Annabel

"Annabel Turner?"

I looked up from where my suitcase's wheel had managed to lodge itself in a grate just outside Keflavík International Airport. My name, as plain and American as you could get, had never sounded so sonorous before, so exotic rolling off another person's tongue. The echo of it snatched all the crisp Icelandic air right out of my lungs.

As did the man who'd spoken it. He was leaning against a trolley sign, appraising me the way a jeweler might assess the value of a rare gem. Even from a distance, I caught the silvery flash of his eyes and the way they took me apart piece by piece, twin scalpels cutting away at my clothes to better imagine my body underneath.

I'd expected to work on my thesis, delving into certain aspects of Viking history during my vacation in Iceland—I hadn't expected to see one in the flesh. The man currently sizing me up as if he were a wolf and I his dinner was most definitely a descendent of the old Norse warriors known to inhabit this region.

I swallowed so hard I almost choked. His thick, muscular arms and the way he folded them over his wide chest, the span of his shoulders and looming height; the way his nostrils flared as he took stock of me, pupils dilated; he was most definitely an alpha.

He was also scenting me.

As my parents' insistence I take a vacation at their old family friends' farm in Iceland echoed at the back of my mind, I narrowed my eyes. Since the day I'd turned eighteen, they'd suggested I visit, growing more and more adamant during the past decade until they'd finally insisted. I'd thought they just worried about how hard I was working on my thesis, but the sight of this alpha's flared nostrils made me suspect there was an ulterior motive at play.

Such as getting their spinster daughter married off.

In past times an alpha in such peak physical condition as this man would already have an obedient omega wife by his side, and possibly a couple of kids. That was the order of things; alphas married omegas, whose sole responsibility it was to bear him offspring, while beta women—such as myself—got to pursue careers in whichever field we pleased and marry a beta of our own choosing. But that was before fertility rates plummeted some thirty years ago, and the birth of omegas became exceedingly rare. These days most alphas were all too happy to claim betas for their wives, stupidly expecting the same servitude from her as they did an omega.

And judging by this Nordic giant's wry smirk, as he looked me up and down, someone might have suggested I was in the market for a husband.

Dammit, Mom.

I gritted my teeth as I forced my cheeks into a polite smile. If there was one thing I had no interest in, or time for, it was overbearing alpha males. I was on track for a doctorate degree in history, despite her fervent wish that I find a husband. A wish she'd voiced since the day I came of age.

Apparently, she'd finally decided to make the leap from insistent nagging to international matchmaking.

"That's me," I said, forcing myself to lift my chin and hold his gaze. Sexy Viking here may as well know from the get—go that I'm not the kind of girl to submit to alpha dominance. "You're one of Arni and Magga's sons, I take it?" I hadn't seen any pictures, but I knew my parents' friends had three sons. And right about now I wished someone would have told me one of them was an alpha.

His lips curved from the insufferable smirk into a devious smile that made my cheeks burn. "Sure am, sweetling. They asked me to pick you up...."

He pushed off the sign he'd been resting against and stalked toward me, muscles coiling beneath his sweater. A distant primal instinct wormed its way to the surface of my brain, an animal warning that straightened my spine. This man—this alpha—cast a shadow tall and wide enough to engulf me that just his presence threatened to devour.

But then he stopped, offering his hand in greeting. "I'm Saga Lokisson."

"Oh. Right," I murmured, lowering my hackles as I reached out in return. Maybe I'd misjudged him. Maybe alphas in Iceland knew how to behave themselves. "Nice to meet y—"

Saga grabbed my hand and tugged me into him, plunging my face into his chest, our bodies flush. I took in a lungful of hay and wool from his sweater, pine and smoky black oud, and... something else. Something wilder, headier, that lit me up from the inside out.

As he closed his arms around me to complete our very sudden and very unnecessary hug, I shut my eyes for just a moment, trying to identify the fragrance dripping off him like spiced tupelo honey. With each new breath, the rest of my senses dulled, the din of the airport fading away until I was awash in the tide of his scent, lost to the undertow.

His chest rumbled under my cheek. At first I thought it was laughter, a chuckle at my expense, but as it rattled against his sternum, it felt more… exciting. My pulse quickened and my blood sang in harmony, until a throb low in my belly made me open my eyes again as reality came crashing down on me all at once.

Saga smelled like alpha, but much more potent than I'd ever encountered before. That was what had me enraptured—the sheer scent of him burning its way through all the others, beckoning me to remain in his arms.

Was he that in touch with his nature out here, surrounded by clean arctic air and unspoiled wilderness?

And why the hell did I care what he smelled like?

Jerking back, I stared straight up at him, a half—formed excuse for my behavior withering on my tongue when his smile widened, a little wrinkle forming above his nose. Just like that, I was back at ease, realizing that while Saga was definitely a tall, powerful alpha, he also couldn't have been much older than I was. He might have been a big Viking hunk, and apparently I hadn't gotten laid in way too long if my reaction to him was any indicator, but that didn't mean I was about to turn into a shrinking violet.