He drops me off at the bookstore just as the fog thins. One saying about Texas is true: if you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes because it will change! This time of year seems to be when we either get fog, some wind, storms, or something in between. Turning to him, I open my mouth to thank him, but he’s already out of the SUV, rounding the front like it’s instinct.
The door opens, and his hand is there, steady and warm, guiding me from the seat. The world feels too quiet, the air thickwith unsteady energy, and we aren’t saying anything. His palm finds the small of my back as he walks me toward my shop door, the contact so subtle it feels sacred.
Inside, the air smells like old paper and bergamot, safe and familiar. Outside, the city hums, restless even in its calm.
“Lock the door, little one,” he says.
“I know,” I retort, but my voice barely holds steady.
He leans closer, his breath brushing my ear. “Pardon, little girl?”
My throat tightens. “Yes, Sir, I’ll lock the door.”
The corner of his mouth curves. “Good girl.”
The words hit low, soft but heavy, like a command wrapped in warmth. Heat pools in my stomach, spreading fast and bright until it’s hard to breathe. For a moment, I can’t move. I can’t even think. I can only feel the phantom press of his voice against my skin.
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. His thumb lingers at the edge of my jaw, and the contact pulls every nerve taut.
“Dinner. Seven,” he breathes.
“Yes, Sir.” It comes out as a breath, not a word.
He hesitates for a heartbeat, eyes scanning my face, my trembling hands, and the door lock, then nods once. “Top bolt,” he reminds me before stepping back and heading towards his car.
The door closes softly behind him.
I stand there, hand on the wood, listening to the muted thud of his footsteps fade away. My heart won’t slow. The air feels charged, like I’m still standing in the echo of my own personal storm.
Through the memory of our last lunch, Grace's voice whispers, "Sounds like 'Viking love.”Maybe it is.
Or maybe it’s something deeper, something older than love, something that feels like recognition written in the bones.
Bjorn
When Erik’s name flashes across my phone in a text, I already know it’s not about business.
Erik: There’s something off with the Veritek feed again; her block, the same as last week.
I recline in my chair, massaging my nose. The office around me hums with low chatter, clicking keyboards, and the sound of Grace’s laughter filtering in from the next room as she laughs at God knows whatever my brothers are sharing with her. The sound of her laugh alone is enough to steady me.
Me: Copy. I’ll have Soren run diagnostics. Keep her close.
Erik: Always.
Always.For Erik, that word isn’t a promise. It’s a vow.
I glance through the glass wall at Grace, still perched on the couch, tablet balanced on her lap, scrolling through, no doubt, more baby names. Her glow is a small sun in the gray afternoon. I’d bottle it if I could, guard it, and hide it from everything outside these walls.
SableCorp thinks it can breach us again by watching the women we love. They still don’t understand: the Halvorsen line doesn’t fracture; it fortifies.
Every threat against one of us strengthens all of us. That’s the creed. That’s the blood oath our grandfather carved into oak and steel decades ago.
Grace catches me watching her and smiles, eyes soft and trusting. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She doesn’t need to.
I thumb out one last message before powering down the monitor:
Me: If they’re circling again, let them. They’ll find out soon enough what family really means.
