Berserker Bonds
Eleven-hundred-year-old Viking warriors, rune rings with opinions, and the modern women fate picked for them. Berserker Bonds is a series of standalone Viking fated-mates romances with huge, devoted heroes who fall first and a guaranteed happily ever after. All Piper Kane books are free in Kindle Unlimited.
Axe & Oath
I’ve spent two years talking to a skeleton.
It’s professional. He’s a significant find — a Viking warrior, brought up from a Northumberland dig and shipped to my museum for analysis and display. I wrote the plaques. I designed the case. I named him Eirik in my notes and absolutely nowhere official.
Then, at eleven-thirty on a Thursday, Eirik Stonehand came back.
He’s six and a half feet of reborn Viking warrior, furious about the axe pose I approved, and currently wearing an emergency poncho with more dignity than any man has a right to. There is an amber glow coming from a location I am being extremely professional about not describing. My ring translation notes, filed under “battle metaphor, inconclusive,” are looking very conclusive right now.
The runes read: Holds until the flood is complete.
I’m a PhD-holding archaeologist. I understand what this means. I’m trying very hard not to think about what this means.
He is not trying at all.
Eirik Stonehand hasn’t been wrong about anything in eleven hundred years, and the ring has chosen me. He is very sure about this. The ring is very sure about this. And apparently my body, which has already made several decisions I wasn’t consulted on, is very sure about this too.
I told myself I was a professional.
I’ve been studying this man’s bones for two years. I know every scar, every healed fracture, every story his skeleton tells.
I didn’t know what he’d feel like alive.
Axe & Oath is a standalone Viking omegaverse romance with a reborn berserker hero, a flustered archaeologist heroine, an ancient ring with opinions, and a guaranteed HEA.
Shield & Surrender
There’s a six-foot-something naked Viking on my mat.
I’ve spent eight years training the freeze out of myself. I run a self-defense studio. I’ve handled every kind of chaos this job throws at a person.
I was not prepared for the ring.
It’s rune-carved and glowing. It’s definitely not on his hand. And it apparently tracked him across a thousand years directly to my Tuesday evening class, which is currently not handling it.
His name is Gunnar. Shield-man, 900 AD, recently defrosted. He has about four words of English, the build of something load-bearing, and zero apologies about any of this. The ring led him here. He’s not leaving until he finds what it was looking for.
I’m being very professional about it.
He’s sleeping on my mat. He’s eating my food. He’s in my morning classes and in my back lot building sparring dummies out of my recycling, and every time I find a reason to create distance he presses his palm flat against the window and waits for me to come back.
Which is the problem.
I know what I’m doing here. I know exactly what this is — the weight of something that lasts — and I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize it.
I just wasn’t expecting it to arrive naked.
The ring doesn’t care about my reservations. Neither does he.
Blood & Bread
There is an enormous man eating everything in my bakery.
He came through the back door at four-thirty AM and ate sixty cinnamon rolls off the cooling rack while kneeling on my floor with his eyes closed. Then he cried. I couldn’t throw him out after that.
His name is Bjorn. He’s fixed my oven with a hammer blow that should not have worked, carried sixty-pound bags one-handed, and convinced my landlord to find flexibility in the payment schedule through a method I’d call presence. He also bakes. Better than I do.
There’s a ring. At four-thirty AM in a dark bakery, the amber glow was the third strangest thing. It has opinions about when things happen.
I run sixteen-hour days feeding everyone around me. He looks at me like that’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard. He made me sit down this morning and eat. Stood there until I finished. Nobody feeds the baker. He does.
Blood & Bread is a standalone Viking fated-mate romance — bakery to HEA, provider kink, size difference, and a pregnancy epilogue built one loaf at a time.
Sword & Silk
The ripping started on day one.
I’m a fashion designer. I have never failed to keep an outfit on a client. Then Ragnar walked into my studio — six-foot-four of silver-blond Viking with scars I won’t stop thinking about — tried on one jacket, rolled his shoulders, and the jacket didn’t survive it.
He’s been here two weeks. He’s destroyed four shirts, two trousers, one cashmere pullover, and a drafting table (long story). He handles my fabric bolts more carefully than he handles himself. He also takes apart whatever I put on me.
There’s a ring. He arrived wearing nothing else. I’m a fashion designer — I take inventory. I stopped looking directly around the second shirt.
I design things to last. He seems to think that applies to everything except our clothing.
Sword & Silk is a standalone Viking fated-mate romance — studio to HEA, body worship, size difference, and a pregnancy epilogue built among the fabric bolts.
Storm & Stone
Maren didn’t order a Viking.
She runs a one-room backcountry ranger station, alone, on purpose, and she’s genuinely happy about it — no boss, no small talk, just her, the mountain, and a stove she trusts more than most people. Then a blizzard blows her door open and in walks 310 pounds of naked, freezing, completely unbothered man who looks like he’s been waiting a thousand years for exactly this moment.
Because he has.
Vidar died covering a retreat in 867 AD and spent the next thousand years in the cold, not sure it was worth it. Then something in him — something glowing, something extremely hard to explain to a woman holding a radio — pulled him straight to her door. He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t need to. He fixes her roof without asking. He reorganizes her entire gear closet overnight (rude, also correct). He eats three protein bars a day like a man doing penance.
The storm isn’t letting up. Neither is he.
She tells herself it’s practical — one stove, two bodies, basic survival math. She’s a professional. She has this completely handled.
She does not have this handled.
Viking berserker reborn romance. A thousand-year wait. One snowed-in cabin. A hero who says four words when three would do — and a heroine who is extremely done pretending she isn’t into it. Guaranteed HEA, pregnancy epilogue included.
Ruin & Rune
A thousand years dead. Reborn in my archive. Naked, glowing, and absolutely certain I’m his.
I catalog dead men’s letters for a living.
I didn’t expect one of them to show up alive.
I’m the quiet one. The archivist who keeps her feelings to herself. Tidy office. Tidier heart.
Then, one ordinary evening after everyone’s gone home, a mountain of a man appears in my special collections.
Bare to the world. Covered in ink no modern hand could make. Wearing nothing but a band of gold that is very much glowing.
His name is Leif. He was a berserker. He died with honor. And the hall of the slain sent him back because somewhere in this loud, wrong world, his mate was breathing.
The ring has been glowing since it caught my scent.
He’s enormous. He’s gentle in a way that takes effort. He learns a little more of my language every day, and he rages when a man stands too close—then checks on me after, terrified he scared me.
I’ve spent my whole life keeping the interesting things behind glass.
He’s asking me—without the words for it yet—to stop being careful.
To be his.
A Viking-omega paranormal romance with a reborn-berserker hero, an uptight archivist who finally lets go, and a fated-mate bond that won’t quit.
Forge & Flame
A thousand years dead—and he came back in the one place that still smells like home. My forge.
I make things out of fire and iron.
I did not make the naked Viking standing in my forge.
I’m a blacksmith. It’s an odd job for a woman and a lonely one, and I like it that way. Just me, the coal, the ring of the hammer, no one to answer to.
Then one night, out of the heat and smoke, a man simply appears.
Enormous. Covered in ink no modern needle could make. Bare to the cold—except for a band of gold that is, impossibly, glowing.
His name is Tormund. He was a berserker. He died with honor. And the hall of the slain sent him back because somewhere in this world his mate was breathing.
The ring has been burning since it caught my scent through the smoke.
He came back in a forge because a forge is the one thing that still smells like the life he lost.
Then he looked at the woman working it and decided she was the reason he’d been sent at all.
He wrecks my coveralls. Terrifies the safety inspector. Learns a little more of my language every day.
I built a life where I needed no one.
He’s asking me—without the words for it yet—to forge something new.
A Viking-omega paranormal romance with a reborn-berserker hero, a fiercely independent blacksmith, fish-out-of-water comedy, and a pregnant happily-ever-after. He never says he loves her. He shows her what he’ll build.
Horn & Honey
He showed up naked in her bee yard. He’s been tasting everything on her farm ever since.
My bees don’t like anybody. They like him.
Harald turned up in my bee yard at sunrise without a stitch on, and the bees liked him right away.
He’s been on my farm a week. He ate a square of honeycomb raw, wax and all. He ate a jar of creamed honey with a spoon and then with his finger. He drank my mead before it finished fermenting, and he isn’t sorry.
He has the biggest golden beard I’ve ever seen, there’s always honey in it, and I’ve stopped pretending I don’t look.
He thinks all of this is funny. He thinks everything is funny.
He eats slowly and finishes everything, because he sees no reason to hurry anything good.
I didn’t expect that to include me.
A standalone Viking fated-mates romance with a beekeeper, a berserker who just discovered honey, and a pregnancy HEA.