Page 25 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Elfe

The bourbon stopped burning an hour ago.

Now it just sits warm in my stomach, doing nothing to quiet the voices in my head.

We're on our second bottle—or maybe third. I've lost count.

My mother, sister, and I arranged around the kitchen table like we're holding a wake for someone who isn't dead yet.

The condensation from our glasses has created overlapping rings on the wood, looking like the Olympic symbol if the Olympics were for grief and terror.

"He's strong," Helle says for the hundredth time. "Dad's survived worse."

"Has he?" I ask, and the question hangs there because we all know he hasn't.

Not really.

Bar fights, yes.

Rival clubs, sure.

But not torture at the hands of a psychopath who wants to trade him for me.

Mom pours another round.

Her hands are steadier now, the alcohol doing its work.

The bandage on her head has a small spot of blood seeping through, but she won't let anyone change it. "Not until I know," she'd said. Like bleeding alongside him somehow helps.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Eleven twenty," Helle checks her phone. "Only five minutes since you last asked."

Time has turned elastic, stretching and compressing.

It's been three hours since Oskar left.

Three hours of nothing.

No calls. No texts.

No word about whether my father is alive or dead. Whether Oskar is alive or dead. Whether Thiago won.

"I should have gone with them," I say.

"That's exactly what Thiago wanted," my mother reminds me. "You going to him."

"Maybe that would have been better. Trade myself for Dad. End this."

"Elfe—"

"No, Mom. I'm serious. How many people have to die because one sick fuck is obsessed with me? How many—"

My phone rings.

We all freeze, staring at it like it might explode.

Unknown number.

My hand shakes as I answer. "Hello?"

"Get to the clubhouse. Now." Magnus' voice. Clipped. Urgent.

"Is he—"

"Now, Elfe."

The line goes dead.

I look at my mother and sister.

We don't need words.

Helle's already grabbing keys while Mom helps me stand—when did I become the one who needs help standing?

I guess after the bourbon got to me.

"Aren! We need to go!" I shout.

The prospect appears from the living room where he's been standing guard, trying to give us privacy while staying close.

His face is tight with worry. "What's wrong?"

"Magnus called. We need to get to the clubhouse."

"I'll drive," he says, taking the keys from Helle. "You've all been drinking."

We pile into Mom's SUV, me in the front, Mom and Helle in the back.

The drive feels like hours compressed into minutes.

Every red light is agony.

Every turn could be the one that takes too long.

I dig my nails into my palms hard enough to leave marks, needing the pain to stay grounded.

"He didn't say," I tell them. "Magnus didn't say if he was alive."

"If he was dead, he would have said," Helle offers. "The fact that he didn't—"

"Or he didn't want to tell me over the phone. Didn't want us grief-stricken and drunk."

Aren glances at me. "Your father's tough. Toughest man I know besides Runes."

"You don't know what Thiago's capable of."

"No," he agrees. "But I know what Oskar's capable of. And he wouldn't let your father die. Not when it would hurt you."

There's something in his voice. Knowledge maybe. "You knew. About Oskar watching me."

His hands tighten on the wheel. "Not my place to say."

"But you knew."

"We all suspected. The way he was always around. Always aware of where you were." He takes a turn too fast, tires squealing. "But knowing and suspecting are different things."

"And you said nothing."

"Would you have believed me? The prospect telling you that the Executioner was stalking you with Runes' blessing?" He shakes his head. "Besides, he kept you safe. That's what mattered, and Runes gave him the order, which means he was doing club business, so who am I to interfere?"

"That's what everyone keeps saying. Like safety justifies everything."

"In this life? Sometimes it does."

The clubhouse comes into view, bikes everywhere, more than usual.

This is serious.

Every member has been called in, either for a celebration or mourning.

We park and I'm out before the engine's fully off, running for the door.

It opens before I reach it—Rio standing there, face unreadable.

"Is he—"

"He's alive," Rio says quickly. "But Elfe... prepare yourself."

I push past him, my mother and sister close behind.

The main room is full of members but I don't see them.

Don't see anything except the couch in the corner where my father sits.

Sits.

Alive.

But Rio was right to warn me.

His face shows the horrors he’s been through.

One eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot.

His lips are split in multiple places.

There's a bandage around his head, another around his ribs visible through his open shirt.

But it's his hands that make me stop walking.

His left hand is wrapped in heavy gauze, but I can see the shape is wrong.

Fingers missing.

At least two, maybe three.

Gwen kneels beside him, working on a gash on his arm with careful stitches.

She looks up when she hears us, offers a small smile. "He's stable. Hurt like hell, but stable."

"Elfe?" My father's good eye finds me. His voice is rough, like he's been screaming. "Is that—baby girl?"

The nickname breaks something in me. I cross the room in three steps, falling to my knees beside him. "Dad. Oh God, Dad."

I want to hug him but I'm afraid I'll hurt him more.

He solves the problem by reaching out with his good hand, pulling me against his less damaged side.

"I'm okay," he whispers into my hair. "I'm okay. You're safe. That's what matters."

"Your hand—"

"Will heal. Most of it anyway." He pulls back enough to look at me with his good eye. "Thiago?"

"I don't know. No one's told me—"

"Dead."

I turn. Oskar stands in the doorway.

He's changed clothes but there's still blood under his fingernails.

A cut on his cheek.

His eyes find mine and hold.

"Thiago's dead," he repeats. "He won't hurt anyone again."

The relief hits so hard I almost throw up. Or maybe that's the bourbon. "You killed him?"

"Yes."

Simple. Direct. No justification or explanation. Just fact.

"Good," my father says, his arm tightening around me. "Fucking good."

Starla and Helle have reached us now.

My mother takes in Dad's condition with the practiced eye of someone who's seen this craziness before.

She doesn't cry. Just sits on his other side, careful of his injuries.

"You look like shit," she tells him.

"Feel worse," he admits. "But at least I’m alive."

Helle hovers, unsure where to fit in this tableau of damage.

She finally settles for standing behind the couch, her hand on Dad's shoulder.

"What did he do to you?" The question comes out before I can stop it.

Dad's jaw tightens. "Nothing that won't heal."

"Dad—"

"He wanted me to beg," he says quietly. "Wanted me to call you. To cry and plead for you to save me. I didn't. That made him angry."

I look at his wrapped hand again. The wrong shape of it. "The fingers?"

"Pliers," he says simply. "One for each hour I refused to call you."

Bile rises in my throat.

I stand abruptly, needing air, needing space, needing something.

Oskar moves aside as I push past him, out the front door into the parking lot.

The night air hits cold against my flushed skin.

I bend over, hands on my knees, trying not to vomit bourbon and horror onto the asphalt.

"Elfe." Oskar's voice behind me.

It’s careful, distant.

"He tortured my father. Cut off his fingers. Because of me."

"Because of him. Thiago. His obsession. His sickness. Not you."

I spin to face him. "How many people have died because of me? The Los Coyotes soldiers. Now Thiago. How many families are grieving because one man couldn't accept rejection from someone who didn't even know he existed?"

"Nine," Oskar says. "Nine Los Coyotes dead. Plus Thiago."

"You kept count."

"I keep count of everything involving you." He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a USB drive. "This was in Thiago's computer. Everything he had on you. Photos. Videos. Audio recordings. All the surveillance he had on you."

I take it with numb fingers. Such a small thing to hold so much violation.

"Did you look at it?"

"Yes." No hesitation. "I needed to know what he had. If there were other threats. Other people involved."

"And?"

"It's worse than what I did. Much worse.

Cameras in your old apartment. Your bedroom.

Your bathroom. Audio recordings of you sleeping.

Photos from inside your apartment while you were there.

" His jaw tightens. "He documented everything.

Every shower. Every nightmare. Every private moment you thought you had. "

"But you watched too."

"From outside. Through windows. Never... not like this. This is possession. Ownership. Violation on a level I never crossed."

"And what about your surveillance? Is that on here too?"

He pulls out a second drive. "Six months of reports. Photos. Documentation. Everything I gave to Runes. Everything I kept for myself."

Two drives. Two men watching. Two violations packaged in plastic and metal.

"Why are you giving these to me?"

"Because you deserve the truth. All of it. And you deserve to decide what to do with it."

I look at the drives, then at him. "There's a difference, isn't there? Between what you did and what he did?"

"Is there?"

"You tell me."

He steps closer, not touching but near enough that I can smell the gunpowder and blood still clinging to him. "I watched. I documented. I reported. But I never recorded you in private moments. Never put cameras in your home. Never took photos of you sleeping or changing. Never stole your things."

"Just watched me paint."

"From the fire escape. Through a window you left open." He pauses. "Still wrong. Still a violation. But not the same as what's on that drive."

"How did you get the flash drive?"

"His girlfriend told us. Eleyna. She found his room. Saw everything."