Page 22 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

"We're working on that. But Elfe, I need to tell you something. Several things. And you're not going to like any of them."

"More secrets?" The laugh that comes out is sharp enough to cut. "What else could you possibly be hiding?"

He looks at Aren, who takes the hint and goes back inside. We're alone now except for the security cameras and the weight of everything unsaid.

"I've been watching you," he speaks immediately, speaking so softly. "For seven months. Since the attack."

The words land like he’s physically slapping me even though part of me already knew.

Suspected.

The coincidences that weren't.

The way he was always there when I needed him.

"Seven months," I repeat. "The attack. So, what… ever since then I’ve been on your radar?"

"No." The word comes out harsh. "Yes. I don’t know."

"You were watching. Like him. Like Thiago." The comparison makes him flinch. Good. "Two stalkers. Two men deciding they owned me without my permission."

"It wasn't like that—"

"Then what was it like?" I'm shouting now.

I don't care who hears. "Tell me, Oskar. What was it like to watch me for seven months? To see me break down? To document my trauma like I was some experiment?"

"It started as a job," he admits. "Runes assigned me to watch for threats to families. You were vulnerable. Ivar's daughter. Potential leverage."

"So, I was an assignment."

"At first." He steps closer. I step back. "But then I saw you. Really saw you. The way you fought to be normal. The way you painted in the middle of the night, or when your mind was running amuck. The way you smiled even when you were dying inside."

"You watched me paint?" The violation of it hits fresh. My most private moments, my only real escape, and he was there. Watching. "How? How did you—"

"Fire escape. Your studio window. You never closed the curtains."

I feel sick. Every painting, every breakdown, every moment I thought I was alone—he was there.

"So, every time you just happened to be at the bar," I continued, needing to understand the depth of the betrayal. "Every time you showed up when I needed someone—"

"I was already there. Already watching. Yes."

"The night at the cottage. When I came apart in your hands. Was that real? Or was that just... what? The assignment evolving?"

He moves so fast I don't have time to react.

His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "That was the most real thing that's ever happened to me."

"How can I believe you? How can I believe anything when it's all been lies?"

"Because I'm telling you now. When I could have kept lying. When you might never have found out." His thumbs stroke my cheeks, wiping tears I didn't know were falling. "Because I love you. Not the idea of you. Not the broken girl I could fix. You. Stubborn, fierce, brilliant you."

"Love?" I laugh but it's all broken edges. "You don't stalk someone you love. You don't lie to someone you love."

"You're right. I fucked up. I know that. But Elfe, everything between us—every touch, every word that mattered, every moment you trusted me with your pain—that was real. The watching was wrong. The lying was wrong. But what I feel for you? That's the only true thing in my entire fucked up life."

I want to pull away. Want to rage and hit and hurt him like I'm hurting. But his eyes—there's something in them I recognize. The same desperate need I feel. The same impossible love despite everything.

"Thiago," I say, changing the subject because I can't process the rest right now. "You knew it was him. Your childhood friend."

"I suspected after the roses. Confirmed it when I pulled up the surveillance footage at the florist." His hands drop from my face but stay close, like he's afraid I'll disappear.

"We were like brothers once. Did everything together.

Then he died—or I thought he died. Turns out he's been here, watching you even longer than I have. "

"Why me? What did I do to deserve two stalkers?"

"You existed. You survived something traumatic. You kept fighting when anyone else would have given up." He touches a streak of green paint on my arm. "You create beauty from pain. Men like us—broken, violent men—we're drawn to that. We want to possess it because we can't create it ourselves."

"I'm not a thing to possess."

"I know. That's the difference between Thiago and me. I know you're not mine to own. He thinks you already belong to him."

"And my father? Why take him?"

Oskar's expression darkens. "Leverage. He wants you. Sent a video demanding you come to him tomorrow night. Midnight. The old church on Cemetery Road. Alone."

"Then I'll go—"

"No." The word is sharp, final. "That's exactly what he wants. You, alone, walking into his trap."

"It's my father!"

"And he's using your love for him against you. Against all of us." He pulls out his phone, shows me a video. My father, beaten but alive, saying Thiago wants me at the church tomorrow night. "We know where this was filmed—the old Starlite Motel. But it's a trap. He wants us to come."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Spring the trap. But on our terms, not his."

"I'm coming with you."

"No."

"You don't get to tell me—"

He kisses me. Hard, desperate, like it might be the last time. And maybe it is. When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard

"I'm going to get your father," he says against my lips. "I'm going to end this with Thiago. But you have to stay here. Please. If you've ever trusted me, trust me now."

"How can I trust you when—"

"Because I'm begging you." And he is. The Executioner, the killer who doesn't bend for anyone, is begging me. "Stay here. Stay safe. Let me fix this. Let me save the only good thing I haven't destroyed yet."

"Oskar—"

"I love you." He says it like a prayer. Like a promise. Like goodbye. "Whatever happens, whatever you decide about us after this, know that I love you. That everything real in me loves everything real in you."

He steps back and heads for his bike.

"Wait," I call out. He turns. "Thiago. Will you kill him?"

Something dark passes over his face. "If I have to."

"He was like a brother to you."

"And you're my heart." He starts the bike. "I can live without him, not you."

Then he's gone, leaving me standing there covered in paint and tears and the weight of truth I never asked for.

I go back inside.

My mother and sister are where I left them, but the bottle's emptier.

They look up, read my face.

"What happened?" Helle asks.

I pour myself another drink. A big one. "He told me he’s been watching me. Seven months. Ever since the attack. Watching everything."

"Jesus," Helle breathes.

"The man you love has been stalking you?" My mother's voice is carefully neutral.

"Apparently. Him and Thiago both. I'm very popular with obsessive men."

"What are you going to do?"

I think about Oskar's face when he said he loved me.

Think about his hands on me, in me, holding me together when I was falling apart.

Think about seven months of lies and one moment of truth.

"I don't know," I admit. "How do you forgive something like that?"

"You don't," my mother says. "You decide if you can live with it or not. Forgiveness might come later. Or it might not. But right now, you survive."

"Is that what you did? With Dad? With the club?"

She's quiet for a long moment. "Your father's never stalked me. But he's lied. Kept secrets. Put other things first. And yes, I decided I could live with it. Because the alternative was living without him, and that was worse."

"Even now? Even with him missing because of club business?"

"Yes." She reaches across the table, takes my paint-stained hand. "Love isn't clean, Elfe. It's not safe. It's messy and dangerous and sometimes it breaks you. But sometimes—if you're very lucky—it's also the thing that puts you back together."

"He watched me paint," I whisper. "My most private moments."

"And what did he do with what he saw?" Helle asks.

I think about it. "Kept me safe. Killed for me. Loved me."

"Not saying it's right," my sister says carefully. "But maybe ask yourself—would you rather he hadn't been watching? Would you rather have faced everything alone?"

The question sits heavy between us.

Because the truth is, I don't know.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I almost didn't check it.

But something makes me look.

He's coming to me. Just like I planned. Your father will have company soon. Don't worry, little artist. When this is over, you'll understand. Everything I've done has been for you. Every death, a love letter. Every moment of watching, my worship to you. Soon you'll see.

Midnight tomorrow. Come alone or they both die.

- T

I show my mother and sister, watching their faces pale.

"You can't go," Helle says immediately.

"I can't not go either."

"It's a trap."

"I know."

But… how can I just sit back and do nothing?