Falling for the Viking King & Other Bad Decisions

"There are much easier ways to get yourself killed, Fawn," Dom drawls from somewhere behind me. "Or worse. Expelled."

I don't look back. Can't afford to—I'm balanced on a rafter beam thirty feet above Gundor Hall's marble floor, tracking my target through the ornate architecture like some kind of deranged cat burglar.

"I'm already being dismissed," I mutter, watching Lala Tangleleaf move through the corridor below with her stack of papers. "So what's the difference?"

"Fair point."

The whisper comes directly in my ear. Warm breath, close enough to feel lips almost brush skin.

I gasp, spin, nearly lose my footing—

Below, Lala's head snaps up.

I flatten myself against a decorative column, pressing into shadow, heart slamming against my ribs.

Her violet eyes scan the rafters. Searching.

I don't breathe.

After an eternity, she shakes her head slightly and continues walking, purple hair gleaming under the chandeliers.

I round on Dom, who's perched on the beam beside me like he materialized from nothing. Which, knowing him, he might have.

"Are you insane?" I hiss. "You almost blew my cover!"

He grins with absolutely zero remorse. "Unexpected things happen in the field, Seaborne. Consider it a training exercise."

Gods, he's infuriating.

Also hot, which is annoying. His brother Pierce is golden and warm. The kind of guy who makes you feel like everything's going to be fine. Dom's the kind of guy that makes you want to check your pockets after he leaves.

It's the eyes, mostly. One blood-red, one gold, both watching me like he's deciding whether I'm entertainment or dinner.

"Training exercise," I repeat flatly. "You're not even supposed to be here."

"And yet." He spreads his hands, unrepentant. "Here I am. Watching you stalk our head librarian across the academy rafters. Which, I have to say, is certainly a choice."

Below us, Lala moves with that predator grace all shifters have. Her enhanced senses should make tailing her a near impossible task, but even with Dom nearly blowing my cover she has no idea I’m here.

Because I'm just that good.

Not that my father seems to think so.

"You planning to stop me?" I ask, sidestepping along the beam. My boots are soft-soled, silent.

"Stop you?" Dom sounds genuinely delighted. "Fawn, this is the most entertainment I've had in months.”

"What'll be even more entertaining is if you got me onto an Alpha mission." I vault to the next beam, keeping my eyes on Lala the whole time. "Save a dying world, seduce some cursed king, restore cosmic balance. You know, the fun stuff."

"Ah yes, because nothing says 'fun' like FGI's little relationship counseling program for broken realities." Dom's grin sharpens. "Though I have to say, watching you try to fuck the apocalypse into submission does sound entertaining."

"Don't you run this place?" I press. "Can't you just—"

"Last I checked it's called Pierce Charming Academy, not Dom's Fuck Around and Find Out School." He gestures vaguely at the rafters around us. "I'm just forced to babysit twerps in my brother's daycare pet project."

I press my lips together to keep from snorting. Dom seems to be determined to fuck this up for me. “Well, even if you did run the place I doubt you’d be able to convince the General to put me on a mission anyway.”

Dom’s mismatched eyes glitter. "Daddy issues. My absolute favorite."

I flip him off without looking. "He doesn't think I'm ready. Probably never will. I could ace every trial, break every record, and he'd still find a reason to keep me benched."

"Tragic. Tell me more about your complicated relationship with authority figures."

"Shut up, Dom."

"Never."

Below, Lala turns down the corridor leading to the General's wing. My stomach tightens.

Of course. Where else would she be going with mission files?

"You know," Dom continues, sounding thoughtful, "most people trying to break into classified missions don't monologue about their father first."

"Most people don't have the General as their father," I counter. "Most people get judged on their actual abilities.”

"How tragic for you. Truly. I'm verklempt."

I resist the urge to throw something at him. "Don't you have chaos to cause elsewhere?"

"This is the chaos." He pauses. "Quick question. What's your brilliant plan once you steal that card? Walk into an extraction pod and hope for the best?"

"More or less."

"Inspiring. No notes."

Lala stops outside the massive oak doors of my father's office. My heart kicks hard.

"I just need one shot," I whisper, more to myself than Dom. "One mission. Prove I can do this. That I'm not just..." I stop myself.

"Not just what?"

"Nothing."

"Not just the disappointing daughter of a legendary dead woman?" Dom supplies helpfully. "Not just the girl who'll never be her mother no matter how hard she tries?"

I grit my teeth. "You're really bad at pep talks."

"I'm not giving a pep talk. I'm narrating your internal monologue. Continue."

Below, Lala knocks. The door opens.

I'm already moving, swinging down to a lower beam, then to a decorative column. I drop silently to the floor, slipping past the closing doors before pressing into the shadows behind a towering bookshelf.

My father's office is massive. Maps cover one wall. The other holds his collection of weapons from missions past. I edge along the bookshelf, keeping to the blind spots I memorized years ago.

"Status report?" my father says from behind his desk.

"Sir." Lala's crisp tone. She's standing in the center of the room, back straight, purple hair perfect. "Regarding Bothvar Orrin. We're ready to deploy Alpha team, but..." She hesitates. "The profiles we've run on the target are concerning. This won't be a standard seduction mission. We'll need our absolute best."

My pulse kicks. Bothvar Orrin. That's the Red planet. The apocalyptic one everyone's been whispering about.

I slide around the bookshelf, positioning myself behind a heavy armchair near the window. Close enough to hear everything. Close enough to move when I need to.

"I'm aware of the risks," my father says.

"Then you know we should be sending Agent 555." Lala's voice firms. "The target profile suggests someone with adaptability, combat excellence, and the kind of instincts that can't be taught. Even with her... attitude problems, 555 is the best choice for this."

Agent 555.

That's me. My designation. The number Fate herself gave me.

"I've made my decision." My father’s voice is like granite. "The matter is closed."

"Sir, with respect—"

"The matter is closed, Tangleleaf."

Something cold settles in my chest. He's not even considering it. Not even discussing it.

I move.

Silent steps across plush carpet. Lala's focused on my father, shoulders tight with frustration. She doesn't hear me. Doesn't sense me until I'm already there. I close the distance, using her shifted weight against her, and with one precise strike to the base of her skull, she crumples.

I catch her before she hits the ground, lower her carefully, papers scattering across the floor.

I grab the Master Staff Card from her belt and straighten, meeting my father's shocked gaze across the room.

"Fawn."

"It's you." The words come out flat. "You're the one who's not letting me go."

His jaw works. "You don't understand—"

"Then explain it." I hold up the card. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been blocking me this entire time."

For a long moment, we just stare at each other. Then something shifts in his expression. Not quite resignation. Something worse.

Guilt.

He stands slowly, moving around his desk. "Your mother was the best agent FGI ever had. Fearless. Unstoppable." His voice roughens. "And she died on a mission, Fawn. I've already buried one person I love doing this work. I won't bury another."

The words hit like a physical blow, but I force myself to stay steady. "So what? You just decided I'd never get a chance? That I'd spend my entire life training for missions I'd never be allowed to take?"

"I decided you'd survive," he corrects. "Even if it meant—"

"Even if it meant treating me like I'm made of glass?" I step closer. "Why don't you believe in me? What do I have to do to prove I'm ready?"

"This isn't about whether you're ready."

"Then what is it about?" My voice rises. "Because I've done everything right. Every test, every trial, every impossible standard you've set. And it's never enough. It'll never be enough because I'm not her, and I never will be!"

His expression cracks. "You think I don't know that?" he says quietly. "You think I look at you and see your mother?"

"Don't you?"

"I see my daughter." His voice breaks. "I see someone with the same courage, the same fire, the same stubborn determination to save everyone except herself. And it terrifies me, Fawn. Because when Fate spoke to me, when you first entered this academy, she told me that if I let you go to Bothvar Orrin, you wouldn't come back."

The world tilts.

"Fate... told you I'd die there?"

"She said you wouldn't return," he corrects carefully. "So yes. I froze your file. I made sure your name never came up for consideration. Because I will not lose you to some prophecy."

For a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think.

Then: "Maybe that means I'll succeed," I say. "Maybe I won't return because I'll find something there worth staying for. Did you think of that?"

"You're hearing what you want to hear."

"And you're seeing what you're afraid to see," I shoot back. "You're so terrified of losing me that you won't even let me try."

His hands curl into fists. "You want to understand why I can't let you go?" He touches something on his desk. "Then look."

A holographic projector hums to life.

"This is what's waiting on Bothvar Orrin," he says quietly. "This is what you're so determined to face."

The hologram materializes and…

Oh.

Oh.

He's massive. Like, absurdly massive. Six and a half feet of pure "you're going to die but you'll enjoy it" energy, standing in what looks like a battle-scarred throne room. The projection is life-sized, FGI's fancy tech making him feel present, like he's actually standing ten feet away instead of being pixels and light.

I can't see his face. It's hidden in shadow, hood pulled low over what I'm assuming is a jawline that could cut glass. Tattered black cloak draped over shoulders that are, frankly, offensive. The chest beneath is bare and covered in tattoos that look less like decoration and more like a historical record of violence. Arms that could probably bench-press a horse. Some kind of warrior's kilt that's either dark red and brown, or just caked in old blood.

Which, okay, yes, that should be horrifying.

Except my brain apparently didn't get the memo.

The hologram shifts. I catch a glimpse—strong jaw, braided hair—before shadow swallows it again.

Holy shadow daddy.

That thought arrives fully formed and completely inappropriate given that I'm standing in my father's office having just knocked out a colleague, but my brain has priorities and "professional behavior" isn't making the list.

Because here's the thing: I'm not just looking at him.

I'm feeling him.

There's a pull. Low in my stomach, insistent and impossible to ignore. Every nerve ending lights up like someone just plugged me into a socket. My skin prickles. My pulse does something complicated and stupid.

Run, my instincts scream.

Toward, they also scream, which seems like mixed messaging.

I know I should look away. Focus on my father, on the mission, on literally anything else.

But I stand there staring like an idiot because apparently danger looks really good on some people.

"His name is Rok Magnus," my father says quietly, and his voice sounds distant, like he's speaking from underwater. "The Destroyer of Men."

Yeah. That tracks.

My father waits until I finally tear my gaze from the hologram to look at him.

"And Fawn," His expression is grim. "He will eat you alive."

"Cool," I hear myself say. "When do I leave?"