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Who else has figured it out?

"Don't know what you're talking about," I say evenly.

"Right." Oskar's grin widens. "That's why you've been MIA every night this week. And why you smell like vanilla perfume."

"Enough," Fenrir cuts in, but his eyes are on me, sharp and assessing. "We've got bigger shit to deal with than Regnor's social life."

But I can see the questions in his eyes.

The VP's protective of Everly, even if she's Kraken's adopted daughter.

The whole club is, really.

She's off-limits, has been since she came to live with Kraken after her parents died.

"Regnor, you're with me on my team," Fenrir continues, but there's weight to his words now. A promise that we'll be discussing this later. "Kraken, Magnus, Emil, Oskar. We take the house."

I nod, already running through my gear checklist.

Vest, primary gun, sidearm, extra mags, knife.

I should be focused on what we’re about to go do, but now I'm also thinking about after.

About the conversation Fenrir's going to want to have, about how to protect our secret until Everly's ready to go public.

"Team two," Runes continues, either oblivious to the tension or ignoring it, "Tor leads. Dag, Logi, Aesir, Vanir, Rati. You clear the barn and outbuildings. Watch for tunnels—this bastard's like a cockroach."

"What about the prospects?" Oskar asks, still eyeing me with that knowing look.

"Perimeter security with Ivar. No one in or out except us." Runes' eyes sweep the room. "Questions?"

"Rules?" Tor asks, though we all know the answer.

"Anyone who isn't us is hostile. Put them down." No hesitation in our president's voice. "We've lost too much to show mercy now."

The room fills with murmurs of agreement.

Flora's ghost hangs over us all, a reminder of what the Patriot costs us when we hesitate.

Rio's working today, couldn't get coverage at the Bubba’s, but I know he wanted to be here.

Wants his pound of flesh for what was taken from him.

"Gear up," Runes orders. "We roll in thirty."

The chapel empties, brothers moving and I catch Tor near the door.

"You good for this?" he asks, studying me with those eyes that see too much.

"Always."

"I mean with..." He glances around, lowers his voice. "Whatever Oskar was implying. You got your head in the game?"

So he suspects too. Great. "My head's right where it needs to be."

"Good. Because if you're distracted, if you're thinking about anything besides this run?—"

"I'm not," I cut him off. "When have I ever let personal shit affect a run?"