Page 3 of Viking (Dixie Reapers MC #24)

Karoline

I couldn’t stop moving. Back and forth across my living room, from the window to the bookshelf, checking the clock every thirty seconds as if time might suddenly leap forward.

Sleep had never come last night -- just tears and memories and frantic Internet searches that led nowhere.

My eyes burned, and my throat felt raw. The house, usually so tidy, reflected my inner chaos with coffee mugs abandoned on side tables, blankets crumpled on the couch, and photo albums still scattered across the floor where I’d left them.

In just a few minutes, my entire life was about to change again, and all I could do was pace and wait for the doorbell to ring.

My brother’s friend had offered to come with me to meet Athena yesterday, but after seeing her, I’d made the decision on my own.

I would bring her home today. The social worker had seemed surprised but pleased by my determination.

“Children do better with family,” she’d said, patting my hand.

“And you clearly have experience with little ones.”

Experience, yes. I knew how to manage twenty preschoolers at once, how to handle tantrums and accidents and hurt feelings. But this was different. This wasn’t sending a child home at the end of the day. This was becoming everything to someone who’d just had their entire world turned upside down.

I picked up a framed photo of Kris and me from Christmas a few years ago, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us wearing ridiculous matching sweaters and Santa hats.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered to his frozen smile. “I don’t know how to be what she needs.”

The doorbell rang, and I nearly dropped the frame. I set it down with trembling hands, took one last look around the disaster of my living room, and forced myself to walk slowly to the door. No running. No panicking. Just breathe.

When I opened the door, my eyes went first to the social worker -- a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and practical shoes -- and then down to the small figure partially hidden behind her legs.

My heart stopped.

The photo I’d seen hadn’t done her justice.

Athena’s hair was the exact shade of copper-red that had earned me the nickname “Christmas” throughout my school years, falling in wild curls around a heart-shaped face.

Her eyes, wary and watchful, shifted between blue and gray as she tilted her head to look up at me.

She was tiny for three, dressed in jeans and a faded purple sweater, clutching the straps of a small backpack shaped like a ladybug.

“Ms. Kringle?” The social worker smiled professionally. “I’m Janet Winters. We spoke yesterday. And this is Athena.” She placed a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder. “Athena, this is your Aunt Karoline. Remember we talked about coming to stay with her?”

Athena didn’t speak. She didn’t nod. She just stared at me with those too-old eyes in that tiny face.

“Please, come in,” I managed, stepping back from the doorway. “I’m sorry about the mess. It’s been … it’s been difficult.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Ms. Winters said, guiding Athena into the house. The child moved like a shadow, silent and wary, taking in everything with quick glances that missed nothing.

“I have some paperwork for you to sign,” Ms. Winters continued, pulling a folder from her bag as we moved into the living room.

“Temporary guardianship papers, mostly. This will establish you as Athena’s legal guardian effective immediately.

It will take time for the courts to finalize the adoption papers, which we’ll also complete today. ”

Adoption. The word hung in the air, making everything suddenly, terrifyingly real. This wasn’t babysitting. This wasn’t a temporary arrangement. This was forever.

“Have a seat,” I offered, hastily clearing space on the couch. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

“Water would be lovely, thank you.”

I escaped to the kitchen, needing a moment to collect myself. Through the doorway, I could see Ms. Winters settling on the couch, Athena standing stiffly beside her, still wearing her backpack, still not speaking.

My hands shook as I filled a glass with water. When I returned to the living room, Ms. Winters was spreading papers across the coffee table, explaining each one in a practiced tone that suggested she’d done this many times before.

“These are her medical records -- she’s up to date on all vaccinations. These are the temporary guardianship papers that need your signature. This is information about grief counseling services for both of you. And this is her birth certificate.”

I took the document with trembling fingers. There it was in black and white. Athena Marie Kringle. Mother: Unknown. Father: Kristopher James Kringle.

“We also have her suitcase in the car,” Ms. Winters continued.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid. And of course, her father’s personal effects will be delivered separately, as they’re still being processed by the military.

The place he rented, where Athena stayed, had already been cleared out by the landlord.

Your brother missed some rent payments and the landlord assumed he’d skipped out on him.

For whatever reason, he didn’t know your brother was in the military. ”

I nodded, barely hearing her as I stared at the birth certificate. My brother had a daughter. This was real. This silent child with his last name and my coloring was real.

“Ms. Kringle?” Ms. Winters’s voice pulled me back. “If you’re ready, I need your signature on these forms.”

I signed where she indicated, my handwriting barely recognizable. All the while, Athena stood motionless, watching.

“I’ll bring in her suitcase,” Ms. Winters said, standing. “Athena, why don’t you sit with your aunt for a minute?”

She left before either of us could protest, leaving me alone with my niece for the first time. We stared at each other across three feet of carpet that suddenly felt like an unbridgeable distance.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

Athena didn’t move.

I tried again. “Are you hungry? I have some cookies. Or maybe apple slices?”

Nothing. I glanced around desperately, looking for something, anything that might break through that silent wall. My eyes landed on a stuffed rabbit sitting on the armchair -- a prize from a carnival that Kris had won for me years ago.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for it. “Do you like rabbits? This one’s name is Hopper. He’s very friendly.”

I held out the faded blue rabbit, its long ears flopping over my hand. For a moment, Athena remained still. Then, slowly, she took a step forward. Another. Her small hand reached out, hovering just short of touching the toy.

“He’s yours if you want him,” I said. “I think he’d like having someone new to take care of him.”

Her fingers closed around the rabbit’s middle, and she pulled it carefully toward her chest. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak, but something in her posture relaxed slightly as she held the stuffed animal against her.

The door opened again as Ms. Winters returned with a small pink suitcase. “All set,” she said brightly. “Now, I’ll be checking in regularly, of course. First visit will be in three days. And you have my number if you need anything at all before then.”

I walked her to the door, listening to instructions about routines and comfort objects and signs of trauma that I should watch for.

All the while, I was acutely aware of Athena standing in my living room, holding my childhood stuffed rabbit, alone in a strange place with a stranger who happened to share her blood.

When Ms. Winters finally left, I closed the door and turned back to the child -- my niece, my responsibility, the last living piece of my brother.

“Well,” I said, forcing a smile I didn’t feel, “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

Athena looked up at me, her eyes so much like mine, so much like Kris’s, and for the first time, I saw something in them besides wariness. A question, maybe. Or the faintest glimmer of hope.

And in that moment, standing in my messy living room with this silent child who had lost everything, I felt something shift inside me. A fierce, unexpected protectiveness that pushed through my grief and fear. “It’s going to be okay,” I told her, and maybe myself too. “I promise.”

I didn’t know if I could keep that promise. I didn’t know the first thing about being a parent. But I knew that I would do whatever it took to keep her safe, to give her what Kris would have wanted for her.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Athena fell asleep on the couch after lunch, curled into a tight ball with Hopper the rabbit clutched against her chest. I covered her with a soft blanket, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her copper curls spilled across the cushion.

She hadn’t spoken a single word since arriving -- not to me, not to the social worker.

Not even a whisper. Three hours into guardianship, and I was already wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake thinking I could do this.

She was so small, so vulnerable, and so completely shut down that I had no idea how to reach her.

Lunch had been an awkward affair -- me chattering nervously about nothing while she stared at the peanut butter sandwich I’d made, taking tiny mouse bites only after I’d demonstrated that it was safe to eat.

She’d followed me around the house like a silent shadow, those watchful eyes taking in everything but giving nothing away.

When I’d suggested a rest on the couch, she’d climbed up without protest and simply curled into herself, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.