Her Viking Lord (Bound for Training #2)

Chapter 1

Lorna

I honestly wanted to kill my husband. The fact that he was the prime minister of Jagland made the potential crime seem more serious, but I didn’t think I’d get any more prison time for killing Takken than I would for killing any other fucking asshole.

Maybe less, with the right magistrates sitting on the bench.

The thought should have horrified me—Fru Norquist, the perfect political wife, contemplating murder—but instead I found myself mentally cataloging the opportunities.

The state dinner next week, perhaps. A tragic choking incident.

Or maybe something more poetic: a fall from our residence’s balcony, the modernist architect’s glass barriers he’d insisted on installing proving, alas, inadequate.

I smoothed my ash-blonde hair, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror as Takken’s voice drifted from his study.

Another late-night call with his ‘advisors.’ The same advisors who’d been pushing him to sign away Jagland’s energy independence to foreign interests, no doubt.

My fingers tightened on my clutch until my knuckles went white.

“Darling?” His voice cut through my violent fantasies. “Could you come here a moment?”

I straightened my spine—an automatic response drilled into me by years of public appearances—and walked to his study. He sat behind his pretentious glass desk, his gray eyes calculating as always. The carefully maintained blond of his hair caught the light from the desk lamp.

“We need to discuss the Synergy Group reception tomorrow,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “You’ll wear the blue Valentino. And for God’s sake, try to look interested when Monsieur Brenteuil discusses the partnership opportunities.”

“Of course,” I replied, my voice perfectly measured, perfectly diplomatic.

Inside, my anger stirred again. It felt somehow primal…

ancient. As if what I had inside came from a different time, and I had chosen myself to be the protector of my country’s traditional, truly conservative values: the sea and the land, the whisper of wind through pine forests, the crash of waves against fjord walls.

Something that predated his progressive buzzwords and foreign deals by centuries.

This nation, carved so recently from the no-longer-quite-so-frozen north where the Vikings had held sway, needed a better government than Takken Norquist, the man who had scarcely touched me since our wedding night two years ago, could provide.

Short of throwing him off a high building, I had no idea how to make that happen, but I thought I probably had to try.

He set down his tablet and leaned back, that familiar smugness settling over his features.

“The Synergy Group is prepared to offer us very favorable terms. Twenty percent above market rate for our hydroelectric output, locked in for ten years.” His lips curved in what he probably thought was a conspiratorial smile.

“Of course, the oversight committee will never see the full contract. The additional five percent will be directed to our Zurich account. Clean, simple, untraceable.”

I kept my expression neutral, though my stomach turned.

After two years of marriage, I knew better than to protest his schemes.

Any objection would be met with that cold stare, followed by a reminder of how easily accidents could happen to difficult wives.

He’d never said it outright, but the implication hung between us like a blade.

“You understand the importance of this, don’t you?” He studied me with those calculating eyes. “Brenteuil needs to see a united front. A progressive couple ready to embrace the future.”

Progressive. The word tasted like ash. I thought of how differently he’d presented himself during our courtship—the passionate environmentalist, the defender of Nordic heritage. How skillfully he’d played that role until our honeymoon in the Seychelles, when the mask had finally slipped.

No… it hadn’t slipped. He’d simply taken it off. I could still remember the casual way he’d mentioned his ‘arrangements’ with Russian oligarchs while we’d sat on that pristine beach, his hand on my thigh, completely confident I’d be thrilled by the promise of wealth.

“I understand perfectly,” I said.

“Good.” He stood, adjusting his cufflinks. “I have a meeting tonight. Don’t wait up.”

A meeting. I knew exactly what kind of meeting required him to shower again and apply fresh cologne.

The Maison de Joie, most likely—a discreet establishment on Storgata where the wealthy could indulge their appetites without fear of scandal.

At least his complete lack of sexual interest in me meant I was spared the indignity of performing for him personally.

The memory of our wedding night rose unbidden.

How naive I’d been, expecting the passionate lover who’d courted me so ardently.

Instead, I’d gotten five minutes of mechanical thrusting, his eyes vacant, his hands perfunctory.

He’d finished with a grunt, rolled off me, and checked his phone for messages.

The tender, attentive man who’d written me poetry had evaporated like morning mist, leaving only this cold, corrupt stranger who saw me as nothing more than a political prop.

“Lorna?” His voice sharpened. “You’re wool-gathering again.”

“Just thinking about tomorrow’s reception,” I lied smoothly.

“Well, focus on being charming. Brenteuil has particular tastes—he likes his women submissive but intelligent. Play the part.”

Submissive. If only he knew the rage that burned beneath my practiced smile. But I nodded, the perfect political wife, while imagining how his body would look crumpled on the marble floor of our foyer.

The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the modernist prime minister’s residence like a gunshot. I waited, counting to one hundred, listening for any sign he might return for something forgotten. When silence persisted, I moved.

My study—the one room Takken never entered, dismissing it as my ‘little hobby space’—waited at the end of the hall.

Inside, behind a false panel I’d installed myself during one of his trips to Brussels, sat an ancient laptop I’d bought with cash from a pawn shop in the old quarter.

The cybersecurity office tracked every device on our network, but this machine had never touched it.

I connected through a neighbor’s unsecured Wi-Fi, then bounced the signal through three VPN layers.

My fingers trembled as I navigated to the forum I’d been lurking on for months.

NordicTruth, they called themselves. Conspiracy theorists, mostly, but occasionally someone posted data that made my blood run cold.

Energy consumption reports that didn’t match public records.

Brownout patterns that coincided too perfectly with spikes in industrial usage across the border.

I created an account: TrueNorth1917. Generic enough. My heart hammered against my ribs as I typed:

Check correlation between Jagland power interruptions (Jul-Sep) and Kaliningrad industrial sector reports. Someone’s selling what isn’t theirs.

I hit post and immediately cleared the browser cache. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the laptop as I powered it down. What had I done? If Takken found out—

My phone buzzed.

Not my regular phone. The burner I kept hidden in my tampon box. The one that I had never turned on, never fully activated. The screen glowed with a notification from an app I’d never seen before: a black icon with a silver raven.

Go to your bedroom. Remove your clothing. Stand in front of your mirror with this device.

The message vanished as soon as I’d read it, leaving only the strange app icon. My mouth went dry. How was this possible? The phone had been off—more important, it didn’t have any connection to a network that I was aware of.

I should have destroyed the phone immediately. Should have flushed the SIM down the toilet and pretended none of this had happened. Instead, I found myself walking toward our bedroom, each step feeling predetermined, as if I’d already made this choice long ago.

The mirror—full length, framed in austere steel that Takken had chosen—reflected a woman I barely recognized. When had my eyes gotten so hollow? When had my shoulders started curving inward like I was protecting myself from invisible blows?

I shook my head, trying to clear it, as I realized I’d just obeyed a command from… whom? And at the moment, apparently, I was considering obeying another one—of a very different kind. I watched myself shake my head again, more decisively. No.

I looked at the phone in my hand. I tapped the silver raven tentatively. A box opened up with a blinking cursor, but before I could type anything there, another message came in.

I told you to take off your clothes. Last chance.

I swallowed harder than I thought I’d ever swallowed in my life. I felt the breath coming shallow and rapid, in and out of my nostrils. I thought, then typed, This is to make sure I’m not wearing a wire or something?

I wanted it to be true. I chewed the inside of my cheek. No, I desperately wanted to want it to be true.

No. Ten seconds.

My lips parted as if I could say something that would reach the person at the other end of the terrifying messages. My finger trembled visibly as I tapped out, or what?

I had no idea whether ten seconds had actually elapsed, or whether whoever it was had simply decided to demonstrate.

What seemed a microsecond after I had tapped send, I felt as if my panties had burst into flame.

Fiery pain grew rapidly into tormenting heat between my thighs.

I cried out, dropped the phone, hunched down, watching in the mirror as Lorna Norquist, the prime minister’s wife, clutched at her privates as if in terrible need of the toilet.

“Oh, God,” I sobbed. “Oh, no… please…”

It couldn’t be happening, yet it definitely, definitely was.

I could see it happening in the mirror. I sobbed as I managed to move my hands from my lap to the zipper at my neck.

As soon as I did that, the pain vanished as though it had never been there at all.

The immediate result, though, felt almost as bad: I felt myself clench, down there, for the first time in months, and I felt how instantly damp I had just become.

My fingers fumbled with the zipper, pulling it down with trembling hands.

The dress—a conservative gray sheath that Takken had approved for ‘casual Fridays at home’—pooled at my feet.

I stepped out of it mechanically, my mind still reeling from what had just happened.

The pain had been real. Impossibly, inexplicably real.

The phone buzzed from where I’d dropped it. I bent to retrieve it, acutely aware of my near-nakedness, of the wetness that had gathered between my thighs. Another message waited:

Good girl. Now the rest.

Good girl. The words sent an unwelcome shiver through me. When was the last time anyone had praised me for anything? Takken only noticed me when I failed to meet his expectations.

I unhooked my bra with shaking fingers, let it fall. My panties followed, the damp fabric clinging briefly before I pushed them down my legs. I stood naked before the mirror, arms instinctively moving to cover myself.

Arms at your sides. Look at yourself.

I forced my arms down, made myself meet my own gaze in the mirror.

The woman looking back at me seemed like a stranger—pale skin flushed pink, nipples hardened to tight peaks, a sheen of moisture visible on her inner thighs under the dark blonde pubic curls that preserved her modesty, if only slightly.

When had I last really looked at my body?

When had I last felt anything below the constant, numbing anger?

You’ve been very foolish, Lorna. That forum is monitored. Your husband should already know.

Ice flooded my veins. “No,” I whispered. “That’s not possible. I was careful—”

The laptop. The VPNs. None of it mattered if they’d been watching from the beginning. My knees nearly buckled.

But we intercepted the alert before it reached him. You have two choices now. Submit to our training, or face what Takken will do when he learns of your betrayal.

Training? The word brought a deep crease to my forehead. I typed with a shaking thumb: Who are you?

That’s not one of your choices. Choose.

I stared at my reflection, at this naked woman who’d just committed treason against her husband’s government.

The smart thing would be to confess everything to Takken, throw myself on his mercy.

Except I knew exactly what his mercy looked like—I’d seen what happened to the minister of finance who’d questioned the Russian deals too loudly.

A car accident. His wife institutionalized for ‘grief-induced psychosis.’

My thumb moved across the screen: I submit.

The response was immediate:

Play with that sweet little cunt. Watch yourself as you make yourself come.