Page 29 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Elfe

The paint spreads across the canvas in shades I haven't used in months.

Yellows like early morning sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Soft blues like calm water after a hurricane.

Even some green—growth, life, possibility.

My hands move without thinking, creating something that doesn't look like trauma for once.

The dogs lie at my feet in their usual formation.

Rex’s massive head weighs down my left foot, making it tingle with pins and needles I don't bother to relieve.

Luna stretches along my right side, her breathing deep and even.

Odin watches the door with those intelligent eyes, tracking every sound from the house.

They've been like this since I got back from the meeting yesterday—guard dogs who somehow know I need guarding, even here in the safest place I know.

The painting is abstract but hopeful.

Sweeping upward strokes that might be birds or might be souls ascending.

The darkness is still there—you can't paint trauma away—but it's at the bottom now, a foundation rather than the whole structure.

Above it, colors bloom like flowers through concrete.

"Looks different," Saga says from the doorway.

She's wearing one of Emil's shirts, coffee mug in hand, looking domestic in a way that still surprises me sometimes.

I don't turn, don't stop the brushwork.

The flow is too important to interrupt. "Feels different."

She comes in, sets coffee on the table beside me.

Two sugars, splash of milk.

Everyone knows how I take it now.

There are no secrets in this house.

The mug is warm against my paint-stained fingers when I pick it up, taking a sip between strokes.

"The colors are lighter. Warmer."

"Yeah." I add a streak of orange, bold and unexpected. Sunset or sunrise, I'm not sure yet. Maybe both. Endings and beginnings. "Maybe I'm tired of painting darkness."

"Makes sense." She settles into the armchair, tucking her legs under her like a cat.

The leather creaks under her weight. "Speaking of making sense, Magnus mentioned something interesting yesterday."

"Oh?" I keep painting, but my hand slows slightly, cautious.

"Oskar called you his ol' lady. When Magnus was asking about security arrangements for the meeting. Whether you needed a separate escort or if you'd ride with Oskar."

My hand stops mid-stroke.

The weight of those words hits me square in the chest, knocks the air from my lungs.

Ol' lady isn't girlfriend.

It's not even fiancée.

It's a claim. A declaration.

It means mine, ours, family, permanent.

It means he sees me as his future, not just his present.

In this world, it's as serious as a marriage proposal, maybe more.

"He said that?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Magnus seemed surprised too. Said Oskar's never claimed anyone before. Not in all his years with the club."

I set the brush down, turn to face her.

Paint drips from my fingers onto the drop cloth, creating new patterns I don't bother to control. "He didn't ask me first."

"Men rarely do in this life. They decide, then hope we agree."

"That's bullshit."

"Yes. But it's also how it is." She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. "Question is, do you want to be his ol' lady? After everything the two of you have been through?"

The question I've been avoiding.

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes." I laugh at my own confusion. "How's that for decisive?"

"Honest, at least. More than most of us manage in this life."

Before I can respond, we hear a car in the driveway.

Not a bike—a car.

The engine coughs and sputters like it's dying.

I tense until I recognize the sound.

Helle's piece of shit Honda that barely runs, but she refuses to replace it because she bought it with her own money.

She comes in looking like she hasn't slept in days.

Dark circles, purple as bruises, under her eyes.

Hair that hasn't seen a brush in who knows how long.

Yesterday's clothes—no, the day before yesterday.

The same FSU sweatshirt she was wearing when she visited Dad at the clubhouse.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" I abandon my painting, pulling her into a hug.

She smells like stress, sweat, and stale coffee.

"I need to tell you something," she says against my shoulder. Her voice is muffled, thick with unshed tears. "But you can't tell Mom and Dad."

Saga takes the hint, disappears into the kitchen with her coffee.

I hear her talking quietly to Emil, giving us privacy.

We sit on the couch, Helle pulling her knees to her chest like she's trying to make herself smaller.

Disappear maybe.

"I'm dropping out."

"Of college? Why?"

"I'm failing everything. Haven't been to class in two months.

Maybe three." She picks at a hole in her jeans, making it bigger.

"After what happened to you, I just... I couldn't focus.

Couldn't pretend everything was normal when my sister almost died.

When you were attacked and I wasn't here. When everything fell apart."

"Helle—"

"I know I should have said something sooner. But Mom and Dad have enough to deal with. Dad's missing fingers, you and the whole Thiago situation, the club stuff, Mom's head injury. They don't need to know their other daughter is a failure."

"You're not a failure."

"I have a 0.8 GPA, Elfe. That's literally failing. I haven't turned in a single assignment since spring break. My professors have stopped emailing to check on me."

The weight of her secret sits between us. Another burden in a family already carrying too many.

"So what's your plan?"

"I don't know. Drop out officially before they kick me out. Maybe get a job. Figure my shit out." She wipes her nose with her sleeve. "I just need time before Mom and Dad find out. They're going to be so disappointed."

"What do you need from me?"

"Just... if they ask, tell them I'm doing fine. That classes are good. Finals are coming up, I'm studying hard. I'll figure something out, maybe community college or trade school. But they can't know. Not yet. Not while everything else is chaos."

I think about secrets, about how they eat at you from inside like acid.

But I also think about timing, about parents who've been through enough.

About choosing which truths to tell when.

"Okay. But you have to tell them eventually."

"I will. Just not now." She looks at me, really looks.

Studies my face like she's trying to read my thoughts. "Are you okay? With Oskar? After finding out about the stalking?"

"I'm getting there."

"But you're staying with him?"

"Yeah."

"Even though he watched you for months like some creep?"

I make the decision right here, right now. "Yeah, I am."

She shakes her head, curls bouncing. "I don't understand it."

"Neither do I, completely. But he makes me feel safe. Even knowing what he did, he makes me feel protected."

"That's probably Stockholm syndrome."

"Probably. But it's my syndrome to have."

"That's fucked up."

"Everything about my life is fucked up. At least this is fucked up in a way I'm choosing."

The front door opens.

Oskar comes in carrying shopping bags, expensive ones from the art store downtown that I never shop at because a single brush costs sixty dollars and I'd rather pay rent.

He has a few bags, weighing down both his arms.

"Hey," he says, then notices Helle. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

"I was just leaving." Helle stands, hugs me tight. I can feel her ribs through the sweatshirt. She's lost weight. "Remember what I asked?"

"I remember."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

She goes, that shitty Honda engine complaining all the way down the drive.

Oskar sets the bags down carefully, like they contain something precious.

"I bought you some things."

"I can see that." I peer into the bags, pull out items one by one.

Professional-grade brushes that feel like silk between my fingers.

Tubes of paint that cost more than most people spend on groceries—real cadmium red, cobalt blue, colors that are actual minerals, not synthetic approximations.

Canvases already stretched and primed with gesso so smooth it's like glass. "This must have cost a fortune."

"You needed new supplies. Fresh start with fresh tools."

"Why new? You could have gotten my stuff from the apartment."

"No. You need a fresh start. Hell, we need a fresh start."

Fresh start.

Like it's that simple.

Like expensive paint can erase months of violation.

But he's trying, and the brushes are beautiful.

Sable hair that holds paint like nothing else.

Balanced handles that fit my hand perfectly.

The kind I've dreamed of owning since art school.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me."

"Yeah, I do." I pull out a brush, test its weight. Perfect. Like it was made for my hand. "Saga told me what you said. To Magnus."

He goes still. That predator stillness that reminds me what he's capable of. "About?"

"About me being your ol' lady."

"I shouldn't have said it without talking to you first."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you? Or are you sorry I found out?"

He thinks about it. Actually considers the question instead of just saying what I want to hear. "I'm sorry I didn't ask you first. I'm not sorry for wanting it."

"At least that's honest."

"I'm trying to be. Always. About everything now." He sits on the couch, some distance between us.

Not too close to crowd me, yet not too far to seem cold.

He's learning my boundaries. "Do you want to be? My ol' lady?"

The formal question. The official ask.

In this life, it's as close to a proposal as some people get.

More binding than marriage in some ways.

Divorce exists.

But once you're someone's ol' lady, that's identity.

That's who you are in this world forever, even if you leave.

"What does that mean to you? Being your ol' lady?"

"It means you're mine and I'm yours. Means the club recognizes you as family. Means I protect you, provide for you, put you first." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "Means we're permanent. Or trying to be. Means when I'm gone, the club still protects you. Means you have a voice in this world."

"And what do you get?"