Page 1 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER ONE

Elfe

The glass slips through my fingers and shatters the moment it hits the floor.

The sound makes me jump back like I've been shot.

My heart hammers against my ribs, conversations pause, and heads turn.

There are too many eyes on me.

Too many people watching me fail at the simple task of holding a fucking glass.

"Just a glass, folks," I call out. Force a laugh that sounds hollow. "Happens to the best of us."

But it doesn't happen to me. Not before.

Before, I had steady hands. Easy smiles.

Before, I didn't flinch at sudden movements.

I didn't scan every face that walks through Bubba's door, like they might be here to finish what Los Coyotes started seven months ago.

Seven months.

It should be enough time to heal, to stop jumping at shadows, to stop feeling like prey, right?

Well, it's not.

Kari, one of my regulars, raises her beer from her usual stool. "Hell, I dropped three last week. You're doing better than me, girlie."

A few people laugh. The moment passes. But I feel certain gazes lingering.

The prospects at the corner table who've been babysitting me in shifts, thinking I don't notice.

They rotate every few hours. Bodul until six.

Aren until nine. Then someone else. Always someone watching.

My dad's orders, probably.

Or Emil's, like I'm a child who needs constant supervision.

Magnus at the pool table, cataloging my reaction with those too-observant eyes.

He'll report this to someone.

The shaking hands. The jump. Another sign that Ivar's daughter isn't handling her shit well at all.

And Oskar—always fucking Oskar—at the end of the bar, but honestly, I think he’s here just to have a drink.

I grab the broom and sweep up the pieces.

I’m unable to miss how my hands shake slightly.

The fragments catch the neon light, like ice, like tears, like all the broken things I can't put back together.

Friday night at Bubba's.

The place is packed with leather and denim.

Classic rock on the jukebox—AC/DC bleeding into Metallica bleeding into whatever else the bikers think makes them look tough.

The air's thick with smoke even though we're not supposed to allow it anymore.

Nobody's going to tell a room full of Raiders they can't light up.

This should feel safe. My territory. My people. The club owns this place, and I'm the Road Captain’s daughter.

I’m protected.

Instead, every shadow could hide a threat.

Every unfamiliar face makes my chest tight.

My body remembers what my mind tries to forget—the weight of them.

The smell of their breath. The sound of fabric tearing.

Stop.

"You good, Elfe?"

Oskar's watching me.

Those dark eyes tracking every movement.

Emil's brother has been around a lot lately.

I can't figure out why, and a normal person would think maybe he’s on my detail, but I don’t think so.

Dad sends the prospects for that, not Oskar.

He nurses the same beer for hours. Barely talks to anyone. Just watches.

Specifically watches me, though he tries to make it seem casual.

Like he just happens to be looking my way every time I glance over.

They call him the Executioner.

I've never asked why.

Honestly, I don't want to know.

Some knowledge comes with a price I'm not willing to pay.

"Fine," I lied. Dump the glass into the trash. Watch the pieces fall. "Just butterfingers tonight."

He nods, but his gaze doesn't leave me as I move back behind the bar.

There's something unsettling about him beyond the nickname.

It's how he always knows where I am in a room.

How he tenses when someone approaches me.

How he's there—always fucking there—whenever I work.

At first, I thought maybe he had a thing for me.

Wouldn't be the first biker to think Ivar's daughter might be fun to chase.

But he never flirts.

Never makes a move.

Never even smiles.

Just watches with this intensity that makes my skin prickle.

Like he's waiting for something.

"Elfe! Two Buds and a whiskey neat!" Tommy calls from the other end.

I nod, grateful for the distraction.

Pull beers. Pour whiskey. Take money. Make change. Smile. Pretend my hands aren't trembling.

Pretend I don't feel like I'm drowning in a room full of air.

The routine helps.

This I can do.

This I know.

Pull the tap. Watch the foam. Wipe the bar.

Keep moving. Don't think about how the crowd feels too close. How the exit seems too far. How every laugh sounds like a threat.

My phone buzzes on the bar back, right next to the register.

Probably Saga checking in.

She and Emil have been mother-henning me since I moved into their fortress.

Their loft that's more secure than Fort Knox.

Three dogs that look like they eat people.

Enough weapons to arm a small country.

Safe, they keep telling me. You're safe there.

But safety is relative when you've already been broken once.

Something makes me check the phone.

Unknown number.

You look beautiful when you're scared.

Ice floods my veins.

The whiskey bottle slips. I barely catch it. The near-miss makes my hands shake worse.

I glance around, trying to spot anyone on their phone.

Anyone watching too closely.

But it's too crowded.

Too many faces.

Too many eyes that could be tracking me.

The prospects are arguing over darts. Magnus is lining up a shot.

Even Oskar's looking away now, focused on the UFC fight on TV.

But that doesn't mean anything. Could be anyone. Could be someone I've served tonight. Someone I smiled at.

I delete the message and try to focus.

It’s probably nothing, probably some drunk who got my number.

Maybe that creep from last week who wouldn't take no for an answer until Bodul escorted him out.

Had to be that. Random asshole, not... not them.

Tommy's still waiting.

I finish his order, paste on a smile that feels like broken glass. Move on. Next customer. Next drink. Next fake laugh at a shit joke.

Keep moving. Keep breathing. Don't let them see you're scared.

Another buzz.

My stomach drops before I even look.

Your daddy's not here tonight. Noticed that too.

My throat closes.

Whoever this is has been watching. Knows my patterns. Knows when I'm vulnerable.

I look toward the back entrance.

The one that leads to the clubhouse.

Requires a member's card. Security cameras. Armed members on the other side.

Dad's at home with Mom and Helle.

Family dinner.

I lied to them and said I was short on cash, that I needed the money.

What I really needed was just to feel useful.

Normal.

Like, I wasn't still broken from what almost happened in that apartment.

The apartment I can't go back to.

Will never go back to.

Blood on the kitchen floor—my blood.

The counter where they slammed my head.

The wall where they pressed me.

Phantom hands tearing at my clothes.

Hot breath on my neck.

Voices telling me what they'd do.

How they'd make me pay for what the Raiders of Valhalla did.

Stop. Don't go there.

But my body remembers. Seven months later, and my body still fucking remembers every second.

"Elfe, grab more Jack from storage?" Hakon, one of the prospects, calls out. "Running low."

Most of the prospects pick up shifts here at the bar to help out with the club.

I nod, grateful for the escape.

I need to get away from the crowd.

From the eyes.

From whoever's sending these messages.

The storage room is through the back, past the hallway that connects to the clubhouse.

My hands shake as I punch in the code. Emil made me memorize it. Along with a dozen other protocols that seemed paranoid at the time.

Now they feel insufficient. Locks only work if the threat's on the outside.

The storage room is cold, quiet, and gives me immediate relief from the noise, heat, and press of bodies.

I lean against the wall, trying to slow my racing heart.

Whoever’s texting me is just some asshole.

Some random asshole who saw me here.

Who thought he’d have fun.

It doesn't mean anything.

Doesn't mean they're back.

Doesn't mean Los Coyotes found me again.

But they never found the people who did this to me.

My phone buzzes.

Do you still have nightmares about that night? About what almost happened?

Bile rises in my throat.

Whoever this is knows.

Knows about the attack.

Knows about what those men tried.

What they would have done if I hadn't had that little pink knife.

If I hadn't fought like a wild animal.

If Emil and Saga hadn't come home.

The knife.

Tiny thing with a ridiculous pink handle.

Saga gave it to me for Christmas as a joke. "Every girl needs something sharp and cute," she'd said.

It saved my life.

One desperate stab into an attacker's hand.

His scream. His blood.

The moment of shock that let me scramble away.

Not far. Not far enough. But enough to survive until help came.

My hands shake so hard I can barely hold the phone.

Another message appears while I'm staring.

I bet you do. I bet you wake up screaming.

I do.

Three times this week.

Saga pretends not to hear through the walls, but I know she does.

And, I know she tells Emil, know they whisper about me when they think I'm asleep.

Poor broken Elfe. When will she get better? When will she be okay?

Never. The answer is fucking never.

"You okay?"

I nearly scream and spin to find Oskar in the doorway.

How the fuck did he move so quietly? Six-foot-something of muscle shouldn't move like smoke.

"Gods, you scared me." I press a hand to my heart. Feel it racing. "What are you doing back here?"

"You disappeared, didn’t look right before you did, so," His eyes drop to my phone. Something flickers across his face. Recognition? Rage, but it’s gone before I can identify it. "Someone bothering you?"

"No. Just spam." I shove the phone in my pocket and feel it vibrate again. Don't look. "I need to get back."

He doesn't move, and I can’t help but notice how he fills the doorway completely.

He's bigger than Emil, I realize.

Broader shoulders. Maybe two inches taller. The storage room suddenly feels like a cage.

"If someone's bothering you, tell someone. Your dad. Emil."

"Nobody's bothering me." The lie tastes bitter. Like blood. Like fear.