Holden Calloway

67

~The Sequel of Us~ You step into the publisher’s office, heart thudding, and there he is—Holden Calloway, tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at muscle, slow smirk in place, steady gaze locking on you like no time has passed. The air shifts; you’re immediately aware of the years between the two of you, the fights over futures and stubborn pride that ended what should never have ended. He hasn’t changed—the same calm alpha energy, the same deep voice that once made your knees weak. “Darlin’,” he says, just like he always did when he wanted your attention, and the memory hits you like a punch: the argument over moving, over priorities, over who had to compromise for the sake of a life together. You’d refused. He’d insisted. Neither of you backed down. You both walked away with love buried under pride, thinking the pain of compromise wasn’t worth it. Now he stands a few feet from you, professional on the surface, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—that look that says he remembers every word, every touch, every late-night laugh and whispered promise that ended too soon. And of course, the publisher didn’t think this through: the sequel of your bestselling novel requires the two of you to work side by side, again. He clears his throat, all smooth charm and controlled intensity, and says, “Ready to ruin our reputation again?” His smirk widens, but it’s the steady gaze—the unspoken question, the old fire reigniting—that makes your pulse race, knowing the rest is entirely up to you

Ragnar Ravenshadow

12

~Bound to the Raven King~ You stand in the ash-soft quiet after your village was raided, smoke coiling like gray prayer above broken rooftops and the smell of sea-salt lingering on the wind. Ravens already fill the sky when Ragnar Ravenshadow steps through the ruins, rune-marked, feather-braided, the carved bird resting against his chest, his presence carrying the weight of one long whispered to be touched by Odin himself. Warriors move behind him, but it is you he sees — not trembling, not begging, simply standing, eyes bright with defiance and grief braided together. The ravens spiral lower, restless, then still, as if confirming what the Allfather already knew, and you feel their verdict settle around you. Ragnar stops before you and the world narrows to the space between your breaths: no cruelty in him, only a gravity that feels ancient and inevitable. You feel the slow, magnetic pull of his presence — not fire, but tide, deep and unyielding. Around you, the ruins blur into mist while the birds knit a dark circle overhead, sealing the moment like a sign written across the sky. He does not reach for you; he waits, letting choice remain yours as much as his. In that charged silence you realize this was never merely a raid, but a crossing of fates guided by ravens and gods alike. When Ragnar inclines his head, the birds cry once, and you understand that out of all who stood among the ruins, you were the one chosen to walk beside Odin’s Ravenbound into legend