Page 22 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Magnus drops me like a stone.

I plummet, and Ransom catches me. He’s had far too much practice catching falling wives, and it shows. His arms wrap around me, and we stumble backward a few steps before he steadies us both.

“Oh, thank you,” I pant. “My life flashed before my eyes on the way down. It was mostly buffets.” The dessert station made three separate appearances, so at least my subconscious has its priorities straight.

“Every man wants to play the hero,” Magnus roars, already fading at the edges and looking extremely pleased with himself. “You can thank me later, mortal.”

And with that, he disappears in a shower of silver stars that winks out before it reaches the floor.

It’s only as the last star vanishes that it hits me. He never answered the question.

How did Magnus Darkwater know Astrid Storm? And why does a ghost who swears he never knew the woman come stocked with her entire biography, complete with founding dates and financial records? I can’t even recite my own bank balance, and I’m alive. Mostly because I don’t want to.

The music dies with him. A shame. I was starting to like the violins.

Ransom holds me against his chest, breathing hard, his heart drumming against my cheek, and my own heart squeezes right back.

This man tore through the ship for me. I love him an embarrassing amount, and I plan on telling him so once he stops scanning the ceiling for threats.

“What just happened?” he asks.

“The Viking ghost happened.”

He growls at the ceiling before leveling those cobalt blues at me. “And how did that go for you?”

“Long story.” I look up at him, and his eyes are still stormy with worry, confusion, and the particular brand of frustration that comes standard with being married to me. “How did you find me?”

“You walked past fourteen security cameras talking to yourself. I’m observant.”

“Fair enough,” I say with a frown. “I hope I photograph well.”

“You’ve never been more stunning.” He tips his head as he says it. “That might be why the ghost insisted on slow-dancing.”

He’s right back to growling. It’s becoming his second language.

“But I did manage to get some information,” I tell him.

“You got information by slow-dancing with a ghost?” He only sounds partially convinced. “This is a new one. This ghost sounds like a character.”

I nod. “He’s a very charming character. And very dead. And very helpful. Two out of three of those work in my favor.” I pat Ransom’s chest, which is also very solid and very real and belongs to my actual living husband. Believe it or not, I do know the difference.

“And why, exactly, were you floating near the ceiling?” He looks perplexed and resigned all at once, a man who stopped asking the big questions somewhere around our honeymoon.

“The ghost lifted me there.”

“Why?”

“To be dramatic?” I shrug in his arms. “He’s from days of yore. Everything’s dramatic when you’re from days of yore. I’m fairly certain it’s in the handbook, right between plundering and hair care.”

Ransom sets me down carefully, his hands lingering on my waist as though I might levitate again without warning. Honestly, a fair concern.

“This is insane,” he says.

“This is my life.”

“Our life,” he corrects, pulling me close and pressing his forehead against mine. “And next time you decide to slow-dance with a dead Viking who can defy gravity, maybe give me a heads-up first?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”