Page 52 of Viking

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t let me go. His thumb traces lazy circles along my bare hip as he reaches into the pocket of his shorts with his other hand, pulling out the phone and glancing at the screen.

“James,” he says, voice rough, raw, like his body hasn’t caught up to the interruption. He answers the call but doesn’t stop touching me. His mouth brushes my jaw, then lower, along my throat. He hums distractedly as the voice on the other end starts talking.

I can’t hear the words.

But I feel it.

The shift.

The way his hand stills on my skin. The slow straightening of his spine. That razor-sharp edge settling over him like armor being strapped into place.

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.

And I know.

“Yes, sir,” he says, his voice clipped. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

Ice spreads through my chest.

He ends the call. His jaw is tight, his eyes unreadable.

“We’re deploying.”

I shake my head, heart racing for a different reason now. “I don’t understand. That’s not new—”

“Wheels up in two hours.”

Hampton, Virginia

June 4, 2024

1730

Logan

Lila’s eyes are wide, panic and fear written across her pretty face.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about her brother. About the last time he deployed. About how when he finally came home it was in a box.

When I saw Townsend’s name flash across my screen, I knew it couldn’t be good. Earlier today, when he said soon, I didn’t realize he meant this soon. His tone on the phone had confirmed it. “The base we’re heading to is in dire need of air support. I can’t tell you much else other than the obvious—we’re that support.”

She nods, her green eyes brimming with tears. I reach forward, wiping away a stray one that slides down her cheek.

“How long will you be gone?” she manages, her voice small and shaking.

“We don’t know. A couple of months at the least, or…” I trail off, hesitating. I don’t tell her that once I left for what we thought would be two or three months and didn’t come back for thirteen. She doesn’t need that weighing on her.

“You won’t be safe,” she whispers. “If they need air support, wherever you’re going is under siege—or it’s about to be.”

It’s not a question. She’s too smart for that. I don’t bother denying it.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I say because what else can I say? “I have to pack,” I add, but the words feel hollow.

She stands quickly, sliding off the counter, grabbing her clothes like she can armor herself with athleisure to erase what almost just happened. Her movements are sharp, frantic. Efficient in a way that tells me this isn’t about embarrassment.

It’s fear. And not of me.

Her skin is still flushed, her breathing still unsteady, but her face is pale. Eyes wide. And I can feel her already pulling away, protecting herself from something I don’t fully understand yet.