Page 11 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER SIX

Oskar

I wake with Elfe pressed against my side, her breath warm against my chest.

No panic.

No regret in the morning light.

Just her hand splayed over my heart like she's claiming me even in sleep.

The room smells like me mixed with her shampoo.

Evidence of last night written in the tangled sheets, in the bruise I sucked into her neck, in the way she's wrapped around me like I might disappear.

I should feel guilty.

She's my protection assignment.

Ivar's daughter.

The girl I've been watching for months without her knowledge.

The weight of that secret sits heavy in my chest, a confession that would destroy everything we're building.

Instead, I feel settled, like pieces clicking into place.

She stirs, those pale eyes opening slowly.

No confusion.

She knows exactly where she is, who she's with.

A small smile plays at her lips—genuine, unguarded in a way I rarely see from her anymore.

"Morning," she murmurs against my skin.

"Morning." My hand finds her hair, tangling in the mess of it. Still soft despite everything. "How do you feel?"

"Good. Relaxed in the best way." She stretches, catlike, and I feel every inch of her against me. The movement makes her wince slightly—new muscles used, new sensations experienced. "What time is it?"

I check my phone. Three missed calls from Magnus. Two from Runes. They can wait. "Almost noon."

"Shit." She sits up, sheet falling away. I try not to stare at the expanse of pale skin, the marks I left. Try and fail. "I work tonight."

"No."

She looks at me, eyebrows raised. That defiant spark that got her through hell. "No?"

"You're not going to Bubba's. Not with Los Coyotes hunting you."

"I have to." She slides out of bed, not minding the fact she’s nude.

Or maybe she does care, but she isn’t showing me that.

How my eyes track every movement. "I need normalcy, Oskar. I need to feel like my life isn't completely controlled by how terrified I am of what’s happening to me."

"Your life needs to be controlled by safety right now."

"That's not living. That's surviving, and I need this." She finds her underwear, pulls them on.

I watch the fabric slide up her thighs, remembering my hands there last night. "I'm working my shift. You can come, bring an army of prospects, whatever. But I'm going, because hiding here will just make me go insane."

I sit up, sheet pooling at my waist.

The morning sun highlights more scars she hasn't asked about yet. "Elfe—"

"Don't." She turns to face me, hands on hips.

Beautiful in her defiance. Fierce despite the vulnerability of near-nakedness. "I let them take my home from me. My sense of safety. My ability to sleep without nightmares. I won't let them take my job too. I won't let them take everything that makes me who I am."

The steel in her voice reminds me why I want her in the first place.

She’s not just beautiful, not just broken, but fucking fierce when she needs to be.

"Fine." I stand, pull on my jeans.

The denim is rough against skin that still smells like her. "But we do this my way. I'm there. Armed. You don't leave my sight."

"Deal."

She crosses to me, goes up on her toes to kiss me.

Soft. Grateful. A thank you and a promise combined. "Thank you for understanding."

"I don't understand. I'm accepting. There's a difference."

"I'll take it."

We dress in silence.

She puts on an eggplant purple shirt with black jeans that hug her curves beautifully. "I should tell Saga where I'm going," she says, fingers working through her tangled hair.

"I'll handle it. You focus on getting ready."

The kitchen is bright with afternoon sun when we emerge.

Emil and Saga are at the counter, coffee and domesticity.

The dogs lift their heads, tails wagging at Elfe's appearance.

They both look up, take in Elfe, the way we're standing too close, the way she unconsciously leans into my space.

"Morning," Elfe says, chin up, daring them to comment.

"Afternoon," Saga corrects gently. No judgment in her tone, but I catch the look she exchanges with Emil. Concern mixed with understanding. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

Saga pours her coffee while Emil watches me.

It’s a silent brother to brother communication.

He knows what happened, probably heard it.

These walls aren't that thick, and Elfe wasn't quiet when she came apart in my hands.

"Elfe's working tonight," I announce.

"Like hell," Emil starts.

"It's not up for debate." Elfe accepts the coffee gratefully, wrapping both hands around the mug like it's anchoring her. "I need something normal. Just one shift. Oskar will be there."

"It's dangerous," Saga says carefully. She's got that tone she uses when trying to manage situations without triggering anyone's temper.

"Everything's dangerous now." Elfe's voice doesn't waver. "At least at Bubba's I'm surrounded by the club. Protected. It's probably the safest place besides here."

Emil and I exchange looks.

I understand what she’s saying, but she forgets what happened, or maybe she’s just ignoring it.

I killed two of them there.

Still, at least there are witnesses, backup if needed.

If they want to make a move, they'd have to deal with immediate retaliation.

"Fine," Emil gives in. "But you wear a vest under your clothes. And you don't leave through any back doors alone. No smoke breaks. No taking trash out."

"Agreed."

The afternoon passes in a strange sense of domesticity I haven’t ever experienced.

Elfe showers properly this time.

I hear her singing softly—something I haven't heard in the months I've been watching her.

She does her makeup, not too thick, but just enough to accentuate her natural features, war paint for a different kind of battle.

I clean my weapons at the dining table and check them twice.

Honestly, I need to keep my mind busy.

I strap more than usual to my body—ankle piece, shoulder holster, knife in my boot, another at my belt.

If something goes down tonight, I'll be ready.

Emil watches from the doorway, says nothing about the excessive firepower.

"She needs this," he observes quietly.

"I know."

"Doesn't mean it's smart."

"Since when do we do smart?" I check the Glock's magazine again. Full. Ready. "We do what’s necessary."

"And this is necessary?"

"For her sanity? Yeah." I meet his eyes. "She's drowning, Emil. Has been since the incident. If working a shift gives her something to hold onto, then that's what we do."

He nods, understanding. We've both seen trauma. Both know how important the small victories are.

The drive to Bubba's feels like heading into battle.

Elfe's arms around my waist, her body pressed against mine, but she's tense now.

The closer we get, the more rigid she becomes.

Her fingers dig into my cut, holding on like I might evaporate.

"You don't have to do this," I tell her at a red light, turning my head slightly.

"Yes, I do." Her helmet bumps my shoulder. "I do, or they win."

"They've already won if you get hurt proving a point."

"Then don't let me get hurt." Simple. Like she trusts me completely. The weight of that trust is heavier than any weapon.

Bubba's is already busy when we arrive.

The Friday night crowd started early.

Bikes lined up like soldiers.

I scan the parking lot automatically.

Memorize vehicles and look for anything out of place.

Blue sedan that doesn't belong. White van with tinted windows.

Inside, it’s just like normal.

Pool tables cracking.

Jukebox playing classic rock—AC/DC bleeding into Skynyrd.

Members scattered around their usual spots.

I spot Magnus in the corner, already watching the door.

He nods—he's on alert too.

Elfe heads behind the bar, ties an apron around her waist.

The routine is automatic, muscle memory taking over.

She falls into the rhythm like she never left.

I watch her pour drinks, make change, smile and repeat.

I take my usual spot at the end of the bar.

Where I can see everything.

Where I've sat for months watching her without her knowing.

Watching her fake being okay.

Watching her hands shake when she thought no one was looking.

But now she knows I'm here.

Knows I'm watching.

Glances my way between customers, small smiles that make my chest tight.

These aren't the fake smiles she gives customers.

These are real, just for me.

"Beer?" she asks, like this is normal, like we didn't fundamentally change everything last night.

"Yeah."

She pours it perfectly.

There’s no excess foam and she sets it in front of me with fingers that brush mine deliberately.

That small touch shoots through me like lightning.

The first hour passes without an issue.

She ends up actually relaxing.

Her shoulders drop from around her ears, laughs genuinely at someone's terrible joke and argues playfully with one of the regulars—Big Tom—about baseball.

It’s almost normal, almost like before.

I watch her work, but notice the differences.

She's still beautiful—that kind of effortless beauty that makes men stupid.

But there's something different now.

An awareness in how she moves.

She knows where everyone is without looking, keeps her back to the wall.

Always has an exit in sight.

The lessons trauma gave her.

Then Jaycee, one of the club horas, who also bartends here, comes from the back. "Delivery for you, Elfe."

"I didn't order anything."

"Got your name on it." She sets a long white box on the bar.

My hand goes to my weapon. Every instinct screams danger. "Don't touch it."

But she's already lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, are a dozen roses.

Black roses.

The color drains from her face so fast I think she might faint.

Her hands shake as she picks up the card with trembling fingers.

"What does it say?" My voice is calm but I'm already moving, positioning myself between her and the door.

She reads aloud, voice barely a whisper. "For the little artist. Beauty in darkness. Soon."

The bar's gone quiet.

That unnatural silence that comes before shit goes down.

Everyone knows something's wrong.

Members are already moving to defensive positions without being asked.