Page 11 of Viking

And now, here she is. In the last place I’d ever expect.

I drag in a breath, trying to find my footing, but my pulse is spiking like I’m pulling gs.

She moves, opening the door to the briefing room. There’s a grace to her, a fluidity that’s mesmerizing. And somehow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember. Long dark hair cascading down her back. Tiny frame wrapped in a loose sundress that sways around her legs. She’s all soft lines and color in a world built on steel and structure, and I’m drawn to her like a damn magnet.

But with that pull comes the weight of everything we didn’t say.

The memories hit fast, one after the other. Her eyes on me in the crowded bar. Us weaving through the Strip surrounded by neon and laughter. Me on one knee in front of strangers who thought it was real. My hand wrapped around one of hers and her heels dangling from the other. Her back against the wall. Under me. On top of me. Gone.

I swallow hard, trying to compose myself, following her into the room. It suddenly feels too small, the air too still. Her green eyes lock with mine from where she stands on the other side of the room and seem to pierce right through me. Gathering my courage, I take a step forward, ready to close the distance between us.

Langley AFB

April 27, 2024

11:52 a.m.

Lila

The six jet engines are deafening, their roar vibrating through the crowd and ricocheting off the buildings as they climb higher into the sky. I tear my eyes away from the Thunderbirds, weaving and darting through the air in a tight formation, and walk into the hangar. Butterflies twist in my stomach as I grip the badge granting me unlimited access.

I round the corner and hear the muffled voices growing louder. The unmistakable clinking of boots on concrete. A couple of crew members are gathered by one of the Raptors, their backs to me. My gaze sweeps over the aircraft, the F-22 parked near the center of the hangar. It seems like so much more than a machine. Like a living thing. A predator on the ground. I can almost feel the rumble of the engines in my bones.

I take a deep breath and stop just outside the briefing room, trying to steady myself. My fingers twitch at the fabric of the navy sleeveless, tiered midi sundress. Major Townsend told me to dress comfortably, so I paired it with white high-top Converse. The cool metal of my lanyard presses against my neck.

This is it. The moment I’ve been working toward. Maybe for my entire career, if I’m honest. I’ve spent years coordinating officer galas, promotion ceremonies, and high-stakes dinners for politicians and top defense officials. And I’ve been good at it, but I’m ready for something more.

Still, my stomach is in knots, my nerves charged. It’s hard to ignore the weight of what this job means. How it feels like more than just a career move. Like a chance to be closer to Lincoln—to his world, the one that I’ve felt drawn to for the last decade.

I shove the thought down before it can linger. I didn’t come here just because of him. I’ve told myself that a hundred times. I worked for this. Six years of late nights, long hours, and doing everything I could to make myself the perfect fit for this role. It feels right, like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be. Like I can almost reach him.

My father’s dedicated over thirty years to the Air Force. He’s a lieutenant general, and yeah, maybe he nudged a few doors open for me. I can’t ignore the fact that his influence helped me land my new position, helped put me as close to this jet as a civilian can get. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t earned it. Even if the thought gnaws at me, making my chest feel tight.

I swallow hard, glancing at the glass doors, slightly ajar. Muffled voices and the cadence of conversation carry through the gap. My heart hammers harder. I force myself to take a breath and step forward, hoping I can convince myself I belong here.

I pull open the door to the briefing room and walk to the far side, out of the way until I’m needed. It smells like warm metal and faintly of burnt coffee, the kind that’s been sitting in a pot too long but is still strong enough to keep a team running. I glance around me, taking in the space itself, the crew, and the pilots.

And then the room tilts.

It’s not possible.

I mean it is, but what are the odds?

Apparently very good because he’s here, standing in this room, wearing an F-22 demo team flight suit that only the pilots wear.

Logan.

My Norse god.

I don’t know why I freeze, but I do. My breath catches in my throat, making it hard to breathe properly.

His beautiful slate-colored eyes are exactly as I remember.

Viking eyes.

His gaze sweeps over me and the world seems to pause. There’s a flicker of recognition and I wonder if he’s thinking about that night in Vegas, too. His expression doesn’t give anything away, but there’s something on his handsome face—maybe it’s the way his lips lift slightly—that tells me he remembers, that he’s trying to reconcile the memory of me with the person standing across from him.

Logan’s leaning against the far wall next to the door like he just entered the room. His arms are crossed over his chest, the whisper of a smirk working its way to his lips. His flight suit is unzipped just enough to reveal a white undershirt. He’s bigger than I remember. His shoulders broader, his presence heavier, like six years have carved him into something even more solid.