closed my eyes, letting the spray sluice over my face, my hair, cascading down my back in rivulets that carried away blood that wasn’t mine, and the salty tracks of dried tears.
Five minutes, he’d said. I counted the seconds in my head, each one bringing me closer to the moment when the door would open again.
When everything between us would change.
The thought should have terrified me after the night we’d survived, but instead, it felt like the only thing that made sense in a world gone mad.
A soft knock broke through the rhythm of falling water.
My eyes snapped open, heart lurching against my ribs as the door opened.
Steam billowed around Viking’s massive frame, momentarily obscuring him before settling to reveal him standing there, a stack of fluffy towels in his hands.
Our gazes locked through the fogged glass of the shower door, his gaze traveling over me in a way that made heat bloom across my skin despite the spray already turning it pink.
“Brought you towels.” His voice came out deeper than I’d ever heard it.
I swallowed hard, suddenly acutely aware of my nakedness, of the way water traced paths down my body that his gaze followed with unmistakable hunger. “Thank you.”
He set the towels on the counter, his movements deliberate, unhurried. Then, holding my gaze through the steamy glass, he reached for the hem of his blood-stained shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
My breath caught in my throat. I’d glimpsed his arms before, the tattoos that decorated his biceps and shoulders.
But seeing his chest bare -- broad and solid, marked with black ink and battle scars -- sent a jolt of desire through me so strong my knees nearly buckled.
A massive Viking-style dragon curved around his left pectoral, its tail disappearing beneath his belt.
Beneath it, the Dixie Reapers insignia spread across his ribs, a testament to his loyalty.
Without hesitation, Viking unbuckled his belt, then pushed his jeans and boxers down his powerful thighs.
He stepped out of them, now as naked as I was, his arousal evident and unashamed.
A jagged scar ran along his right thigh, newer than the others, still pink against his tanned skin.
My gaze traced it, then moved upward, taking in the flat plane of his stomach, the broad chest, the strong column of his throat, before finally meeting his gaze again.
He opened the shower door, stepping into the steam and heat without a word.
The shower suddenly felt impossibly small with his presence filling it, the water droplets redirecting around his body to find new paths.
I instinctively stepped back, giving him room, but he closed the distance between us, one hand reaching up to tilt my face toward his.
“You’re sure about this?” His thumb traced my bottom lip.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I whispered.
His hand slid to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my wet hair as he drew me toward him.
Our bodies met, skin to slick skin, the contrast between his hard planes and my softer curves sending electricity sparking through my veins.
His mouth found mine, gentle at first, then hungrier as I responded, opening to him, my hands splaying across the muscled expanse of his chest.
His calloused fingers traced my collarbone, then dipped lower, skimming the curve of my breast with reverent caution, as if he feared I might shatter beneath his touch.
“You won’t break me,” I murmured against his mouth, arching into his hand.
A low growl rumbled through his chest. “No,” he agreed, his palm fully cupping my breast now, thumb circling the sensitive peak. “You’re stronger than you look.”
Water cascaded over us as we explored each other with increasing urgency.
My hands mapped the ridges and valleys of his torso, the taut muscles of his back, the curve of his ass.
His cock pressed hard against my stomach, a reminder of his need that matched the ache building between my thighs.
When his fingers trailed down my ribs, across my belly, then lower to find the slick heat of my pussy, I gasped into his mouth, my nails digging into his shoulders.