Page 14 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

While I make it, she says, "You know what your problem is? You're waiting for permission. For him to decide you're ready. But that's not how it works."

"Then how does it work?"

"You take what you want. You're a grown woman who survived hell. You don't need anyone's permission to have sex, especially not from the man you want to have sex with."

"It's not that simple—"

"Isn't it?" She accepts her fresh drink. "Look, I get it. After what happened, sex is scary. Intimacy is terrifying. But you can't let fear make decisions for you. And you can't let him make decisions for you either, even if he thinks he's protecting you."

"What if I'm not ready? What if he's right and I don't know it?"

"Then you'll find out. And you'll deal with it. But at least it'll be your choice, your mistake to make if it is one." She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "You've had so much taken from you. Don't let anyone, not even him, take anything else from you too."

She's right. I know she's right. But knowing and doing are different things.

"I should go," she says after finishing her third drink. "Tyler is cooking dinner. Something with quinoa." She makes a face. "But hey, at least he cooks. And does dishes. And doesn't carry three weapons to the grocery store."

"Helle?" I catch her arm as she stands. "Tell Mom and Dad... tell them I'm sorry. Not for what I said, but for how I said it."

"Tell them yourself. When you're ready." She squeezes my hand. "Love you, sis."

"Love you too."

She leaves, and the bar feels emptier.

I throw myself into work, trying not to think about my parents, about how cruel I was to my father.

The night winds down slowly.

Last call comes and goes.

The crowd thins until it's just club members and a few hardcore regulars who know better than to cause trouble.

I clean, count the register, do all the closing tasks while being aware of Oskar waiting for me to wrap up.

He helps flip chairs onto tables, checks locks, does a security sweep.

All without speaking to me beyond necessary communication.

The distance feels like an ocean between us.

Finally, it's just us.

"Ready?" he asks, standing by the door.

"We need to talk."

His expression shutters. "About?"

"Us. This thing between us. The way you treat me like I might break if you breathe wrong."

"Elfe—"

"No. I'm talking." I come around the bar, stop just out of reach.

The distance between us crackles with tension.

"It's been a week since we were together. A week of you keeping distance. Of being careful. Of treating me like a victim instead of a woman even when I’ve told you I don’t want to be treated like that. "

"That's not—"

"It is. You stop every time things get heated. You pull back like touching me might trigger some breakdown. You're so focused on protecting me that you're forgetting I'm a person with wants and needs."

"I know you're a person."

"Then treat me like one. Stop making decisions for me. Stop deciding what I'm ready for." I step closer, close enough to smell his cologne. Pine and leather and danger. "I want you. I've made that clear. So, what's really stopping you?"

He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough, scraped raw. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that. You don't know what I'm capable of."

"I know you killed two men for me. I know you held me through a panic attack. I know you made me come for the first time with someone else." I touch his chest, feel his heart racing under my palm. "I know enough."

"Elfe—"

"Take me home." It's not a request. "Take me to the house and stop treating me like glass."

The ride back is tense.

I press against him harder than necessary, hands lower on his stomach than strictly needed for holding on.

I feel his breathing change, his muscles tense.

Good. I'm tired of being the only one affected.

The night air is cool against my skin, but everywhere we touch burns.

His body is solid, warm, alive against mine.

I want to climb inside his skin, erase all the careful distance he's been maintaining.

The loft is dark when we arrive.

Emil and Saga must be asleep.

The dogs lift their heads when we enter but don't bark.

They're used to us now, to our patterns.

The moment we're in my room, door closed, I turn on him. "I'm done waiting for you to decide I'm ready."

"Elfe—"

I pull my shirt off and his objection dies.

The air between us charges, electric. "I'm done with careful. Done with distance. Done with you protecting me from something I want."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it." I unhook my bra, let it fall. Watch his pupils blow wide, his hands clench at his sides. "Tell me why you won't touch me. Really tell me."

"Because you matter." The words rip out of him. "Because if I fuck this up, if I trigger something, if I hurt you, I'll never forgive myself."

"What if I hurt you?" I step closer, close enough to feel his body heat. "What if I'm the one who fucks up? Did you consider that? Or am I only allowed to be the victim in your scenario?"

He doesn't answer.

Or maybe he can't.

I reach for his belt. "I'm taking control. You can leave or you can stay, but I'm done being treated like something broken."

He catches my hands.

For a moment I think he's going to push me away again.

Instead, he pulls me against him, kisses me like he's drowning.

All the careful control shatters.

His hands are everywhere—my hair, my waist, my bare skin.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth. "You're going to destroy me."

"Good."

We stumble to the bed, shedding clothes between desperate kisses.

His shirt gets caught on his holster, and we have to stop, laughing breathlessly as he untangles himself.

My jeans stick to my legs, and he has to help peel them off.

It's messy and graceless and perfect.

When skin finally meets skin, we both gasp.

He's warm, solid, scarred in places that tell stories of violence survived.

I trace a particularly nasty mark on his ribs.

"Bar fight in Memphis," he murmurs against my neck. "Guy had a broken bottle."

"Did you win?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

His mouth finds my throat, my breast, my stomach.

Worship and claiming combined.

I arch under him, past shame or fear.

This is what I want.

What I choose.

My body responds to his touch, coming alive in ways I didn't know it could.

"Are you sure?" He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "We can stop—"

"If you stop now, I will literally kill you. And I know exactly where you keep your weapons."

He laughs, dark and rough. "Fair."

His fingers find me first, making sure I'm ready.

I'm more than ready.

I've been ready for a week, maybe longer.

Since that first night when he showed me pleasure didn't have to come with fear.

When he finally slides inside me, careful despite everything, I feel complete for the first time in seven months.

There's a sharp sting, a fullness that's foreign but not unwelcome.

He stays still, letting me adjust, pressing kisses to my face.

"Okay?"

"More than okay. Move. Please."

He moves slowly at first.

Testing. Learning what makes me gasp, what makes me dig my nails into his shoulders.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, showing him I won't break.

The rhythm builds.

Pleasure overlays the discomfort until there's only sensation, only us, only this moment I'm claiming for myself.

"Mine," he growls against my throat.

"Yours," I agree. Then, because I need him to understand, "And you're mine."

"Always have been."

I come apart with his name on my lips, waves of pleasure different from before.

Deeper. More complete.

Like pieces of myself clicking back into place.

He follows, my name a prayer and curse.

After, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling, breathing slowly returning to normal.

I wait for regret. For panic. For the trauma to resurface.

It doesn't come.

Instead, there's just peace.

Satisfaction.

A sense of reclaiming something that was almost stolen from me.

"You okay?" he asks softly, fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.

"Yes." I turn in his arms, face him. "I'm not broken, Oskar. Damaged, maybe. Healing, for sure. But not broken. Stop treating me like I am."

"I'll try."

"Do better than try."

He kisses me, soft and sweet. Different from the desperate passion of before. "Demanding."

"You have no idea."

"I'm starting to get one." His hand travels down my side, making me shiver. "How do you feel? Really?"

"Powerful," I admit. "Like I took back something that was mine."

"It was always yours. No one could take that from you."

"They tried."

"They failed." He pulls me closer. "You're here. You're whole. You're mine."

"Possessive."

"When it comes to you? Yes."

We stay like that, wrapped in each other and the victory of choosing pleasure over fear.

Outside, danger still lurks.

Los Coyotes.

The mystery killer.

My parents' silence.

But in this room, in this bed, in this moment, I'm just a woman who chose what she wanted.

And got it.