By Zoe York
Heat rating: spicy hot, paranormal, erotic romance, BBW heroine, private investigator
Viking monk Bjorn Önnuson has chosen a life of celibacy and prayer on a remote corner of planet Midgard. Solitude is preferable to the excesses of the capital city, but when hedonistic dragon rider Britt Andersdatter flies into his life, being alone no longer makes sense.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novella is the third in a series of connected stories in my VIKINGS IN SPACE series. The first book, A Viking’s Peace, is available for free at all book retailers for Fall 2015.
All of my stories share a common theme of second chances, and if you like this one, I encourage you to check out my other series, all outlined on my website, zoeyork.com. If you join my mailing list, you’ll hear about all my new releases, including opportunities to read my latest story before it’s released for sale.
~Zoe
1
The year: 2255
Lund Monastery, The Outerlands
Planet Midgard
Bjorn Önnuson slowed his motorcycle to a stop on his private terrace, cutting the motor before he rolled it into his room in the monastery. No technology could be used inside the sacred building, and while their religious order was liberal on many points, that was not one to be messed with.
On the other hand, he couldn’t leave his bike out in the rain.
Twisting to look back out the glass doors he’d just come in, he shook his head at the rolling grey clouds, fast-approaching.
A storm was coming.
He’d felt it when he woke up that morning, and had hurried through his chores so he could fit in a ride. Because fuel was so hard to come by, and a luxury he always felt a good amount of guilt about using in the first place, he allowed himself two rides a month.
But when that second week hit, the countdown itched beneath his skin in a way that felt very un-monk-like.
He secured his bike in the stand against the far wall, and stripped out of his riding clothes. The other brothers of his order always looked at him with great concern when he wore leather anything to the dining room or into the sanctuary.
They didn’t wear robes every day—mostly because they were a working monastery and farming and carpentry in a robe was ridiculous.
And while it was a rare day that an adventurer would need their assistance, when they did, riding a dragon up the mountainside was far easier in pants.
Bjorn would point out that leathers cut down even further on windburn, but he’d learned over the last seven years to pick his battles with care.
If the order wore rough, fabric trousers and shirts, who was he to suggest otherwise?
Most days, he liked the nubby scratch against his skin; how it worsened over the day as he sweated through hard, manual labour, and eased once he’d said evening prayers and meditated. Reminded him of the foolish choices of his youth and the penance he’d be making for the rest of his life.
Before he pulled on a clean set of the standard monk garb, he dropped to the floor and worked through a series of exercises that fatigued his muscles and cleared his head in a way his ride through the mountain pass had not.
Release the trappings and calm shall settle. He knew the life lesson well and could counsel others on it wisely. Could adopt it in every part of his life except for his motorcycle.
Noren’s motorcycle.
As soon as he told his fellow monks that the bike had belonged to his best friend, the judgement ceased. Some brothers imbibed in wine, others in food.
Bjorn’s excess was speed, as if he might one day outrun his guilt.
And for the privilege of testing that, he went without all other vices. No wine. No lavish meals. No women.
The last point was relatively easy on a mountain devoid of soft curves and tempting smiles.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have urges—he was a warm-blooded male who had known the company of women before he joined the order after Noren’s death. But he also knew the urges for wine and women and anything else came at a price.
Going without such selfish pursuits freed him to learn more about himself and his faith, however. It also allowed him more time to work, which was rewarding in and of itself, but also earned him a reputation for being a strong contributor to the off-grid, self-sustaining community.
He could practically hear Brother Randolf cautioning him that pride was dangerous, too.
He pushed himself harder through a final set of exercises, then climbed into the shower. One advantage of the new monastery was it’s proximity to a natural hot spring. The water washed away more than the grime and sweat, and soon his mind was clear.
As it sometimes did, the water stirred some of those natural urges. He took himself in hand, but instead of the usual blank pleasant feelings he could usually settle his mind into—a safe space that didn’t feel too much like sinning—today he heard a voice. A laugh, followed by murmured words that crawled into his belly and tugged at the deepest, darkest desires. Dark eyes and a wet mouth.