Page 11 of Blood Red Rage

One second, I was standing there, heart still racing, trying to convince myself that none of this was real, that I could still walk away if I wanted to. The next, Viking was in front of me. His hand came up fast, firm at the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair as if he already knew exactly how it would feel there. There was no warning, no hesitation.

He kissed me, it was not soft or tentative. He kissed me like he’d been holding back a storm and finally let it loose. Everything went white, the club vanished, the music cut out. My thoughts scattered like birds startled from a wire. His mouth was hot, demanding, unrelenting, and my body responded before my mind could catch up. I gasped into him, fingers curling into his shirt without permission from my brain.

I didn’t kiss men like this. I didn’t let men take control like this, but the second his mouth moved against mine; I forgot every rule I’d ever written for myself. Forgot where I was and who I was. All I could feel was him. His height, his heat, the way his body shielded mine from the crowd like a wall I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.

When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against mine. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.

I should have, but I didn’t.

He took my hand then, fingers closing around mine like it was the most natural thing in the world, and led me through the crowd. No one stopped us, no one even tried. People moved aside like they knew better.

We went upstairs, to the same lounge I’d seen him watching from earlier. A private booth waited there, shadowed and secluded. The second we stepped inside, Viking inclined his head slightly. That was all it took.

The men already inside stood immediately and left without a word. Fighters, every one of them. I could tell by the way they moved, the way they looked at him. Not fear but respect.

Power hummed around him, quiet and absolute. My pulse kicked up again.

“What is this?” I asked inclining my head towards the men.

He turned to me, eyes dark. “Our men.”

Before I can ask him more, he stepped closer, crowding me back until the wall pressed against my shoulders. “Tell me about you,” he said, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “Your life. Your work. What you hide.”

I laughed breathlessly. “That’s a lot to ask someone you just met, and brought upstairs, isn’t it?”

He smiled faintly, like he liked that I didn’t scare easily. “I didn’t kidnap you. You came.” I hated that he was right. Between kisses, between stolen breaths, he slowed just enough to let me think again. Just barely.

“What do you do?” he asked, thumb brushing along my jaw, grounding and distracting all at once.

I swallowed. “Procurement.”

His brow creased. “Meaning?”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Meaning I argue with suppliers, chase invoices, and make sure construction sites don’t grind to a halt because someone forgot to order steel beams.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You sound bored.”

“I am,” I admitted. “But it pays the bills and keeps the lights on and food in the fridge.”

“Where do you live,” he murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing the corner of my mouth. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s small,” I said, breath hitching when he kissed my neck. “One bedroom on the second floor of my building, it has creaky floors and it’s way too quiet most nights.”

“You live alone.”

“Yes.”

Something dark and satisfied flickered through his eyes before he caught himself. “And dancing?”

I smiled despite myself. “That’s the escape. When the music’s loud enough, my brain shuts up. No spreadsheets. No deadlines. Just… movement.”

His forehead rested against mine. “You disappear into it.”

“I guess I do.”

“I watched you,” he said quietly. “You don’t perform. You let it take you.” Heat curled low in my stomach at the way he said it.

“You listen too closely,” I muttered.