Daddy Erik (The Northmen Daddies #2)

Prologue

Erik

The rain hits the glass like a steady, relentless, and honest pulse.

From the top floor of Halvorsen Corp. headquarters, Houston stretches beneath me in a shimmer of color and motion.

The city hums, alive with electricity and noise, yet all I hear is the percussion of water against glass.

Every light below belongs to someone chasing a future.

My family built half of those futures with nothing but grit, sweat, and late nights.

Above my desk hangs my grandfather’s carved plaque: Seven Shields protect blood, honor, and heart. He used to say that each generation adds a new shield, forged in a different fire.

I am the fixer. The second son. I am the one who maintains stability in the face of global turmoil.

Across my desk lies a folder stamped with a coiled serpent, SableCorp.

Their cruelty is methodical; their ambition is bottomless.

Grace’s kidnapping should have ended their hunt.

Instead, it only taught them how to wait. Predators evolve.

I close the folder. My jaw tightens until it aches. Enough for tonight. My reflection in the window looks back with cold precision: white shirt open at the throat, no tie, sleeves rolled. Bjorn calls me a wolf deciding which throat to guard. He’s not wrong.

I pull on my jacket and step into the corridor. The lights dim automatically, motion sensors chasing my steps like ghosts. Downstairs, the night receptionist nods, but doesn’t speak. She never does when I look like this, like I'm about to fix something broken in my head.

Outside, the rain sharpens into silver needles.

The city streets glow, trees are slick and gleaming, and the pavement reflects the city’s pulse.

I had called our regular driver to bring my car from the garage and park in front of our building.

I want to make sure Claire gets home safely, so I’ll drive her home since I know she takes the metro bus system to her bookshop and back to her apartment.

The drive isn’t far, as her bookshop is only two streets over.

Pulling up, between Grace and her father’s deli and the antique shop, sits a small bookstore with fogged windows and yellow light spilling through the glass, and inside it is her.

Claire

She’s shelving hardcovers, hair loose, sleeves rolled, a smudge of dust streaking her cheek.

She moves with careful grace, unaware of how magnetic she is.

I’ve known about her since Bjorn fell hard for Grace, and we spent a little time with her after all of us teamed up to rescue her.

But that isn't the entire story. The moment that little girl walked into the room where my brothers and I met to discuss how to help Grace, I knew she was mine.

My brothers acted like they had a new niece, so I know they noticed.

Claire shook my hand and met my eyes. No flinch. No flutter. Most people look away from a Halvorsen. She didn’t. She studied me like I was a riddle worth solving. Since that moment, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of her.

The rain slows to a mist as I cross the street and push open the door. The bell chimes softly, a sound too delicate for this world.

She looks up. Her eyes widen, then soften. “Mr. Halvorsen.”

“To you, little girl, it’s Erik,” I correct, and inside my head I can’t help but think Daddy, eventually.'Daddy,'

“Alrighty, Mr. Erik.”

“Just Erik, little one.” Oh, this little brat is going to have a red bottom soon.

Her laugh is genuine, unpolished, and warm. It hits low in my chest.

“I didn’t expect you tonight,” she says, slipping a book into its slot. “Nothing better to do?”

Seriously, my palm is itching to spank this little sassafras. "My mind was constantly on you."

My gaze drifts across the quiet shop: old wood, paper, dust, and the faint citrus note that clings to her shop. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I like the quiet,” she says almost absentmindedly.

“Quiet invites trouble.” My own heated gaze bores into her as if she were the fire and I'd lost my soul staring into the flames.

“So does the company,” she quips with a slight smirk on her face. God, I love her feistiness.

She places the last book on the shelf, whips around, folds her arms, and tilts her chin in challenge. “And which are you… Trouble or Quiet?”

“Both.”

The air thickens. I hear the hum of the overhead light, the whisper of rain against the window, and the soft catch of her breath.

“Top bolt,” I murmur, nodding toward the door.

She hesitates, but obeys, the lock clicking into place. The sound settles something primal inside me.

“Good girl,” I say before I can stop myself. The words slide out like a command dressed as praise.

Her breath catches. “You came all this way to check my locks?”

“Call it a habit.”

“I’d call it control.”

“I prefer protection.”

“Sometimes those look the same.”

“Only if you distrust the one holding the shield.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, studying me the way a painter studies the subject she’s already half in love with. “And you want to be my protector?”

The truth slips out, quiet but absolute. “I already am.”

Her lips part, and she takes a soft intake of air. Thunder rolls through the city like punctuation.

“You’re… intense,” she says finally.

“Occupational hazard.”

She laughs, nervous this time, and reaches for a book on the counter. “You’re insane.”

"You're insane in all the right ways, little one."

“Why are you here, Erik?”

"I want to ensure your safety."

“You sound like my grandfather.”

“Was he a good man?”

“The best.”

“Then I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Her expression softens. “You really mean that, don’t you? Safety.”

“I mean everything I say.”

And I do. Protection isn’t about control; it’s about choosing who you build the walls for.

The storm outside fades, the thunder melting away, and the remnants of the rain fade into a soft hiss of water along the gutters. I glance at the clock.

“We should get you home.”

“We?”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Erik…”

“No argument, little one.”

She sighs, the sound equal parts irritation and affection. “Bossy.”

“Efficient.”

We move through the shop together; I help her finish up with her closing routine before she gathers her purse, and we head for the door. When she passes by to unlock the top bolt, our arms brush, and static sparks through me like a live current.

Outside, the world smells of wet pavement and leaves. Water pools under the streetlights, trembling with reflected gold.

Outside her building, she fumbles with the key. I take it gently, lock the top bolt myself, and hand it back.

“Top bolt,” I remind her.

She huffs out a frustrated sigh, then her eyes lift to mine. “Good?”

“Perfect.”

The word feels heavier than it should, like a promise, and with her, it is.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For being the man who checks locks.”

I walk her to my car parked across the street; she sits inside, leaving only the echo of her perfume and the sound of the rain.

Through the glass, I catch one last glimpse of Claire buckling her seatbelt and adjusting her outfit, apparently unaware I am staring at her through the passenger window. Without being too much of a creep, I walk around the car towards the driver’s side.

The name Kameliablomst, also known as "Camellia blossom" in English, comes to my mind.

The flower is beautiful and yet withers away if plucked too soon.

Looking over at Claire, that is what I see.

Claire is a beautiful flower that, if plucked too soon, will disappear, a possibility I'm not willing to allow.

The family expects seven shields to guard the empire, but the truth is simpler. I want to protect the beauty that emerges when she no longer has to bear the weight of the world alone.

Claire

The storm outside has softened to a hypnotic lullaby, its soft, rhythmic drumming a soothing sound.

I lean against the door, my palms flat against the cool, solid wood, my heartbeat a frantic drum against my ribs, trying to keep pace with the receding thunder.

Erik Halvorsen. The name itself feels weighty, like polished stone, deliberate and strong, belonging to a man who commands silence without a shout.

But, it’s not the name that echoes in the quiet room.

It’s his palpable presence, a sternness cloaked in an undeniable air of authority.

The air still smells faintly of him: masculine, rain, and something a little darker that doesn’t come from any bottle. I close my eyes and inhale the scent, allowing the storm's rhythm and my pounding heart to find a balance.

It feels like ages since Grace first introduced us.

Each dinner at the Halvorsens' since then has been like stepping into a Viking saga: seven sons, radiating a palpable power and purpose that crackles in the air, their booming laughter echoing off the walls.

Grace, a warm and steady glow, shines among them like sunlight filtering through stained glass.

I've always been the quiet observer, a still point on the periphery of something vast and ancient, my breath catching in my chest with silent wonder.

Erik's presence is a quiet anchor, not a boisterous takeover.

His laughter is a hushed ripple, a gentle acceptance of joy.

His eyes, a paradox of calm surfaces and hidden depths, mirror the ocean's gray days, deceptively serene, yet holding an unseen, powerful current that draws you in, a beauty as alluring as it is potentially overwhelming.

I wander into the kitchen. My fingertips graze the cool, slightly gritty surface of the worn faux-marble counter as I pull the refrigerator door shut, a faint plastic-and-metal scent clinging to the air.

The apartment's low, constant hum vibrates beneath my feet, a subtle reminder of its perpetual disarray; dust motes dance in the dim light, untouched by a cleaning I never find time for.

I tell myself the distant rumble of thunder is the sole cause of my jitters.

But that's a lie. It's him. A tremor of unease should run through me, knowing he'd insisted on driving me home tonight.

His gaze scrutinized every detail, capturing the unpredictable flicker of the alley light and the vacant stare of a malfunctioning security camera.

It should feel invasive and stifling, like a cage being built around me.

But instead, a surprising warmth spreads through my chest, a sense of solid safety.

He is a man who locks doors, not because he doubts your strength, but because he refuses to allow the world to test it.

Grace once said the Halvorsen men love with a kind of ferocity that rebuilds what the world breaks.

I laughed at that back then, the sound brittle in the air.

No one loves like that. No one sees someone else’s ruin and chooses to stay.

But tonight, when Erik looked at me and said "Kameliablomst," a soft murmur that hung in the quiet car, I felt something shift.

A quiet thread pulls tight somewhere under my skin, a warmth spreading like spilled ink, threading me to him in a way that feels older than both of us.

I walk to the window, the cool glass a shock against my fingertips.

I part the heavy curtain, its rough weave scratching lightly, just enough to watch the raindrops pit-drop on the slick, glistening parking lot pavement of my apartment building.

My grandmother used to tell me stories before bed, her voice a low hum, about men who carried storms in their blood and women who called them home. She said the right man doesn’t cage you; he builds the walls only to keep the wind, an icy whisper against your neck, off your back.

I used to think she was dreaming. Now, I’m not so sure.

I head to my door and lock it, but pause at the top lock and touch it again. The metal is still warm where his hand lingered. My thumb traces the shape, slow and thoughtful.

“Top bolt,” I whisper, smiling despite myself.

The storm outside has subsided to a drizzle, but my heart remains steadfast. I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of fear, desire, or both. Whatever the connection is between us, it doesn’t feel ordinary. It feels inevitable. And for the first time, I don’t want to run from it.