Page 13 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Elfe

A week of silence feels like a year.

Seven days since I destroyed my parents in front of half the club.

Seven days since I said things that can't be unsaid.

Seven days of them avoiding Bubba's, avoiding me, avoiding the wreckage I created with words sharp enough to cut through bone.

The bar is busier than usual tonight.

More club members than civilians.

They cluster near my section, a wall of leather and menace keeping watch.

After the black roses, nobody's taking chances.

Magnus sits at the corner where he can see both exits.

Tor's by the front door.

Even prospects who usually work the garage are here, trying to look casual while being obvious protection.

The air is thick with smoke and tension.

Every time the door opens, hands drift toward weapons.

Everyone's waiting for something to happen.

Los Coyotes to make a move. The mystery killer to surface. Something to break this suffocating holding pattern we've been in.

Oskar's in his usual spot at the end of the bar. Always watching. Always there.

But there's a careful distance between us now that makes my skin itch.

We haven't been alone since that night.

Haven't touched beyond necessary contact.

Like he's afraid I'll shatter if he gets too close.

Or maybe he's afraid of what I said to my father, afraid of being connected to someone who could be so cruel.

He nurses the same beer for an hour, eyes tracking every movement in the bar.

The muscle in his jaw ticks whenever someone gets too close to me, but he doesn't move from his spot.

Doesn't come behind the bar like he used to.

Maintains that professional distance that's driving me insane.

I pull another beer and slide it down the bar like I’ve done a million times before.

My hands don't shake anymore.

It’s a small victory, if I have any.

Big Tom grabs it with a nod of thanks, but goes back to his conversation about motorcycle parts.

Everything is normal. Routine. Everything I thought I wanted.

But it feels hollow now.

Like I'm playing a role.

The bartender who's fine.

The survivor who's healing.

The daughter who didn't mean what she said.

Except I did mean it. I meant every fucking word.

The door chimes and my heart stops, but it's not my parents.

It's Helle.

My sister stands in the doorway like she's not sure she's welcome.

Her tight blonde curls catch the neon light, falling halfway down her back just like Mom's.

Same delicate features, same warm brown eyes that see too much.

She's wearing jeans and a Florida State sweatshirt, looking impossibly young and normal surrounded by all this leather and danger.

She spots me, offers a tentative wave.

I nod toward an empty stool near me.

She navigates through the crowd carefully, aware of the eyes following her.

Everyone knows who she is—Ivar's other daughter.

The one who didn't get attacked. The one who stayed whole.

"Hey," she says, sliding onto the stool. "Can we talk?"

"I'm working."

"I'll wait."

She settles in like she has all the time in the world.

One of the prospects—Aren—immediately positions himself closer.

Protection by association. Even my little sister gets protection, it seems.

"Whiskey sour?" I ask. Her usual.

"You remember."

"You're my sister. Of course I remember."

Something passes between us.

I can’t put my finger on it, but we haven’t been overly close these last couple of years.

I make her drink with extra care.

Muddle the sugar and bitters perfectly.

Add the egg white she pretends to hate but secretly loves.

Shake it until my arms ache. Anything to delay the conversation I know is coming.

The familiar ritual grounds me.

This I can do. Mix drinks. Follow recipes. Create something good from basic ingredients.

"It's been a week," she says when I set the drink in front of her.

The foam on top is perfect, the cherry and orange slice arranged just how she likes.

"I can count."

"Mom cries every night." The words land like stones in still waters, ripples spreading outward.

I focus on wiping down the bar, keeping my hands busy.

The wood is already clean but I need something to do. "Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?"

"Neither. Just thought you should know." She takes a sip, leaves a lipstick mark on the rim. Pink, not red. Still trying to find her identity outside Mom's shadow. "Dad's drinking more. Stays at the clubhouse until three, four in the morning. Emil says he's been sleeping in the chapel some nights."

"Helle—"

"You weren't wrong." The words come out rushed, like she's been practicing them. "What you said. You weren't wrong. Just... cruel in how you said it."

I pour myself a shot of vodka.

No one important is here to complain about anyone drinking on the job, and even if they were, the look Oskar sends his way would shut him up. "Sometimes cruel is the only language people hear."

"Maybe. But it doesn't make it hurt less." She runs her finger around the rim of her glass, making it sing. A habit from childhood, something she did when nervous. "You know how they are. Club comes first, always has. We grew up knowing that."

"Doesn't make it right."

"No. But it makes it reality." She looks at me directly, Mom's eyes in her face. "You can be angry about reality or accept it. Getting angry doesn't change it."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Speaking from therapy. Which you know about since you're in it too." She takes another sip. "Dr. Rami, right? She's good. Helped me process a lot of my shit about growing up here."

"You're in therapy?"

"Started six months ago. After your... after what happened.

Made me realize how fucked up our normal was.

" She glances around the bar, at the weapons we don’t even bother to hide, the violence simmering under the surface.

"The club's been their life longer than we've been alive. We can't compete with that history."

"We shouldn't have to compete."

"No. But here we are." She signals for another drink. While I make it, she continues. "I used to be so angry. Why couldn't Dad just be normal? Why did every birthday, every holiday, every important moment come second to the club? Remember when he missed my high school graduation because of a run?"

"I remember." I'd held her while she cried in the bathroom, her cap and gown crumpled on the floor.

"I hated him for that. For months. But then I realized—he doesn't know how to be anything else. The club saved him when he was young, gave him purpose. It's not an excuse, but it’s the understanding I needed to process why he made the choices he did."

A customer needs a refill. Three more want to order.

I handle them all, but I could do this in my sleep.

When I return, she's watching Oskar, who's pretending not to watch us.

"So," she says, voice deliberately lighter. "Want to talk about something else?"

"Gods, yes."

"I'm seeing someone."

I almost drop the glass I'm drying. "What? Who? Since when?"

"His name's Tyler. Computer Science major at FSU." She smiles, the first real smile I've seen from her in months. It transforms her face, makes her look younger. Happier. "He's... normal. Gorgeously normal. Studies too much, worries about grades, has never been in a fight in his life."

"How did you meet?"

"Library. I dropped all of my books, and he helped me pick them up. Very meet-cute. Very not-club." She glances around the bar, at the leather, liquor bottles, and everyone with a piece on their hip. "He doesn't know about any of this. Thinks Dad's in construction."

"That's probably safer."

"Definitely safer. He took me to a poetry reading last week. A poetry reading, Elfe. Can you imagine Dad at a poetry reading?"

I laugh despite everything.

The image of our father sitting through people reading about feelings is absurd. "He'd probably shoot someone for rhyming wrong."

"Right? But it was nice. Boring but nice. Safe." She plays with her hair, twirling a curl around her finger—a nervous habit from childhood. "Sometimes boring and safe is good."

"Yeah." I think about Oskar, about blood on his hands, about how much he’d be willing to protect me, about how he’s killed for me.

Nothing about him is boring or safe.

Her eyes flick to Oskar again, then back to me. "Speaking of not boring or safe..."

"Helle."

"What? I'm just saying, the man looks at you like you're water and he's been in the desert for years." She lowers her voice, leans closer. "Plus, the sexual tension is thick enough to cut. Everyone can feel it. Aren over there is practically sweating from secondhand horniness."

Heat floods my face.

I glance at Aren, who suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating. "It's complicated."

"When is it not? But complicated doesn't mean impossible." She leans even closer, drops her voice more. "Have you... you know?"

"Helle!"

"What? We're sisters. We're supposed to talk about this stuff. I can tell you about Tyler and the extremely athletic things we did after the poetry reading." She waggles her eyebrows. "So? Have you done the deed with your scary protector?"

I glance at Oskar.

He's talking to Magnus now, but I know he's still aware of everything I do.

The way his shoulders tense when someone gets too close.

The way his hand rests on his thigh, ready to reach for his weapon.

Always watching. Always ready.

"No."

"But you want to?"

"Yes." The admission comes out barely audible. "Gods, yes. But he's going molasses slow. Treats me like I'm made of glass."

"Maybe he's scared of breaking you."

"I'm already broken. Sex isn't going to make it worse."

"You're not broken," she says firmly. "Damaged, maybe. Healing, definitely. But not broken. Broken things can't be fixed. You're being fixed."

"Tell that to him. He acts like touching me might trigger some catastrophic meltdown."

"Maybe tell him that?"

"I've tried. He just... stops things. Says I'm not ready. Like he knows better than me what I need."

Helle finishes her drink, signals for another.