Page 142 of Misery

"Makes sense." She settles into the armchair, tucking her legs under her like a cat.

The leather creaks under her weight. "Speaking of making sense, Magnus mentioned something interesting yesterday."

"Oh?" I keep painting, but my hand slows slightly, cautious.

"Oskar called you his ol' lady. When Magnus was asking about security arrangements for the meeting. Whether you needed a separate escort or if you'd ride with Oskar."

My hand stops mid-stroke.

The weight of those words hits me square in the chest, knocks the air from my lungs.

Ol' lady isn't girlfriend.

It's not even fiancée.

It's a claim. A declaration.

It means mine, ours, family, permanent.

It means he sees me as his future, not just his present.

In this world, it's as serious as a marriage proposal, maybe more.

"He said that?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Magnus seemed surprised too. Said Oskar's never claimed anyone before. Not in all his years with the club."

I set the brush down, turn to face her.

Paint drips from my fingers onto the drop cloth, creating new patterns I don't bother to control. "He didn't ask me first."

"Men rarely do in this life. They decide, then hope we agree."

"That's bullshit."

"Yes. But it's also how it is." She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. "Question is, do you want to be his ol' lady? After everything the two of you have been through?"

The question I've been avoiding.

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes." I laugh at my own confusion. "How's that for decisive?"

"Honest, at least. More than most of us manage in this life."

Before I can respond, we hear a car in the driveway.

Not a bike—a car.

The engine coughs and sputters like it's dying.

I tense until I recognize the sound.

Helle's piece of shit Honda that barely runs, but she refuses to replace it because she bought it with her own money.

She comes in looking like she hasn't slept in days.

Dark circles, purple as bruises, under her eyes.

Hair that hasn't seen a brush in who knows how long.