The Viking's Captive

by Quinn Loftis

  After making my way to her, I eased her around to face me, then lifted her chin so she’d see my expressions. “If you want to wait, I will be okay with that,” I told her gently. I cupped her face in my hand, loving the feel of her silky, smooth skin.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to wait. I want to be with you.” Taking my hand, Allete began pulling me toward the bed. She paused a moment, shook her head, and laughed.

  “What?” I asked, glancing around her. There were crushed plants scattered across the furs on the bed. “What is that?”

  Allete leaned down, picked up some of the plants, and lifted them to her nose. She breathed in before chuckling again. “It’s crushed fennel. It’s a plant known to heighten desire.”

  I grinned. “Do we eat it?”

  Allete looked over her shoulder at me. “You can steep it in water and make a tea. Do you need some?”

  I frowned. “Seriously? Have I not made my desire for you known? Does it seem lacking?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder how you so easily keep your hands off me,” she said coyly.

  “If that dress didn’t belong to Rainah, I’d rip it in half this moment,” I said, the desire that had been simmering between us beginning to grow. Her breath caught as her lips parted. Allete’s tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip. Whatever control I’d been holding on to was gone.

  I wrapped my arms around her, then kissed her as if the air in her lungs was the only thing that could keep me alive. Her hands were shoving at my clothes, and mine weren’t moving with much finesse in my need to remove everything between our bodies.

  As more skin was exposed, the caresses became less frantic and more reverent as we marveled at each other’s bodies. She was absolutely beautiful, and I told her so, repeatedly.

  As I laid her down on the bed and covered her naked form with my own, I pressed kisses across her collarbone, whispering, “You’re perfect.” My hand skimmed down her side, brushing the curve of her breast and dipping into the indention of her small waist until I gripped her hip, pulling her closer to me. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around my hip, and I groaned at the sensations it provoked.

  “I love you,” Allete whispered breathlessly as our bodies became one for the first time.

  I gasped as I felt a pull deep inside me, and the bond that had been missing suddenly snapped back into place. All of a sudden, it wasn’t just my desire I was feeling, but Allete’s as well.

  “Uskit’r,” I cursed as I pressed my forehead to hers. “Do you feel that?”

  She nodded as her eyes met mine. “I feel your own emotions within me.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. It was overwhelming, addictive, and all-consuming.

  Our bodies continued to move together, our skin growing damp with sweat. Our scents mingled as our voices filled the room. She was mine. I would do anything to keep her safe and healthy and, hopefully, happy. My fingertips ran across every soft piece of skin, memorizing her form as my mouth followed in their wake. Never had I experienced such emotion as I had while making love to Allete. It was something I would never get enough of. I hoped she wouldn’t, either.

  Hours later, we lay wrapped in each other’s arms, breathless, coated in sweat and sated—at least for a little while, I thought.

  “Whatever your mom did,” she said, “I mean, whatever cloaking spell she cast on me, is gone. It broke when we started making love. That’s why we could feel each other again. It also opened my mind to her memories.”

  Turning my body so I could prop up on an elbow and see her face as we spoke, I asked, “You can see her prophecies?”

  Allete nodded. “But they’re all jumbled. I feel like I’m going to have to just sit and sort them out in my mind.” She frowned, and I smoothed away the crease in her forehead.

  “Don’t worry about it tonight, my love,” I said. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I pulled her against me. “Rest while you can. I’m not done with you for the night.”

  I heard her soft laughter as I closed my eyes and drifted into a light sleep, feeling more at peace than I had in my entire life. I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew that in the next few weeks we would be preparing for the battles ahead of us. We would need to learn Dayna’s fate once and for all, and we would need to visit Allete’s parents to fill them in on everything that had happened and propose an alliance with Clan Hakon against Cathal. Regardless of whether Cathal still pursued Allete, the man needed to be brought to justice.

  But none of that could be dealt with tonight, and so I pushed it aside and simply held the woman who possessed my heart and soul. I would use this night and any others I could to make sure she knew just how much she meant to me.

  “I love you, Princess,” I whispered and smiled when I felt her snuggle closer.

  “You better. You’re stuck with me now.”

  * * *

  The End

  Brant

  The sound of the waves crashing onto the beach was relaxing, or as relaxing as it could be right now. There was never a second of the day that Dayna wasn’t on my mind. When I wasn’t envisioning her beautiful face, I was planning my assault against Calder. I knew she was alive, and I would get her back. I didn’t know how I knew she yet breathed, I just did. In my gut, I knew she was alive, and I was certain she would remain that way because Dayna was a fighter. She would not easily leave this earth.

  I picked up a fistful of sand and watched it flow through my fingers, like time slipping away. Every time, the sand trickled back to the ground no matter how tightly I squeezed my fist to try and contain it. I couldn’t stop it, just like I couldn’t stop the passing of time. It was infuriating. I wanted to be gone already, but I knew rushing in without a plan would not result in a favorable outcome. I didn’t begrudge Torben his wedding or time with his wife, but I was jealous. Jealous because I so badly wanted the same with Dayna. I wanted to lie in the dark with her and listen to her laughter and the sound of her breathing as she slept. I wanted to feel her soft, warm, supple body against my own and taste her lips. I’d never wanted anything with the ferocity I felt for Allete’s sister. It was surprising but not unwelcome. I’d finally met my match, and I couldn’t be more pleased. But I could feel no pleasure until she was returned to my side.

  “Hang on, my little warrior,” I said into the night, imagining the waves carrying my words to her. “I’m coming for you.”

  As usual, there are so many people to thank when it comes to the journey of writing a novel. It takes more than just an author to achieve such an endeavor. First and foremost I thank my Lord and Savior. He is the ultimate creator, the ultimate being with incredible imagination and I am daily in awe of the world he fashioned together for me to live in. Thank you to my husband, my love and my best friend all rolled into one. I couldn’t do this without him. Thank you to Jessica for your unending humor and willingness to delve into the scary place that is my mind. Thank you for your friendship. Thank you to Candace, after all these years you are still a huge part of my writing process and I love you. Thank you to Jamie, you are a source of encouragement and joy. God brought you into my life and has continued to use you as a positive influence. You have also made me a better writer and for that I am so very thankful. Thank you to my readers. Without you all I’d still be a nurse while writing part time but because of your support and faithfulness to my books I get to do what I love full time and I am incredibly grateful. There really is no way for me to show my thanks.

  About the Author

  Quinn Loftis is the author of 20 novels including the USA Today Bestseller Fate and Fury. Her writing passion is fantasy and paranormal though she has dabbled in contemporary at least once. Her books are character driven, filled with humor and highlight the struggles that come in any relationship. She believes in happily ever afters, but she will make sure that you have felt every emotion she can possibly pull out of you before she gets you there. Ultimately she is a woman who gets to live out her dream of being an author becau
se of the amazing fans who have taken a chance on her books and she is incredibly thankful to God and them. She lives in Western Arkansas with her husband, three sons, two dogs and cat that thinks he's a dog.

  Connect with me!

  https://www.quinnloftisbooks.com/

  Stay tuned for the final book in the Clan Hakon Series by Quinn Loftis. The Viking's Consort is scheduled to release in the Fall of 2019. Turn the page if you're looking for what to read next.

  If you've enjoyed The Viking’s Chosen, we recommend you also check out Nora & Kettle by Lauren Nicolle Taylor. Enjoy this exclusive excerpt here.

  1. WINGS

  NORA

  If I had wings, they would be black, thin, and feathered. Not a flat color… but iridescent. Shining with hues of purple, green, and blue. Catching the light with the barest fingertips. And when I needed, I could fold into the darkest shadows and hide.

  This time between the dark and the dawn is mine.

  I roll from my bed and slip quietly across the floor, avoiding the creaks in a shadowy dance no one will ever see. My ears tune to the nonexistent noises around me and I sigh, ghostlike, with relief. Because in this time, he sleeps.

  A snap of a memory flashes through my mind and body as I feel the sharp, short cracks delivered this time. This time.

  I ease the dresser drawer out, holding my breath as tiny splinters catch the sides, and reach underneath the lace and silk to the boys’ pants hidden beneath. Quickly, I slide them on, my bruises objecting as I bend to fasten them. Tucking the ends of my nightdress into the waist, I pad to the window.

  Across from our brownstone, one light shines dimly through a dirty window. Someone leaving for or returning from a shift; a refrigerator light; something simple and easy. I crinkle my nose and think, Of all the hundreds of people who live in that apartment building, how is it that only one solitary light shines? I quirk my lips into an unsure smile, a new split stinging as it stretches apart. This is why it is my time.

  Bending and flexing my legs, I take a deep breath and push the window ajar. It protests, groaning as I push my torso out and use my back to push it up. Settling on the windowsill, I close it down, pulling a small comb from my pocket and wedging it in the gap so I can get back in.

  Perched like a bat ready to launch into the night, my eyes dart to the corner of the building, to the rickety fire escape that would be much easier to climb. A car light bends over the gaps in the iron and fans out like the punch in a comic book. Wham! I snigger to myself, the laugh seeming foreign, jarring. I’m not supposed to laugh. I’m a sad girl, with a sad life.

  But it is my life, and tonight… I’m going to fly.

  I face my window and grasp the drainpipe that runs the length of the building. Staring up at the sky for a moment, I search out my destination. The one error in the building, which grates on him, invites me. One beam they forgot to trim sits out from the wall like a pirate ship plank. I dig my bare toes into the worn spaces between the bricks and climb.

  I’m a shadow taped to the wall, scaling the pipe in solid but fast movements. Breathing hard and forgetting everything. The sky and the stars hang around just for me. They cling to the fading darkness, and I let them spark my senses. The night air closes in like the wings of a crow, folding over, protecting and gifting me something I lack. I pass the window of our sleeping neighbors and shake my head. They won’t hear me.

  I breathe in deeply. Car exhaust films the air but it lightens, sweetens, as I climb. Overhead, the plank casts a cool shadow over the building, lengthening as the moon starts to dip away and the sun coaxes the sky into pinks and oranges. My time is only minutes. My mind is only on the hands pulling me up and the legs stabilizing me.

  I dig my toes into the brackets holding the pipe. It cuts in, but my skin is toughening through scars crisscrossing over other scars. I throw my head back, my hair wisping and sticking to my cheeks. Sweat makes my grip slippery. It takes more concentration, more strength to hold on, but that’s why I like it. This risk sends flickers through my heart; pinprick lights like the points of a star. It keeps something beating that could be dead, should be dead. But I can’t let it.

  I won’t.

  The pipe trembles under my weight, the screws wriggle in their brackets, and I hold tighter. Moving faster up, up, up, until I reach the beam. I link my hands together around the plank, the dry wood soaking up some of my sweat.

  This part, the upside-down part… I love.

  I hug the beam and creep my feet up the wall until I can wrap my legs around it, swinging like a raccoon on a telephone wire. My head drops down and I stare out at the inverted city, the skyscrapers hanging from the earth like stalactites, dripping their lights into the clouds and piercing the sky. One shake and the people would spill from their locked-in positions, sprinkling like pepper into the atmosphere.

  Just float away.

  Light as air… I want to be a speck carried by the wind.

  My hair swings in coils and clumps on either side of my eyes, and my head starts to beat like a drum full of water from too much blood. I work my way around until I’m right way up, lying stomach to beam.

  I push back to sitting, my legs dangling, my chest filled to bursting with cleaner air, the flames of sunrise singeing the top of my head.

  If I had wings… They’d need to be strong enough…

  Closing my eyes as the round edge of the sun pokes above the horizon, I spread my arms wide. I let the small breeze flutter under my limbs, cool my skin, and free my hair.

  If I had wings, I could fly.

  2. ACCIDENTS

  NORA

  * * *

  Paths are usually stamped-out, well-defined things. They’re like that for a reason. They point toward a way through. They are hope in a lost place.

  My path is patchy, indeterminate, and young. Thousands of feet have not walked this path. Although, sadly, I know some have.

  The sun splits the willowy curtains into strands of green and cream, dancing over each other with the breeze. Groggily, I blink and watch the delicate performance, unwilling to move and waiting for the pain to set in. Branches tap out a Morse-code message on the window. I flinch, mistaking it for sharp knuckles rapping on my door. A dull ache courses through my stomach and pins itself to my back, wishing me good morning.

  I carefully straighten under the covers, pointing my toes and testing my limbs. I’m okay. These wounds are ordinary. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

  Through the narrow crack of my bedroom door sails the ordinary clatter of the morning—spoons rattling in empty bowls as they are thrown in the sink and a copper kettle whistling, high-pitched and impatient. That new Perry Como song plays on the radio, my mother’s humming sounding like nails on a chalkboard in my sore head. I wait. Sure enough, halfway through the song, his controlled, sharp-as-icepicks footsteps cross the kitchen and the radio squeals across the bands to classical music. I clasp my head with both hands at the squeal and then the twanging violins.

  I want to sleep. I need to sleep. I won’t get to sleep.

  “Nora!” my mother screams, matching the sound of the kettle with its impatient trill. Her loud voice pushes its way between the fingers holding my head together and vibrates inside my skull. “I need you downstairs and ready for school in five minutes!” I can almost see her pointing sharply at the tiles as if I should materialize that instant right where she’s indicating.

  I release my hands from my ears and lay them in my lap, palms upward. Everything I do is slow because my body is trying to avoid the pain. I want to tell it not to bother, swallowing dryly at the state of my wrists. Fingernail impressions separate the thin veins that run across my pale skin. I pull the sleeves of my nightdress down and tie the ribbons tightly over the marks.

  A loud groan rumbles up the stairs. “Ugh! Nora, I’m not kidding. We’re going to be late… again.” For someone so small, she can bellow like an overweight opera singer.

  I sigh, pull the downy covers over my head, and am
clouded in darkness. Just a few more minutes. I am afforded none as a scrawny, angular weight lands on top of me. Knees like shelf brackets dig into my ribs.

  “Nora, Nora, Nora… Get up.” My name piles one on top of another without a breath in between. Thin fingers clamp onto my arms and shake.

  I pull away. “All right,” I mumble, my voice muffled by the heavy quilt.

  “Nora. Nora. Noraaaaaa.” Because she can’t hear me, Frankie’s poking continues. It feels like she’s taken two forks from downstairs and is jamming them into my sides. I curl down the covers carefully, squinting at all the lights she switched on when she entered my room.

  Frankie shuffles back and smiles, gummy, three teeth missing. Her hearing aid is in her open palm. “Can you help me put thissss in, Noraaaaaaa?” she says, her Ss hissing through the gap. I sit up and tuck her long, straight hair, which is the color of autumn leaves, behind her ear. She giggles and rasps, a slight wheeze in her defective chest. Bobbing her head back and forth, she sings some unintelligible song as I wrangle with her hair and constant movement.

  I clamp my hand down on top of her head. “Hold still, Frankie,” I plead through gritted, fuzzy teeth.

  She lurches forward just to make it more difficult, but I manage to slip the aid into her tiny, peaches-and-cream-colored ear. I position the headband my mother lovingly wound with pink satin ribbon. The aid whining itches my teeth as I grab her clothes and still her while clipping the little black box onto her sash. Smiling, she glances up at me with dark blue eyes, yellow streaks streaming from the irises like the rays of the sun. “Tanks!” she whispers and licks my hand.

  “Oh yuck, Frankie!” I roll my eyes and watch my ferrety little sister bound out of the room and tear down the hall, sounding more like an elephant than a seven-year-old.