Page 27 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Oskar

I've spent the night on the floor by the door, watching her sleep in my bed.

Just... ensuring she's safe, that she hasn't left.

That this isn't another nightmare where I wake up and she's gone.

The irony isn't lost on me—still watching, just with her knowing I’m doing it now.

She's curled on her side, my shirt swallowing her frame.

Dark hair spread across my pillow like spilled ink.

The two USB drives sit on the nightstand between us like loaded weapons, evidence of everything wrong we've done.

Her face is softer in sleep, the constant tension she carries finally released.

No paint under her nails for once.

No phone clutched in her hand waiting for bad news.

She's beautiful like this. But then, she's always beautiful.

The floor is killing my back, but I don't move.

Can't risk waking her when she's finally resting.

It's been forty-eight hours of pure adrenaline and trauma.

Her father tortured.

Thiago dead by my and his now ex-girlfriend’s hand.

The truth about my surveillance exposed.

Any one of those would break most people, but Elfe doesn't break.

She bends, sometimes to the point where you think she'll snap, but she always springs back.

I know because I've watched her do it since she was attacked.

Her breathing changes.

The soft rhythm shifting to awareness.

I know this pattern too—how she wakes slowly, fighting consciousness like it's an enemy.

Her eyes open, unfocused, then sharp when she remembers where she is.

My room. My bed. My shirt.

"Have you been here all night?" Her voice is rough with sleep.

"Yes."

She sits up, the shirt sliding off one shoulder. "On the floor?"

"Yes."

"That's stupid. Your bed is big enough for two."

"Didn't want to presume."

"After everything, you're worried about presuming?" There's no humor in it, just exhaustion.

I stand, joints protesting. "Coffee?"

"You know how I take it."

"Two sugars, splash of milk." The words are out before I think. Another thing I shouldn't know but do.

"Right. Because you've been watching." She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. A defensive position I've seen her take dozens of times through windows. "What else do you know?"

"Everything." No point lying now. "How you can't sleep past 6 AM even on days off. How you bite your lip when concentrating. How you always check locks twice. How you—"

"Stop." She holds up a hand. "I need coffee before this conversation."

The clubhouse kitchen is empty this early.

Five AM according to the clock, that liminal time between night and morning when the world feels paused.

I make coffee while she sits at the counter, my shirt hitting mid-thigh on her.

She's not wearing anything underneath.

I try not to notice, but fail.

"Ask," I say, sliding the mug to her. "Whatever you need to know."

"Everything. Every moment you watched. I need to know the exact violation."

So I tell her.

Every surveillance point.

Every shift at the bar spent watching.

Every night on her fire escape, freezing in winter, sweating in summer, but never leaving my post.

Every report filed.

I detail it all with the same precision I'd use for a kill report.

Clinical. Exact. Honest.

"April 15th. You had a panic attack at 2 AM. Threw a glass at the wall. I was on the fire escape, watched you clean it up with bleeding hands."

She flinches. "I remember that night."

"May 3rd. You painted for six hours straight. That piece with the red sky and black birds. You cried the entire time."

"Stop."

"You asked for everything."

"I know, I just..." She takes a shaky breath. "Keep going."

So, I do.

I keep going and tell her about all of the nights I remember.

She's crying by the time I finish, silent tears she doesn't wipe away.

"The panic attacks. You saw those."

"Yes."

"And did nothing."

"I wanted to. Every time. It killed me to watch you suffer alone."

"But orders were more important."

"At first. Then it became about not revealing myself. Knowing you'd run if you knew."

"I would have." She takes a shaky breath. "The worst part is I needed you. Those nights when I was falling apart, I needed someone, and you were right there. Watching. Letting me suffer."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you know what it's like to feel alone while someone's watching you break? It's worse than being actually alone. Because someone could help but chooses not to."

"No. I don't."

She finishes her coffee in silence before speaking up again. "Can you take me back to your room?"

My room is sparse.

Bed, dresser, weapons safe, small desk. No personal items except—

She finds them immediately.

The sketches.

Three of them, tucked in the desk drawer.

Her, painted from memory.

One laughing at the bar. One concentrating while painting. One sleeping peacefully.

"You drew these?"

"I'm not an artist. Not like you. But I needed... something. To remember the good moments."

She traces the lines with her finger. "These are from before. Before we were together."

"Yes."

"So you were, what? Drawing me like some creepy stalker?"

"Yes."

She laughs, but it's bitter. "At least you're honest now."

"I've got more," I admit, opening another drawer. "Dozens. I couldn't stop."

She flips through them. Her in every mood, every moment I could capture. "This is intense."

"Yes."

"Unhealthy."

"Yes."

"Do you see that? How wrong this was?"

"I see it now. Then, it felt like devotion. Like if I could capture you on paper, understand you completely, I could keep you safe. But, I should’ve just done this the right way, Elfe."

"But you can't capture a person. Can't understand them by watching. You have to know them. Talk to them. Let them choose to show you who they are."

"I know that now."

A knock at the door. Runes enters without waiting. "The meeting is on for noon. Make sure you’re there."

"I'm going," Elfe says immediately.

"No," I respond automatically.

She turns on me, eyes blazing. "Are you seriously trying to make decisions for me? Now? After everything?"

I catch myself. Old habits. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Runes looks between us. "I wouldn’t recommend it. This shit is dangerous,"

"Everything's dangerous. But this is about me. I should be there." She stands, still wearing only my shirt. "I need clothes. Real clothes. And a weapon."

"Elfe—"

"Those are my terms. I go, armed, as part of the delegation. Or I go alone later when you're not watching."

The threat is clear. She'll do it with or without us.

"Fine," Runes agrees. "But I’m only doing this because you’ll end up doing something stupid if I don’t let you. Listen up, kid, you follow our lead."

"Understood."

He leaves.

Elfe moves to follow but I catch her arm.

She freezes at the contact. "Don't touch me. Not yet. I'm not ready."

I release her immediately. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. It doesn't fix anything."

"Then what does?"

She turns to face me fully.

This close, I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the weight of everything crushing her, but also strength. Determination.

The will to survive that first made me love her.

"I don't know. Time maybe. Truth definitely. Actions more than words."

"Tell me what you need."

"I need to not be handled. Not be managed. Not be protected without my consent." She steps closer, close enough I can smell my soap on her skin. "I need you to see me as a person, not a project. Not a mission. Not something to save."

"You were never a project."

"Wasn't I? The broken girl you could fix? The victim you could save?"

"No. You were—are—"

"What? What am I to you?"

"Everything." The word tears from me. "You're everything. The reason I wake up. The last thought before sleep. The only good thing in all the darkness. You're the light I didn't know I was looking for."

She's so close now I can feel her breath. "Pretty words."

"Truth."

"Your truth is seven months of lies."

"Yes."

Her hand comes up, rests on my chest.

I don't move, don't breathe. "My body doesn't know you betrayed me," she whispers. "It just knows you. Wants you. Even now."

"Elfe—"

She kisses me.

Hard, angry, all teeth and desperation.

I let her lead, let her take what she needs.

Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer while simultaneously pushing me away.

When she pulls back, we're both breathing hard.

"I hate that I still want you," she says against my mouth.

"I know."

"I hate that you're the only one who makes me feel safe."

"I know."

"I hate that I love you even though you lied to me."

My heart stops. "You—"

"Don't." She steps back. "I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just... I needed you to know. That this thing between us, it's not simple. It's not clean. It's broken and twisted and probably unhealthy."

"But it's real."

"Yes. God help me, it's real."

Saga appears in the kitchen doorway. "Brought clothes," she says, handing Elfe a bag. "And this." A knife in a concealed sheath. "Figured you'd want it."

"Thank you."

Saga looks at me, judgment clear. "Ivar wants to see you. Both of you. When you're ready."

She leaves and Elfe opens the bag, pulls out jeans and a sweater.

She starts changing without asking me to turn around.

A test maybe, or she’s so burnt out with everything that’s happened and doesn’t care anymore.

I watch because I'm weak, because she's beautiful, because this might be the last time if she doesn’t forgive me.

The curve of her spine. The bruises still healing on her ribs.

"Stop looking at me like that," she says, pulling on the jeans.

"Like what?"

"Like you're memorizing me. Like you're saying goodbye."

"Aren't I?"

She pauses, sweater half on. "I don't know. Are you?"

"That's your choice."

"No. It's our choice. If there's going to be an us, we both have to choose it. Every day. Even with all of the craziness going on."

"I choose you. Every day. Always."

"Even if I can never fully trust you?"

"Yes."

"Even if I can't forget that you watched me like some weirdo for months?"

"Of course"

"Even if—"

I kiss her this time. Soft, careful. A question, not a demand.