Page 17 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER NINE

Elfe

The bar feels different without Oskar in his usual spot.

It's been forty minutes since he left, and the empty space at the end of the bar might as well have a neon sign pointing to it.

Every time I turn that direction, I expect to see him there—watching, protecting, making me feel safe just by existing in my periphery.

The way he's been for weeks now, a constant presence that I've grown to depend on like breathing.

But he's not there.

Just Aren, trying to look casual while obviously on high alert.

The prospect is sweet, really.

Maybe twenty-two, still has that eager-to-prove-himself energy that all prospects get.

Tall and lanky where Oskar is solid, nervous energy where Oskar has this controlled calm.

He's nursing the same beer for the last half hour, eyes constantly scanning the room like threats might materialize from thin air.

Which, given recent history, isn't entirely wrong.

The bar's moderate tonight—not packed but busy enough that I can't dwell on Oskar's absence.

Regular Friday crowd mixing with a few unfamiliar faces.

The jukebox plays classic rock on repeat.

Someone's winning at pool, whooping every time they sink a ball.

Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

Except nothing feels safe anymore.

I check my phone again, texting Oskar like he asked:

All good here. Stop worrying.

His response is immediate:

Not worrying. Just checking. I’ll be a while.

Something about his messages feels off.

Too short. Too careful.

Like he's editing himself, removing information before hitting send.

The way my father used to text when club business got complicated.

But then again, club business is club business.

I learned long ago not to ask questions.

The earlier tension comes back to me—the way Oskar was gone from this morning to this evening, and then at dinner his phone rang and he was gone within minutes.

How his face changed, that careful blankness he gets when something's wrong but he doesn't want me to worry.

Runes’ name on the screen.

The clipped conversation I could only hear half of.

"Club emergency," he'd said. "Can't wait."

"What kind of emergency?"

"The kind I need to handle now." He'd kissed me then, harder than necessary. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. "Stay here. Work your shift. Aren will watch you."

"I don't need—"

"Please." The word cracked something in his control. "Just... please. Let Aren stay."

So I did. Because underneath his careful calm was something that looked like fear. And Oskar doesn't scare easily.

The door chimes. Another customer. I look up from the glass I'm drying, professional smile ready—

And my blood turns to ice water.

Not because I recognize him.

The opposite.

Because I don't, but something in my body does.

Some primitive part of my brain screaming danger before I can process why.

The same instinct that makes deer freeze when wolves are near.

He's handsome in that dangerous way some men are.

Dark hair that's a little too long, falling across his forehead in a way that seems deliberate.

Strong jaw with stubble that's exactly the right length—not lazy, not trying too hard.

Eyes so dark they're almost black, and when they find mine across the bar, something in them makes my stomach drop like I've missed a step going downstairs.

He moves through the crowd like water.

People step aside without realizing they're doing it.

Not from fear exactly, but instinct.

The way schools of fish part for a shark.

Natural. Unconscious.

Prey recognizing predator even when the predator's not hunting.

Yet.

"Evening," he says, sliding onto a stool in my section.

Not Oskar's stool—that would be too obvious.

But close enough that he could reach out and touch it if he wanted.

His voice is smooth. Cultured.

Nothing like the rough bikers I usually serve.

There's education in those vowels, travel in the consonants.

Someone who's been places. Seen things.

"What can I get you?" My voice comes out normal.

A small miracle considering how stressed I am.

"Whiskey. Neat. Whatever's decent."

I pour Jameson, middle shelf.

My hands don't shake.

Another miracle.

But when I set it in front of him, he smiles, and something about that smile is wrong.

Too knowing. Too intimate. Like we're sharing a secret I don't know we have.

"Perfect," he says, though he hasn't tasted it yet.

He sips slowly, watching me work.

Not leering like some customers do.

This is different. Studied. Like he's memorizing me.

The way I move. The way I breathe. The way my hands handle the bottles and glasses.

"Busy night," he observes.

"Friday usually is."

"You've been doing this long?"

"A few years." I move down the bar, serve other customers, but I feel his eyes following me. When I glance back, he's still watching. Still smiling that wrong smile.

"You look tired," he says when I come back to check on him. "Bad dreams?"

The question is too specific. Too knowing. My spine goes rigid. "Just long shifts."

"Ah." He rotates his glass, whiskey catching the light like liquid amber. "I imagine it's hard to sleep after trauma. The mind replays things. Especially around 3 AM. That's when the demons come out to play. When the walls between waking and sleeping get thin."

Everything in me goes still. How does he—

"Another?" I force out, pointing to his empty glass. When did he finish it? I didn't see him drink it.

"Please."

I pour.

He watches my hands.

Studies them like they're art.

"You have artist's hands. Delicate but strong. Paint under the nail there—you missed a spot. Cerulean blue, if I had to guess. Beautiful color. The color of drowning."

I look down automatically.

There is paint under my thumbnail.

Cerulean blue from this morning's session. But how did he—

"I can always spot an artist," he continues. "It's in how they see the world. How they observe. You're observing me right now, aren't you? Trying to place me. Wondering why I feel familiar when we've never met."

"Have we met?" The words come out before I can stop them.

"Not formally." Another sip.

This time I watched it happen.

The way his throat moves.

The way his fingers grip the glass just a little too tight. "But I feel like I know you. Strange how that happens sometimes. Like souls recognizing each other across the divide."

Aren shifts in his peripheral vision.

Good. He's noticed something's off.

His hand moves to his phone, probably texting someone. But his movements are too obvious.

The man notices, smiles wider. "Your babysitter seems nervous," he observes. "Young for the job. They must be running short on protection detail."

"He's not—"

"Of course not." He waves a hand dismissively. "Just a friend. Who happens to be armed. Who happens to be watching everyone who talks to you. Perfectly normal."

"This place must feel safer than your old apartment," he continues, changing subjects like flipping channels. "All this protection. All these guard dogs. Though dogs can't always protect sheep from wolves. Sometimes they just bark at shadows while the real threat walks through the front door."

"Excuse me?" My voice sharper, and now I’m scared.

"Just an observation." He finishes his second drink. "One more, I think. Then I'll leave you to your evening. Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

I pour with trembling hands now.

Can't hide it.

He notices, of course he notices. Seems pleased by it.

"I didn't mean to upset you." His voice is gentle now.

Almost apologetic, which is somehow worse.

Like a cat purring while it plays with a mouse. "I sometimes say things without thinking how they sound. Occupational hazard of spending too much time alone. Watching. Waiting."

"What do you do?" I ask, needing information. Something concrete. Something that makes him real instead of this nightmare wearing human skin.

"I remove problems." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "Speaking of which, you might want to check on your family tonight. Make sure everyone's where they're supposed to be. People go missing so easily these days. Especially fathers who don't pay enough attention."

What the fuck?

The glass slips from my hand and shatters on the floor.

The sound cuts through the bar noise like a scream.

Conversations stop. Everyone turns.

"Careful," he says, unconcerned by the attention. "Don't cut yourself. Scars last forever. Though you already know that, don't you?"

His eyes flick to my shoulder.

Where my scar is.

Hidden under my shirt but he knows it's there.

He knows. Has always known.

"I need to—" I start backing away.

"Clean that up? Of course. Take your time." He pulls out cash, lays it on the bar. Way too much for three drinks. All hundreds. "Keep the change. Consider it an investment in art. I'm quite the collector, you know. I have several of your pieces."

Several of my pieces. But I've never sold any. They're all in my room or—

No. No, no, no.

"How?" The word comes out strangled.

"Oh, there are ways. People throw out the most interesting things. Leave them in storage units. Forget them when they move." He stands, straightens his jacket. It's expensive. Tailored. "I particularly like the one with the bleeding flowers. Such raw emotion. Such exquisite pain."

That painting is in my closet. Was in my old apartment's closet. No one's seen it except—

Except someone who was in my apartment. Watching. Going through my things.

I'm frozen. Can't move. Can't breathe.

Aren's standing now, moving closer, but the man doesn't seem concerned.

If anything, he seems amused by the prospect's approach.

"You should tell your boy to be careful," he says to Aren directly. "Not everyone appreciates aggressive posturing. Some of us prefer subtlety. Finesse."

"You need to leave," Aren says.

His voice cracks slightly. He's scared too.

"I was just going." The man turns back to me. Leans slightly over the bar, close enough that I smell his cologne.

Leather and copper and something dark.

Something that reminds me of blood.