Page 2 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)
"Elfe." The way he says my name stops me cold. Soft but commanding. Like he has the right. "I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong."
"Why would you need to help me?" It comes out sharp. Defensive. "I'm fine. Been fine. I don't need—"
My phone buzzes.
I flinch. I can't help it. His eyes narrow.
"Show me."
"What?"
"Your phone. Show me." He steps into the room. Now there's nowhere to go. Back to the wall. Him blocking the only exit.
My chest tightens. I can't breathe. Too familiar. Too much like—
"I'm not going to hurt you." His voice gentles. Like, he can read how much I’m panicking. "But someone is threatening you. Show me."
Not a question. He knows. Somehow, he fucking knows.
"It's nothing—"
"It's not nothing. And it's not some drunk." His voice is deadly calm. "Show me the messages, Elfe."
"You can't just demand—"
"I can, and in case you haven’t noticed, I am." He's closer now. I smell leather. Cigarette smoke, though I've never seen him smoke.
And underneath it, something else. Pine. Woods. Wild. "Show me, or I take the phone and look myself. Your choice."
It should piss me off, and I should tell him to fuck off.
He has no right.
He has no claim on me, but something in his eyes—protective fury that reminds me of my dad, of Emil, of all the men who've killed to keep their women safe—makes me pull out my phone instead.
He reads, and his jaw tightens with each message.
The temperature drops. His whole body changes. Coils. Like a predator spotting prey. When he scrolls to the last one, his free hand clenches into a fist.
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been getting these?"
"Just tonight—"
"Don't lie to me." His eyes pin me. Dark with gold flecks that catch the fluorescent light. "This isn't the first time."
How does he know? How can he possibly—
"For a few days," I admit. The words tumble out. "Started Monday. But nothing specific before. Nothing about..."
Can't say it out loud. Can't name the thing that broke me.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"Because I'm handling it. Because I don't need to run crying to daddy every time—"
My phone buzzes in his hand. We both look.
You can't hide behind the club forever.
Another. Quick. Aggressive.
Your dad thinks you're safe. He's wrong.
Another.
Soon, little artist. Your daddy can't protect you forever.
The last one breaks something in me. Little artist.
They know about my paintings.
The dark things I create in the middle of the night when I can't sleep.
When the nightmares win.
Skulls and flowers. Death and beauty.
All the broken things inside me spilled onto canvas.
My vision blurs. The room spins.
I'm back there. Blood in my mouth. Hands grabbing. Tearing.
Voices saying what they'll do. How they'll make it hurt. How they'll break me piece by piece. How—
"Breathe." Oskar's voice cuts through. His hands on my shoulders. Big. Warm. Grounding. "Look at me. Breathe."
I force air into my lungs and meet his eyes.
"You're safe," he says. The certainty makes me almost believe it. "You're always safe. Even when you don't know it."
What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean?
Before I can ask, he's pulling out his own phone. Texting someone fast.
"What are you—"
"Getting you out of here." He pockets both phones. Mine and his. "You're done tonight."
"I can't just leave. Hakon needs—"
"You can." Another text. "That's from Runes. Officially off duty."
"You can't just—"
"I can and I did. We're leaving."
"Oskar, this is ridiculous—"
He stops so suddenly I almost crash into him.
When he turns, his expression kills any argument I might have.
There's death in his eyes.
The kind of death that earned him his name.
"Those messages are from Los Coyotes. They used the same phrasing from Phoenix before they took the sheriff's daughter.
Same pattern from Tucson before the massacre.
" His hand's still on my arm. Thumb stroking absently.
Like he doesn't realize he's doing it. "They're not empty threats, Elfe. They're promises."
My blood turns to ice. "How do you know?"
"It's my job to know. To protect what matters to the club."
He pulls me toward the back exit. I follow. I don't have a choice. My legs barely work.
"My car—"
"Leave it. Someone will get it."
We step outside, and the cool night air hits my heated skin.
I immediately see what shouldn't be there.
Dark stains on concrete near the dumpster.
They weren't there an hour ago when I took out trash.
They’re fresh, still wet.
A bloody handprint on the wall.
Half-hidden by shadow, but there.
Drag marks toward the trees.
Something heavy pulled away.
"Oskar, what—"
"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to." His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. "Just know you're safe."
He guides me to his bike.
A massive Harley that looks like it eats other bikes for breakfast.
Chrome pipes. Custom paint. The kind of bike that says its owner does dangerous things.
He hands me a helmet, and it looks almost new.
The perfect size, like he bought it for someone my size.
Like he's been prepared for this moment.
"There's blood on your knuckles."
He looks down like he's just noticing. Three knuckles split. Blood dried in the creases. "Eh, occupational hazard."
"What's your occupation?"
"Right now? Keeping you breathing." He swings onto the bike. The leather creaks. "Get on."
I hesitate.
This feels like a line I can't uncross.
Once I get on that bike, something changes.
Something shifts.
But my phone—in his pocket—buzzes again. And again. Insistent. Threatening.
I put on the helmet, and it smells like him inside.
Pine and leather and something wild. I climb on behind him. My arms go around his waist. He's solid. Warm. Real in a way that makes me realize how disconnected I've felt.
He tenses when I touch him, then relaxes. Like he's accepting something.
"Hold on tight," he says. "Taking the long way."
"Why—"
I almost don’t notice the movement in the trees.
Like shadows that shouldn't exist, shapes that look like people. Watching. Waiting.
Oskar sees them.
I feel his body coil.
Ready for a fight.
Always ready.
But he just revs the engine.
Loud. Aggressive.
I can’t tell if it’s a warning, a promise, or both.
My phone buzzes. He pulls it out. Shows me the screen.
Too late, little artist. We're already coming.
I expect tension. Worry. Fear, maybe.
Instead, he laughs. Dark and violent. The sound sends chills down my spine.
"Let them come," he says quietly. Voice carries over the engine. "They'll find out what happens when they threaten what's mine."
Mine?
I'm not his. I'm not anyone's.
I'm broken pieces held together by stubbornness and scar tissue.
But the way he says it—certain, possessive, final—makes something in my chest tighten.
Before I can question it, he kicks the bike into gear and we tear into the night.
The bar disappears.
Along with any illusion of safety I'd built these past few months.
All the careful reconstruction. All the pretending. Gone.
I press closer as we ride. Feel his heartbeat through his leather cut. Steady. Sure. Try to process everything. The messages. The blood. The shadows in the trees.
How he knew before I told him. How he called me "mine" like it was a fact, not a possibility.
Streets blur past. He's not heading to Emil and Saga's place.
We're going somewhere else.
He makes turns that seem random but feel deliberate.
Every few blocks, he checks his mirrors and sometimes doubles back.
Sometimes he accelerates through yellow lights.
Once, he cuts through a parking lot, emerging on a different street entirely.
I realize what he’s doing now: making sure we're not followed.
Which means he thinks we might be.
My arms tighten involuntarily. I feel more than hear his response.
The bike vibrates between my thighs.
The engine is loud enough to drown out thoughts, but not enough to stop the questions.
Who is Oskar really? Not just Emil's brother. Not just the Executioner.
Something more.
Something that's been hiding at the end of the bar.
Watching with those gold-flecked eyes. Protecting me, apparently.
But from what? For how long? And why?
As we race through darkness, Los Coyotes' threats still buzzing in his pocket, I realize I'm about to find out.
Whether I want to or not.