Page 80 of Viking

He thrusts into me with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs. Every movement is rough, desperate, devastating. His hand grips my hip like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, like he’s trying to ground himself in my body.

I lightly kiss the bandage on his shoulder. His throat. His mouth. Then pull back to look at him.

His storm-gray eyes are open wide, and for a fleeting second, I see everything.

Love. Hate. Pain. Pleasure. Guilt. Joy. Fear.

So much fear.

And it destroys me.

Because even as he’s inside me—claiming me, consuming me—he’s still somewhere else. Still haunted by what he’s lost. Still convinced he doesn’t deserve what he’s holding.

His moan rips through me. I feel his fingers between us, coaxing me closer, and then I fall, shattered and whole all at once.

One last thrust, and he follows me into the dark, our mouths clashing as we fall over the edge together.

For a heartbeat, the world disappears.

There’s only us.

I hold him like it’s the last time I’ll ever get to.

But it isn’t.

He’s mine two more times, each time more desperate, more consuming, until our bodies collapse, tangled and exhausted, the weight of everything we can’t say still lingering in the quiet.

***

The first rays of sunlight filter through the blinds, painting streaks of gold across the room. I stir, reaching out instinctively, but my hand meets cool sheets.

My heart stutters.

I sit up, clutching the sheet around me.

Logan’s by the door, attention fixed on the impossible task of getting dressed without using his injured arm. His service dress shirt hangs unbuttoned, the fabric gaping to reveal hard planes of chest and the ridges of his abs. The coat dangles from his good arm, the other sleeve useless, and the weight of his duffel drags one shoulder down.

He’s not looking at me.

“You’re leaving,” I say, my voice raw and cracking with sleep. It’s not a question.

His shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t turn around. “Yeah. We’re spinning up in a couple hours.”

I scramble out of bed, grabbing my discarded sweatshirt from the floor and pulling it over my head. It hangs down to mid-thigh and has temporarily become the armor I’m wearing into this battle. “So that’s it? You weren’t even going to wake me?”

“I didn’t want to make this harder than it needs to be,” he says, finally turning toward me.

His face is a mask, icy and detached.

The one he wears in the cockpit.

A Viking.

But his eyes betray him. They’re dark and haunted, swirling with something I can’t quite reach.

“Harder for who? For you?” I snap, stepping closer. My heart is pounding, but I don’t care if he sees the hurt in my eyes. “Because it’s already hard as hell for me, Logan. Watching you shut me out. Watching you self-destruct.”

“I told you, Lila. I’m not the man you think I am,” he says, his voice sharp and biting. “Last night should never have happened. It was a mistake.” He leaves my room, heading toward the front door.