Heart of a Wolf (Viking Wolves #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Kieran

Museums.

Another thing to add to the exceptionally long list of Things That Make Kieran Grove Irrationally Anxious.

I’ve got nothing against museums. They’re neat. I went to the Museum of Natural History in NYC all the time when I was a kid. I loved those big bones—dinosaur bones, that is. But that’s the thing—people go to see maybe one or two exhibits, not the entire museum in one go!

I need to tell that to my friend Amanda. She’s been buzzing around Iceland’s Viking World Museum like a bee drunk on pollen for the last hour and shows no signs of slowing down. I don’t know how many times I can nod along and say, “Cool!” when we’ve stopped for the eighth time in a minute to look at something that caught her eye. I’ll admit, though, the authentic longship was cool.

It’s only fair I let her have her fun. She panted along after me on our guided hike to Mt. Esja yesterday. I thought it was great, especially since the guide incorporated yoga and mindfulness into the trek, something I desperately need with all the chaos going on in my life lately. But I could tell it wasn’t a highlight of the trip for Amanda.

Why is it that hiking up the side of a mountain doesn’t get me nervous but wandering around a crowded museum makes me feel like my skin’s too tight?

I’m looking forward to our whale watching excursion later today. Some sea air will lift my spirits… or give me pneumonia. It’s cold in Reykjavik, even in early October.

“Kieran, check this out!”

A toddler nearly trips me as I make my way over to Amanda. “What is it?” I peer over her shoulder into the display case, but I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It looks like some kind of metal contraption.

Amanda explains, “Shackles for thralls. That’s what the ancient Norse called their slaves. They were the lowest caste of people in Scandinavian society.”

“Awful.” I fight back a yawn. The jet lag is seriously kicking my ass. I’m still on New York time.

With a snort, she elbows me. “Could you be more bored?”

“No! I’m having so much fun.”

“We’ll wrap it up soon. I just want to see some of their paintings and then we’ll go.”

Figures. Amanda and I have always shared a love of the arts, hers for painting and mine for music, though it’s been a while since I’ve had the motivation to play. I follow Amanda’s blonde bob through the crowds to a hall full of paintings. When we arrive in the hall, I immediately understand why she’s so excited to see this exhibit. The artwork is so beautiful and vivid, oil-on-canvas masterpieces. Digital art is just as valid as any painting, but there’s something special about seeing paint on a canvas.

Amanda studies a painting of a battle on a beach with armored warriors clashing with swords and shields raised. “Gnarly,” she says. “This shit’s gorgeous.”

I wander a little ways from her, admiring the paintings but not stopping to stare. We’ve been here so long, my brain is overloaded and overwhelmed. I’m itching for a change of scenery, especially when a little kid screams into my ear as her dad carries her past. I’m about to tell Amanda I’ll wait outside when something catches my eye.

It’s a painting of a warrior. One of many, but something about this one demands my attention. It’s a full-body portrait and if it’s life-sized, then this guy had five inches on me. I crane my neck to look up at him and can’t fight a shiver when those painted gray eyes bore into me. His muscular body is clad in armor made of leather and fur, and snow dusts the black fur of a wolf draped over his shoulders. I bet he hunted and skinned the wolf himself.

The closer I look, the more disturbed I am by the little details. His teeth, bared in a snarl, are too sharp. His fingernails are so long they are practically claws. Beads of blood dangle from the tips of his fingers and stain the snow crimson.

“Fucking sick!” Amanda exclaims, coming to stand beside me. She leans down, adjusting her glasses before they slip off her button of a nose. “His name was Wulfric Wolf-Heart.”

“He was real?” I gawk up at the picture.

“Apparently. It says here that based on his remains and the offerings buried with him, he was nobility, revered by his people. He was a jarl. That was the highest rank, secondary to only a king back then.”

Jarl Wulfric cuts a powerful, brutal figure in a hall full of fearless warriors.

I wonder what kind of life he lived.

We grab lunch before we head to the boat. The restaurant serves whale meat as a novelty dish but I don’t want to try it. Whaling’s legal here in Iceland. It sucks, but it’s their way of life. Still, if I can do my part by not supporting the whaling industry, I’ll do it. I’d much rather see them in their natural habitat than on my plate.

As Amanda drives our rental car over to the harbor, my phone buzzes for the second time since lunch. I ignore it, even though I’m itching to pick it up and check. We’re only here until the end of the week. I should be enjoying the scenery, not glued to my phone.

But what if it’s him? Anxiety churns in my gut, ruining the pleasant memory of lunch. I need to know. Maybe he’s calling to apologize and grovel to get me back. Maybe—

“Kieran, no!” Amanda groans when I pull out my phone.

“I just need to check something.” Heart racing, I look at my messages. “Oh shit.”

“What?” she asks, arching a pierced brow. “Don’t listen to a word he says.”

Mark: How’s Iceland? I miss you. Kisses.

That’s it? No bribes? No begging for me to hear him out? “He just wants to know about the trip.” I swallow hard. “He misses me.”

She rolls her eyes skyward, and my face flushes with embarrassment. “Maybe he should have thought about that before he cheated. The asswipe.”

She’s right. Shit. I’m being so stupid.

“Do I say something?”

“No!” she snaps. “Leave him hanging. You don’t owe him jack shit.”

Fuck, she’s right. Amanda’s always right. Just like she was right from the very beginning when she said she didn’t trust Mark after first meeting him. I’d been annoyed at her for not giving him a chance and told her he was just shy and he’d clammed up.

We met because Amanda is friends with his sister, and she’d taken me to see a musical he’d written. I’d been so awestruck by him, this creative guy who’d written and produced an amazing musical all by himself. Mark was everything I’d wanted to be, instead of a loser who wrote songs for a tiny audience on YouTube. I’d crushed on him the moment we’d locked eyes over dinner after the show.

We’d started dating shortly after we met. We were a team. He wrote plays, and while I was no playwright, he and I created music for his shows. Our relationship was perfect, and he helped me blossom into the musician I’d always wanted to be.

My YouTube channel took off after we broadcast our relationship to the world and started writing and singing songs together. When we released an indie album, I began to dream that I could finally quit my day jobs and make a living off my music.

But best of all, his family welcomed me with open arms into their home and gave me a seat at their table. A few years ago, my own parents wanted nothing to do with me after they found out I was dating a guy from school, so having the support of a loving family meant the world to me.

When I came home last weekend and found Mark in bed with one of the actors in the show he was directing, everything fell apart. As I’d yelled at him, he told me repeatedly that he didn’t want to lose me. That we could have an open relationship. I said no, and he… he changed before my eyes. Face red, he screamed at me, “You’ll be nothing without me! I’m the only reason anyone gives a shit about that crap you write!”

Crazy how a few words could completely shatter my self-esteem down to nothing.

Because he’s right. Mark was already an established playwright and musician. I’d just ridden on his coattails. There was nothing special about me or my music.

When I called Amanda, sobbing, she’d given me her couch for the night and a container of cookie dough ice cream. I’d been staying with her for the past week, trying to figure out how to move forward. Honestly, where would I be without her? It was her idea to come to Iceland. Me, I’d never thought twice about traveling outside the USA. If she hadn’t invited me, I’d be too nervous to go alone. It’s good to get away to somewhere new, especially with my best friend.

Amanda stops the car at our destination. I turn my phone off and get out. I’m keeping it off for the rest of the day. It’s not every day I’m surrounded by rugged mountains and gorgeous geothermal scenery.

As the sea air blows bitter cold off the harbor, I manage to smile.

Mark’s not ruining this for me.

My friend and I walk the pier in search of the whale cruise ship, and it makes me remember that time we went to Alcatraz Island together. I’m about to reminisce on the past with her when a woman’s voice cries out. “You there!” A woman, her blonde hair threaded with silver, stands in front of a table covered with a cloth. She wears what look like real wolf furs over a plain green dress. “How would you like a woodcarving made just for you?”

Something is different about her accent. It sounds similar to the Icelandic accents we’ve been hearing, yet the differences are notable.

“What accent is that?” Amanda wonders, echoing my own thoughts.

“Not sure.” I venture closer to the lady’s table. She has a knife and several pieces of wood. From the wood, she has carved beautiful, highly detailed miniature figures from whales to bears to puffins. “Wow! These are so amazing. You make these yourself?”

“The art of woodcarving has been in my family for generations.” She smiles. “Is this your first time in Iceland?”

“Yeah. We’re loving it so far.”

“How wonderful!” She picks up her whittling knife and a chunk of wood. “Let me craft you something, dear. A gift.”

Her kindness surprises me. “Oh, no, that’s okay. We’re actually in a hurry.”

Amanda says, “It’s okay, Kier. We have time until the boat starts boarding.”

Enough time for her to carve something as detailed as her other sculptures? I guess we could always collect it on our way back to the car. “Sure.”

The old woman gets to work, and my jaw falls open at how quickly she moves. She works the wood with her knife like it’s made of butter. Shavings form a tiny pile on the tablecloth, and I gasp when she finishes the carving in only seconds. It is a wolf, carved with an attention to detail that floors me. On the base of the sculpture, she carves a strange symbol.

“This is stunning! What does that symbol mean?” I ask. I don’t even want to touch the sculpture in case I drop it.

The old woman smiles, eyes shining with pride. “It’s a rune, lad. My ancestors, the Vikings, used them to write.”

“Really? What does it say?”

“This rune,” she says, tracing one that resembles the letter R , “is the symbol for travel. And this”—she traces another that looks like an incomplete hexagon—“is the symbol for home.” She presses the wooden wolf into my hand, her touch warm and gentle. “Trust that when all seems lost, you will find your way. In travel we find ourselves, and home is not always a place. The Allfather Odin will guide you to where you are meant to be.”

I wasn’t expecting such a profound encounter. “Thank you.” I fish around in my pocket for money.

“I wish not for payment, dear,” she says. “Go with Odin’s blessing to where you are meant to be.”

She’s odd but sweet. “Thank you so much.” Feeling like I had the rug yanked out from under me, I walk away. What a strange and unexpected encounter. “She was so nice.”

Amanda smiles. “That’s such a sweet souvenir, too.”

I squeeze the wooden wolf. I can’t explain why, but it feels precious to me.

Just as we prepare to board the boat, Amanda’s face turns an unpleasant green. She clutches at her stomach. “Actually, maybe I should sit this one out.”

“Are you okay?”

“Must have been something I ate.”

“Let’s go back to the hostel.”

She shakes her head. “No, no. Go ahead. I’ll just wait in the car.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go get your ass on the boat and see those whales! You were looking forward to this all day. I’ll be fine.” With a smile to reassure me, she turns and heads back to the car.

After handing over the ticket, I board the boat with a few other passengers. It rocks side to side beneath my feet, the waves slapping loudly against the sides. The sea air blows cold, so I tug my beanie lower over my forehead and make sure my hat covers my ears. It’s in the forties today, but the windchill makes it feel colder, especially on the boat. With gloved hands tucked deep in my coat pockets, I find a seat on the deck.

I look back over my shoulder to see if I can spot Amanda in the car, but she’s out of view. Guilt niggles at me. Should I have stayed with her? I hope her stomach won’t bother her too much. I pull out my phone to call her and check.

What if something happens and she gets really ill? Whoa, hold up there. It could just be food poisoning.

Or it could be appendicitis. What if her appendix ruptures? What would we do if there’s a medical emergency?

Anxiety squeezes my chest, and I want to bolt from the boat and run back to her.

“Oh my god, Kier, I’m fine!” she says when she answers my call.

“Are you sure? I can come back.”

“Don’t you dare. Just take lots of pictures and if you see any seals, holla at me!”

She hangs up before I can protest.

I don’t feel right about this. I’m going to get off the boat.

Just as I rise, the guide welcomes us on board. It would be awkward if I left during his talk. Stomach churning, I make myself sit and stew in all my uncertainty. Before I make up my mind, we’re off to see some whales. The harbor disappears behind us and I blow out a heavy sigh, hoping Amanda will be okay.

A frustrated growl escapes me.

I can’t even take a boat ride without being anxious. Stupid fucking generalized anxiety disorder. What happened to me? I was doing so great on Zoloft. I was really nervous about trying medication, but it makes me feel like a totally different person. I’m able to ignore my intrusive thoughts, my obsessive ruminating is completely gone, and I actually have good days now. For the first time in years, my head is finally quiet.

Or it was. Suddenly, my intrusive thoughts are back, although I’m able to shake them off rather than obsessing over them for hours. Ever since Mark and I broke up, it’s like I’ve regressed back to stupid, anxious Kieran.

Lifting my head, I try and smile but can’t quite manage it. No, I haven’t entirely regressed. Pre-Zoloft Kieran would have been too anxious and depressed to come to Iceland. I think the breakup just jostled me. In time, maybe I’ll feel normal again.

As gloomy inside as the overcast skies on the outside, I watch the scenery fly by. Eventually, though, the dread and uncertainty blow away in the sea breeze. I snap a few pictures of the view while the sea spray dampens my jacket. I feel a bit like a Viking, out to raid and pillage on the high seas.

At least until we go through some rough water and I almost lose my lunch.

People cry in awe and delight as a whale’s giant tail breaks the surface a couple miles from us. And my stupid brain immediately supplies, I sure hope they don’t wreck our boat.

I shove the thought down and try and ignore it rather than spiral into what I’d actually do if our boat wrecked. Stupid anxiety. You’re not ruining this for me.

Rain spatters my jacket. The clouds overhead have gotten darker. Angrier.

The guide advises us to head inside and apologizes for having to take us back earlier than he’d like. “I really don’t like the look of those clouds,” he says in his charming Icelandic accent. “A storm wasn’t in the forecast today.”

I head inside with the other passengers. Torrents of rain cascade against the windows, warping the view outside. The boat lurches left and right so violently, we’re told to sit down for our own safety. Fear clutches at my gut. Shit. This doesn’t feel right.

We head back toward the harbor, but the going is rough. Waves beat at the boat. As we lurch over one of the waves, people scream in alarm as they’re thrown from their seats. Crying out in shock, I grab onto a pole to steady myself so I don’t fall. My heart’s racing out of control now. Something is definitely wrong.

Fog shrouds us and rain hammers the boat. Are we even going the right way? We should have returned to the harbor by now. Everything’s fine, I tell myself. We’re going to be okay. Right?

Something vibrates against my thigh. I reach into my pocket, but it’s not my phone. No, it’s the wolf carving. It’s vibrating like it’s about to break into pieces. What the heck is this thing doing? I gasp as the runes carved onto the base of the figure glow with golden light. “What the—”

A flash of light, bright as a crack of lightning, bursts through the fog ahead of us. Screams split the air, my own voice joining the other passengers as a huge iceberg seemingly materializes from nowhere through the bright light I just saw. The only icebergs I noticed before were miles away. Where did this one come from?

The guide bellows, “Everyone, stay calm and follow my orders! We’re going to hit that iceberg, so I need all of you off this boat now . Get to the life rafts!” He tries to hold the doors open against the roaring wind and other passengers rush to help him. Out on the deck, the crew has inflated the life rafts. I almost expect to hear someone scream, Women and children first !

Somehow, I’ve found myself playing Rose in this bad rip-off of Titanic .

Damn it! Where’s my Jack when I need him? Oh, right, he cheated. Jack from the movie would never.

The passengers rush to the rafts, carrying children or helping their elderly relatives. “Move, man!” someone yells behind me. The wind is knocked out of me as a passenger bowls me over onto the deck. I hit the ground hard, too terrified to curse the asshole out.

The boat tips upward as a wave rolls beneath us. Water gushes over the side of the boat, salty and ice cold. Shouting in terror, I slide on the wet floor, scrambling for something to grab onto. My feet disappear over the side as I slip beneath the railing. I have enough time to grab the rail so I don’t fall overboard.

Freezing waves lap hungrily at my feet. I try to hold on, but the railing is too slick. A scream for help barely escapes my lips before I’m falling, plunging into the frigid darkness of the sea. Above my head, the boat hits the iceberg with a muffled crash.

Water floods my ears and stifles all sound, and my limbs lock up as ice seeps into my bones. I have to move or I’ll die, but the shock has me frozen worse than the cold. The water pulls me under, the surface disappearing from view. Everything disappears. The boat. The life rafts. The distant screams. I’m alone. All alone in the darkness.

It would be easy to give up. Easy to surrender to the cold and the dark. To let the water fill my lungs. Mark won’t miss me. I was always secondary to him. My bosses will replace me by the end of the week. My parents will mourn me, though, and Amanda will be devastated. She’ll blame herself for not being there.

I can’t do that to her. Not to my best friend. She deserves better than that.

The wooden wolf I’m still clutching in my fist vibrates violently, glowing so brightly it casts away the dark. I kick. I claw. Pressure builds in my lungs. My head throbs. My whole body screams for air, for life.

I break the surface, gasping, shaking so violently it’s a wonder I don’t break apart. Water stings my eyes, blinds me. My teeth chatter in my skull.

I open my eyes and… everything’s gone. The distant harbor. The town. The boat. There aren’t even pieces of it. No life rafts bearing terrified passengers to safety. The damn iceberg that caused all this is gone, too. I swear to God, I’m never getting back on another boat again.

Ahead of me there’s nothing but a vast, sprawling ocean.

Terror.

Isolation.

Despair.

I’d scream if I could.

Something’s behind me. It’s raw animal instinct telling me something is coming. I can’t flee. I can’t fight. So I freeze like a baby monkey waiting to be scooped into the arms of its mother.

And something does grab me, burrowing under my arms, hoisting me up.

In my shock, I drop the wooden carving of the wolf into the ocean.

A scream tears from me as I fly up from the water, the wind in my ears. I land on a solid wood floor, cracking my skull and seeing stars. There’s a familiar rocking beneath me. Another ship. I’m safe. Relief brings tears to my eyes. Wiping the tears and water away, I say, “Thank you, thank you so m—”

There’s a sword at my throat, razor-sharp against my skin. The words die on my tongue.

A crew of the most terrifying men I’ve ever seen surround me. They wear their hair long and their beards even longer, accented with beads. Every single one of them is armed to the teeth with axes, swords, and shields. Black paint streaks their faces. They wear furs and wool and chain mail, their well-worn boots caked with dirt. No horned helmets, which wouldn’t be historically accurate anyway, but they don’t need them for me to know exactly who they are.

Vikings.

Somehow, I’ve been rescued by a crew of men cosplaying as Vikings. Even their boat is as authentic as can be, as if they took it straight out of the museum I saw. Their swords look real, too. It’s a bit dangerous for their weapons to be this sharp, though, isn’t it? What if they hurt each other? And the stink of them… my god, the noxious combination of wet leather and furs, unwashed hair and skin, sweaty wool… it’s enough to make my throat prickle.

These men are truly dedicated to their role-play.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” I say, hoping they know English. Most of the locals Amanda and I talked to did. “My boat crashed. If you could take me to Reykjavik, I’d be really grateful.” My teeth chatter so hard, I can barely get the words out.

The man doesn’t take his sword away from my throat. Instead, he turns and barks something in a guttural language I’ve never heard before at one of his cosplay buddies. If I had to take a guess, it’s ancient Norse? Maybe?

The unfamiliar words somehow morph into English mid-sentence. “—like a drowned rat, doesn’t he, lads?” He laughs, the sound cruel and mocking, and his friends join in. “Look at how he shivers! Mayhap these will warm him up.” With a rattle, he yanks a pair of iron cuffs from his belt.

My stomach turns inside out.

“N-no. Wait. What are you doing?” I try to stand, and the man presses the sword harder into my throat. The skin tears and beads of blood squeeze from my skin.

Shit. This isn’t cosplay. This is… real. These people aren’t my saviors. They’re my captors. I don’t understand. Are they pirates? Who are they?

The cuffs snap around my wrists, and with a jerk, the guy with the sword hauls me to my feet. He tugs me across the slick deck toward a hatch in the floor. “W-Wait,” I stammer. “Stop, don’t do this!” His friends laugh at me. The hatch flies open and with a yelp I fall into the dark. The landing winds me, and the stink makes me gag. The smell of unwashed bodies is even more pungent down here, mixed with the stench of rotting hay, urine, and feces.

Frightened, dirty faces stare at me from the darkness. There are others down here. Men and women, arms and legs in chains. Their clothes are bloody and torn but unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, because they aren’t modern by any means.

Growls rumble in the thick, stinking air. Eyes glow and fangs flash. A scream gets trapped in my throat as two huge wolves materialize from the dark and prowl among the prisoners, growling at them, snapping at them. Guarding us like cattle.

Shaking, I curl into a ball, close my eyes, and pray that I can find a way to return to Reykjavik.

I don’t know how long I’ve been down here in the dark. My stomach cramps with hunger, and my clothes are damp and cold. The ship rocks me side to side and the exhaustion drags me under for a shallow sleep.

Sometime later the hatch creaks open, and my heart lurches out of my chest. I’m on my feet, and the other prisoners rise, whimpering and talking among themselves in hushed, frightened voices.

Our captors haul us from the hold and onto the deck. The sunlight blinds me, and the wind draws a shudder from me.

We’ve arrived in a harbor. There’s a town… but it looks nothing like Reykjavik. It looks nothing like any city or town I’ve ever seen before. There are no roads, only muddy paths where people have tread. Smoke rises from the chimney stacks of houses made of wood and stone.

There are no streetlamps, no cars. Armored warriors ride horses through the streets, and farmers clad in wool lead dirty sheep through the mud to a bustling marketplace. I’m frozen in place, my mind grasping for any way to make sense of this situation. This must be some backwards, isolated village. That’s the only logical thing I can think of.

One of my captors bellows behind me, “Move, human scum!”

Searing pain cracks across my back before I can even register his bizarre insult, tearing a yelp from my lungs. I’ve gotten the message. I follow the miserable men and women in front of me toward the market. We pass traders selling everything from vegetables to fresh-caught fish. Children run past, spraying mud and snow behind them as they chase each other through the streets. Horses snort and stamp their hooves, watching us as impassively as their intimidating riders.

There’s a scaffolding in the town square. Our captors lead us to it, then force us up onto the stage one after the other and make us form a line. A crowd gathers, watching us like we’re performers. A guard paces the stage, glancing among us before grabbing me. He makes me turn in a circle before the crowd.

With a sickening twist in my gut, I know what this is.

This is an auction. We’re being sold like livestock.

The guard says, “Human. Young and able-bodied. Suitable for farm work.”

For what now? And why do they keep calling me “human” like they aren’t?

“N-no, I’m not! I kill all my houseplants. You really don’t want me!”

A man with a smile I do not like raises his hand and steps up onto the stage. He comes toward me and reaches out, grabbing my hair. He tugs me in close, and I smell his putrid breath. Leering, he turns me this way and that, his eyes combing over my body in a way that makes me squirm.

Terror claws at my chest. I’m going to be bought and paid for like an object. Subjected to who knows what. His big cold hands grope at me, feeling between my legs, grabbing me. I lurch away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

A sneer curls his lip and he grabs my shirt and hauls me closer, growling, “Resist me, human, and I will make you squeal like a pig!”

Shaky gasps spill from my throat. Oh God. I want to go home. I want to—

A deep, gruff voice thunders over the crowd. “Not that one!” Heads turn. The crowd parts, murmuring in voices filled with awe and fear. When I see him, all the air gets trapped in my lungs.

He looks just like his painting as he towers over the crowd, his body bulky with muscle and clad in wolf fur. A mane of blond hair billows in the wind, and beads clack in his beard with every step he takes. Axes sway from his belt and a shield rattles on his back. Piercing silver eyes lock on mine and a shiver rattles down my spine.

Everything turns upside down.

Oh shit. I’m not in the twenty-first century anymore.

Somehow, I’ve gone back in time to the age of the Vikings.

Jarl Wulfric Wolf-Heart marches onto the stage and says in a deep, low voice, “That one is not for sale.”

Wide-eyed, the slave trader turns to the man who groped me. “My apologies, sir. You’ll have to choose another.”

“I’m paying for him. He’s mine!” The man grabs at my wrists and yanks, making me yelp as the chains cut into my skin.

The jarl rounds on the man, looks at where he’s touching me, and snaps, “Unhand him. Now .”

“Piss off!” The man sneers.

The axe flies from the jarl’s belt and the man screams. He stumbles back, blood spurting from where his arm used to be. His severed arm still grips my chains but only for a second before the dismembered limb falls to the floor.

My vision swims, my knees going weak. I almost hit the floor, but big hands steady me. When I look up into those stormy eyes, it’s hard to breathe. Beneath his mustache, he presses his lips into a firm, scowling line. If I’d seen him in my timeline, I’d have thought he was attractive. Gorgeous, even. But he’s also the most frightening man I’ve ever seen.

He says something. It sounds like a question, but my ears are ringing. I just stare, too freaked out to manage speaking.

Then he says in a voice softer than I expect, “What is your name?”

For a moment, I don’t even remember. “I… Kieran. Kieran Grove.”

Those eyes never leave mine as he draws in a slow breath, nostrils flaring like he can smell my fear. When he speaks, he says the words I know will change my life forever.

“You are mine now, Kieran Grove.”