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Holly touched her head and her fingers landed on a bandage. How? Where was she?

Then she remembered.

Thorir Treebeard had slapped her so hard that she’d seen stars exploding, then he’d pushed her off the chair and hit her with it.

Then another Viking had grabbed her from behind, locking her arms so she could only kick and struggle against him.

Then everything had gone black. Did she have a concussion? She found the strength to move her hands over her body. She was still in her clothes, and so far, only the side of her arm was sore. Other than that, she felt fine.

Had that other Viking kidnapped her? It didn’t seem like she was being kept against her will or anything, and at least they’d bandaged her wound.

Freaking time travel. Unbelievable. Please, let it be a hallucination. Or at least a dream.

But everything around her—the scents, the sounds, the feeling of her body—was all too real.

She sat up, panic gripping her lungs. The movement caused an explosion of pain in her head, but she ignored it, frantically looking around. It seemed as if she was still back in time, just in a different place. So even more time had passed since she’d appeared here…

She had a sudden, overwhelming longing for home. Her apartment, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, white furniture, and chrome finishings, always smelled like freshly ground coffee courtesy of the maid who came every day. And she missed the summery scent of her favorite watermelon air freshener sticks. She usually worked at home after dinner, mostly so that she wouldn’t feel lonely in the spacious penthouse apartment. She’d put on some smooth jazz and pour herself a glass of red wine. It was always sunny and quiet, and the views of Lake Eola, the park with palms, and downtown Orlando were better than wall art, especially at sunset.

Here, everything was dark, cold, and smelled like animals and earth. Even her office at Sunnybeach Developments was all giant windows, modern furniture, and art.

Oh God! My work!

She might lose the merger. She needed to go back right away. She needed to find Ms. Verdandi or that damn tree or that golden spindle. The work of the last three years would go to waste. And her mom and dad, they’d be killing themselves with worry.

A tall, broad, dark shape appeared in the open doorway. She needed to escape before some other Viking decided to tie her up. Then the giant Viking who’d hauled her away from Treebeard’s camp strode in. Fear tightened her muscles. He looked at her, and she grabbed the fur blanket, tugged it to her chin, and huddled in the corner of the alcove.

He stopped and studied her with a frown. When he’d stormed into Treebeard’s tent, it had all been a blur, and she hadn’t really gotten a good look at him. But now she could see him, and the sight made her stop breathing.

He was… “Huge” was the only word she could think of. Tall, like a lamppost, but not thin. On the contrary, he heaved with muscle. Thorir had looked big, but he was no comparison to this man. This man’s shoulders were broad, the biceps under the sleeves of the pale-green tunic playing as he swung his arms. His chest muscles were broad. His hips were narrow, and his long legs were as muscled as those of a professional soccer player.

His hair was dark blond, almost brown, and a short beard covered the lower part of his jaw. He had full lips, as far as she could see, and big gray eyes under thick eyebrows. The very air around him was saturated with power and primal strength. He was so handsome that she couldn’t think for a moment.

But she was still very aware of the ax in his belt, even though he didn’t touch it.

He stopped before her alcove and put his hands on his waist, shielding her from the rest of the room. His gray eyes were dark and cold and burned into her skin as he studied her.

Holly lifted her chin.

“If you want to sacrifice me to Odin, you shouldn’t have bandaged me.”

He looked her up and down, his cold gaze unchanging, and Holly shivered a little.

“I do not intend to sacrifice you,” he said, his voice a deep rumble.

“What then? Sell me into slavery?”

“No. Are you a slave?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you a witch, then? A völva?”

Holly paused and pursed her lips. She hated to lie, but she was terrified. If she said she was a witch, would that keep him from selling or killing her?

“What makes you ask?” she said.

“I overheard Thorir call you that. Is it true?”