Page 16 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

"No. He's been stalking me. Following my interest. She just got caught in the middle. And I’m not fucking stalking her. I’ve been protecting her."

"Does it matter? He's fixated on her now." Emil runs his hands through his hair, the gesture so like our father when he's stressed. "We have to tell Runes. Tell the club."

"Not yet."

"Oskar—"

"Not until I understand what he wants. What his endgame is. Thiago never does anything without three backup plans."

Vanir clears his throat. "About that. I found something else."

We both look at him.

He turns the screen again.

It's a message board.

Dark web, from the looks of it—the kind of place where killers trade tips and predators hunt. A post from three days ago:

The little artist deserves better than guard dogs.

She deserves devotion. Worship. Blood spilled in her name like prayers.

Soon she'll understand. Soon she'll see who really protects her.

Who really loves her. The pretender will be revealed for what he is—a watcher, not a guardian.

A coward who hides behind distance while real men act.

"That's him?" Emil asks.

"IP address traces to a burner phone that was at the flower shop at the same time as your boy." Vanir looks grim. "He's escalating. This reads like a manifesto."

"Or a love letter," I correct. Because I know Thiago, now how his mind works. "He thinks he's courting her. The bodies are gifts. Proving he's worthy."

"Worthy of what?"

"Of her. Of taking her from me."

The pieces click together with sickening clarity.

Why he's killing Los Coyotes despite being one of them—they're competition.

Why the messages are so specific—he knows I'm reading them.

Why now, why escalating—because I got too close.

Because I touched what he considers his.

My phone buzzes.

Elfe:

Someone left something at the loft. At the door. Saga found it.

Photo attached.

A box. Inside, a dead dove.

White feathers stained with blood.

A note underneath in handwriting I recognize even after all these years.

Purity requires sacrifice.

"Fuck." I'm already moving. "He's at the compound."

"He can't get in," Emil says, following. "Biometrics, cameras—"

"He doesn't need to get in. He just needs her to know he can get close. Just needs to remind her that walls don't stop death."

We run for the bikes.

Vanir's still on his laptop, pulled up behind us, jogging while typing. "Got him! Traffic cam. Black sedan leaving your area fifteen minutes ago."

"Track him."

"Already am. He's heading... shit. He's heading toward Ivar's house."

The parents who haven't spoken to Elfe in a week.

Who aren't expecting danger at their own home.

Who have no idea a ghost from the past is coming for them.

"Emil, get to the compound. Make sure Elfe's secure. Lock it down."

"Where are you going?"

"To stop him before this gets worse."

"You can't face him alone. Not if he's got Los Coyotes backing—"

"He's not loyal to Los Coyotes. He never was." I start my bike, the engine roaring to life. "He's using them. He's something worse. He's someone who thinks like me."

The ride to Ivar's feels endless and too fast simultaneously.

Every red light tests my control.

Every slow driver makes me want violence.

The suburban streets blur past—normal houses with normal people living normal lives, no idea that monsters walk among them.

Thiago's there.

At the house of the woman I'm protecting.

The woman I—

No. Focus.

I know what he's doing.

It's what I would do if I were him.

Remove obstacles. Clear the path. Make her vulnerable and isolated so she has no choice but to accept protection.

Classic isolation tactics—remove the support system, become the only option.

He's going to take her parents.

My phone rings through my helmet.

Vanir. "His car's parked two blocks from Ivar's. Hasn't moved in ten minutes."

"Any sign of him?"

"Negative. But there's... wait. Smoke. Is that... fuck, there's smoke coming from Ivar's house!"

I gun it and take corners too fast, almost clipping a minivan, the driver honking as I blow past.

I don't fucking care. Hell, I can't care.

The smoke is visible from three blocks away.

Black and thick, but wrong somehow.

Not the whole house—just the garage.

A distraction.

Classic Thiago.

Draw attention to one place, strike another.

I don't go to the front.

Instead, I circle around through the neighbor's yard.

Their roses scrape my jacket as I push through.

The back door is open, lock picked with the same technique Thiago taught me twenty years ago.

Three pins, then the tumbler, slight pressure on the cylinder.

We practiced on every door in the neighborhood until we could do it in under thirty seconds.

Inside is quiet except for the smoke alarm screaming from the garage.

The sound covers my footsteps as I move through the kitchen.

Dishes in the sink.

Coffee still warm in the pot.

They were having a normal morning until he arrived.

I clear corners carefully, weapon drawn.

Kitchen empty.

Living room clear—photos on the mantel of happier times.

Elfe and Helle as children.

Ivar in his younger days.

A family that's breaking apart. Down the hall—

Blood.

Not much.

Just drops leading toward the master bedroom.

Fresh. Still wet.

I follow, keeping my steps silent, gun raised.

The bedroom door is cracked.

I can hear breathing—ragged, pained.

Someone crying.

I push it open with my foot.

Starla's on the floor, blood streaming from a gash on her scalp where something heavy hit her.

The blood's matted in her hair, pooling beneath her.

She's conscious but dazed, trying to sit up and failing.

A lamp lies broken beside her, ceramic base covered in blood.

The room's been ransacked.

Signs of a struggle—furniture overturned, picture frames shattered.

But no Thiago. No Ivar.

"Ivar." Starla's voice is weak but frantic. "They took him—he took him—"

"Who?" I kneel beside her, checking her wounds while keeping my weapon ready. "Who took him?"

"I don't know—dark hair—he said—" She's struggling to focus through the head trauma. "Said he was an old friend. Said to tell you—to tell you Thiago says hello."

My blood freezes.

My phone buzzes.

Vanir:

Black SUV heading north on Highway 9. Moving fast. Thermal shows two occupants—one unconscious in the back.

"How long ago?"

"Five minutes? I can't—everything's fuzzy—"

Another text from

Vanir:

You want me to call it in? Get cops involved?

No. Can't involve cops. Not with Thiago.

Not when he knows everything about me.

"Stay here," I tell Starla. "I’ll get Gwen and Vail to come over straight away."

"Find him." She grabs my arm with bloody fingers. "Please. Find Ivar."

I run for my bike.

In an SUV, Thiago could be anywhere.

But Vanir's still tracking:

North on 9 becomes Route 44. He's heading for the county line.