Viking (The 142nd Phantom Lancers #1)

Lila

Prologue

Las Vegas, Nevada

“Grab another bottle of champagne, pretty please!” Ivy’s voice lilts, syrupy and sweet, as she bats her lashes at me. She pushes the white tulle of her party veil out of her amber eyes, glassy from too much alcohol.

I nod, weaving through the crush of bodies toward the bar.

The air hums with bass, and the strobe lights cast fleeting shadows, distorting faces and moments like we’re all part of some chaotic fever dream.

I lift two fingers to catch the bartender’s attention, signaling for yet another bottle of Veuve.

Before I can even turn around, Ivy appears at my side, snatching the bottle with a victorious squeal and twirling back toward our table, veil trailing behind her like a comet.

“Celebrations are in full swing, I see.” I feel his voice before I hear it—a low, velvety hum that wraps around my spine and settles somewhere behind my navel. The sound is a balm against the sensory overload, grounding and undeniable.

I turn, and it’s like the whole club slows to half-speed.

He leans one forearm against the bar, body angled toward me. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his handsome face, all charm and intent. It’s completely disarming.

My pulse stumbles.

And then it stutters again because when our eyes meet, there’s a jolt. Not recognition, exactly. But awareness. Like something inside me had been waiting to wake up and just did.

He’s tall. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his long-sleeve henley, and the shirt clings to his chest and arms in a way that looks sculpted.

His dark brown hair is tousled, just long enough to run your hands through, like he’s done it a dozen times tonight.

Sharp jaw and devastating mouth of soft lips and straight white teeth, the kind of combination that ruins a girl on sight.

He’s like a Norse god. Maybe better.

And when he smirks, it’s game over.

“You could say that. My best friend’s getting married,” I manage, grateful my voice doesn’t betray the firework show going off inside me. I tilt my head toward our table, and a curled strand of hair slips into my face.

He watches the motion like he felt it too. Like that strand of hair was a fuse.

“Ah. The infamous Vegas bachelorette trip.” His eyes flick to our table and my stomach dips, bracing for the inevitable shift of interest. Most guys talk to me until they spot Alinna. It’s not that I don’t get attention. It’s just that next to her, I fade fast.

But then his eyes find mine again, and they stay.

Warmth floods my chest. He’s still here. Still looking.

“The very one.” I laugh, loosening a little. “Ivy doesn’t know how to do anything small, so off to Vegas we went.”

“Well, it looks like they’re having fun. But what about you?” His smile turns knowing. Wicked. Like he sees past the easy answers. Like he’s already decided I’m worth unraveling.

His eyes, steely blue, rimmed with lashes no man should have, flicker in the shifting lights. They’re playful. But behind that, there’s heat. Challenge. A hint of danger wrapped in silk.

Then he rakes his gaze down the length of me. Not crude. Just thorough.

It lights me up like a struck match.

I toss my hair over one shoulder, letting him look. “Sure I am.”

A lie, and we both know it.

“No, I don’t think you are,” he murmurs. “But maybe I can help change that.”

His grin is pure sin, and when he turns toward me, muscles shifting under soft cotton, he shoves his sleeves halfway up his forearms—casual, practiced. Deliberate. A tattoo coils along the lines of his right arm, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop my thoughts from spiraling.

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

I snort. “Are you twelve?”

“I’m twenty-six. Is that really your first question?” He glances at the bartender, who smiles too brightly at him and rushes over. Of course she does. “What are you drinking?”

I lean closer than I need to. “Mojito, please.”

“And a Yuengling, please,” he adds.

“Fine. What’s your name?”

“Logan.” He offers his hand.

“Lila.” I take it.

The second our skin touches, a current zips up my arm. His grip is firm and warm, his palm rough and capable.

“Lila! Are you going to introduce us, or are we supposed to just watch this unfold like a Hallmark movie?” Alinna calls from the table, earning high fives and hoots from the rest of the girls.

Mortification heats my cheeks. I glance back to Logan, ready for the moment to break, but he just leans closer, voice low. “Should I introduce myself to your fan club, or do you want to save me the trouble?”

My lips twitch. “Ignore them, they’re just nosy,” I say loudly enough for the girls to hear.

He flashes a lethal smile their way, then turns his attention—his full attention—back to me.

The bartender drops our drinks in front of us. “Thanks. Keep it open,” he tells her, card down, already committed.

“Thank you, Logan.”

“You’re welcome, Lila.” My name sounds different when he says it, like maybe it’s meant for more than just introductions.

“What do you do?” A barstool opens beside me and he gestures for me to sit.

I smooth my ridiculously over-the-top dress down before sliding onto the seat.

Ivy came home one day flashing a ring and announcing, without warning, that we were all going on a bachelorette trip which she aptly dubbed “Femme Fatale.” Think Vegas showgirl meets Met Gala.

It’s very Ivy—equal parts impulsive, over the top, and completely unbothered by logistics.

I’m not sure if she’s always been this way or if her new fiancé just brings out her wilder side, but lately, she’s been hard to keep up with.

As maid of honor, I was under strict orders to commit.

So here I am. Smoky eyes, sky-high heels, and a dress that sparkles like I’m trying to outshine the Strip itself.

I tug at the hem again as I sit, hyper-aware of just how much leg I’m showing.

It’s a little more revealing than I’d normally go for. A little louder. A little more Ivy.

But tonight’s not about subtlety.

And for some reason, Logan’s gaze makes me forget why I ever preferred it.

“I just graduated college a few months ago. I’m an event planner. I was offered a job coordinating for military contracts. I started last month.”

His eyebrows lift, interest sparking. “Military, huh? You’ll be sick of guys like me in no time.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Well”—he shrugs, casually—“I’m Air Force.”

I nearly choke on my mojito.

He nods toward a table a few spots over. “Those are my buddies.”

They’re rowdy, loud, and several are watching us. One of them—blond, grinning, a little drunk—climbs onto a chair and cups his hands like a megaphone.

“Viking! Introduce us to your friend!”

Logan rolls his eyes, but smiles.

“Viking?” I ask, eyebrow arched.

“Call sign,” he says, like it explains everything. “It comes with the job.”

I force the growing knot down my throat. “And that job would be…?”

“I’m a pilot. That’s actually why we’re here tonight, celebrating. A few of us just transferred from Tyndall to Nellis. We got selected for a Raptor squadron.” He says it humbly. But there’s an earned pride beneath it.

“Raptor…” He mistakes it for a question and I let him.

He grins like he doesn’t usually have to explain this, but doesn’t mind. “F-22 Raptor. Best damn jet in the world. Stealth, speed, agility, you name it. Flying one is like…becoming part of something untouchable.”

His voice drops, and suddenly we’re in our own little pocket of space.

“When I’m up there, it’s like the jet and I are one. Every decision, every move, it’s instinct. Reaction. Pure adrenaline. You don’t just fly a Raptor. You become it.”

I nod, but I’m not really thinking about jets. I’m thinking about how close he is. How alive he looks when he talks about flying. And how that same intensity is now focused entirely on me.

I reach for his forearm, tracing the edge of his tattoo without thinking. Before I can ask about it, Ivy slides up beside me.

She glances at my hand, smirks. I let it drop.

“Hey, you, we’re heading back to the hotel. Early hike and I already know I’m going to be hungover,” she whines, dropping her head on my shoulder. Her voice lowers. “You don’t have to come with us, I’ll get all the girls to stay in my room.” She smirks. “Live a little, my love.”

I hesitate. My eyes slide to Logan’s. He’s watching me, gaze steady. Not pushy. But open. Warm. Like he’s offering something rare.

“You don’t have to go,” he says, voice low. “I can make sure you get back safe.”

Ivy kisses my cheek. “Have fun,” she sings. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She winks at Logan. “I met my fiancé in a bar.”

My cheeks burn. Logan just smiles.

I watch him as he closes out the tab, smooth and unhurried. He slides his card back into his wallet like he has all the time in the world.

And maybe tonight, he does.

“All right,” I say, heart racing. “Where to next?”