Page 3 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER TWO

Oskar

The bike eats up miles of dark highway while Elfe clings to my back like she's afraid of falling off.

Or maybe just afraid.

Her arms tighten around my waist every time I check the mirrors, which is often.

Too often, but I can't help it.

Seven months of keeping her safe, and it all nearly went to shit tonight.

The weight of her against me is different from what I imagined.

Heavier somehow. More real.

She's pressed close enough that I feel every breath, every shift of her body as we lean into curves.

Her thighs bracket mine. Her hands fist in my cut like she's anchoring herself to me.

Good. Let her hold on. Let her realize I'm the solid thing between her and them.

I take the exit for 98, heading west toward the coast.

Away from Tallahassee.

Away from the club’s territory.

Away from anywhere Los Coyotes would think to look.

The cottage in Panacea is mine alone—not on any club records, not in my real name.

Bought it five years ago through an LLC I opened, with cash from a job the club doesn't know about.

Everyone needs a backup plan.

Especially executioners.

My phone vibrates in my pocket at a red light.

I ignore it.

Whoever it is can fucking wait.

Right now, getting Elfe somewhere safe and secure is all that matters.

She shifts behind me, and I catch her scent—vanilla and something floral mixing with fear-sweat.

Her helmet bumps against my shoulder blade. Probably looking around, trying to figure out where we're going. Smart girl.

Always aware of her surroundings, even when terrified.

That awareness has kept her alive. That and me, though she doesn't know the half of it.

The road to Panacea is empty this time of night.

Just us and the occasional semi heading for the interstate.

I push the bike harder, eating up asphalt, putting distance between us and whatever Los Coyotes has planned.

The two men I dealt with behind Bubba's were scouts.

An advanced team, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that there will be more.

There always are.

Forty minutes feels like hours.

Every set of headlights could be them.

Every dark SUV makes my hand twitch toward my weapon.

But nobody follows us to the turnoff for the cottage.

Nobody trails us down the sandy road that leads to my place.

The cottage sits back from the water, hidden behind sea oats and scrub pine.

Single story, weathered cedar siding, wraparound porch that's seen better days.

Looks like nothing special, but that's the point.

Looks can be deceiving.

The windows are reinforced, the doors are steel core, and the crawl space has enough weapons to outfit a small army.

And the sight lines are perfect—nobody can get to my place without being seen first.

I kill the engine.

The silence hits hard after the constant rumble.

Just waves in the distance and wind through the pines.

Elfe pulls off her helmet, hair wild around her face. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe." I dismount, help her off. She's unsteady. Adrenaline crash starting. "Come on."

"Whose place is this?"

"Mine."

She stops walking, studies me in the moonlight. "The Executioner has a beach cottage?"

"Everyone needs somewhere to disappear."

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

I unlock the door—key code, then deadbolt, then secondary lock.

Old habits.

Inside smells like salt air and staleness.

It’s been three weeks since I was here.

The furniture's covered in sheets like ghosts.

Evidence of a life I don't really live.

Elfe steps inside carefully, like she's entering a crime scene.

Maybe she is.

This place has seen its share of blood over the years.

Men who thought they could hide from the club's justice.

Men who learned otherwise.

But tonight it's just a cottage.

Just a safe place for a scared woman who doesn't know I've been her shadow for more than half a year.

"Make yourself comfortable." I start pulling sheets off furniture. "I need to check the perimeter."

"Seriously?"

"I’m always serious when it comes to safety, Elfe."

She drops onto the couch I've just uncovered, exhaustion hitting all at once.

I do my walk-through—windows locked, motion sensors active, sight lines clear.

The Glock stays on my hip. The knife in my boot.

I can't be too careful, not with her here. Not with them hunting.

My phone buzzes again. Then again. Can't ignore Emil forever.

I step onto the back porch to text him.

Me:

Elfe is with me. She's safe. Los Coyotes made a move at Bubba's.

His response is immediate.

Emil:

Where the hell are you?

Me:

Somewhere secure. I've got this.

Emil:

That's not an answer. Where the fuck are you?

Me:

I said I've got this.

Emil:

She's Ivar's daughter. He needs to know—

Me:

Tell him she's protected. That's all he needs to know.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

My brother's pissed off. Good. I'm done taking orders about Elfe.

Done pretending this is just another protection detail.

Emil:

Don't do anything stupid.

Me:

Too late for that.

I pocket the phone before he can respond.

Through the window, I watch Elfe curl into the corner of the couch.

She looks small. Fragile. Nothing like the woman who stabbed a cartel soldier with a pink pocket knife.

Nothing like the survivor who fought her way through hell.

But I know better.

I've seen her real strength.

Watched her pretend to be okay for months when she was dying inside.

Watched her paint her demons at three in the morning.

Watched her fake smiles and forced laughs, and slowly rebuild herself from shattered pieces.

She's the strongest person I know. She just doesn't know it yet.

When I get back inside, she’s no longer on the couch.

Instead, she's found the wine rack and holds up a bottle of red. "Mind?"

"Go ahead."

"Join me?"

I shouldn't.

I need to stay sharp, stay alert, but the hope in her eyes undoes me. "Yeah. Okay."

She pours two glasses while I light the fireplace.

It's not cold, but the flames give us something to look at besides each other.

The wine is good—some expensive shit I lifted from a target's house before I burned it down.

Seems appropriate we're drinking it now.

"This is weird," she says after her second glass.

"Which part?"

"All of it. You showing up right when I needed you. Having this place, nobody knows about. Being..." She gestures vaguely. "Nice."

"I'm not nice."

"You're being nice to me."

"That's different."

"Why?"

Because I've been watching you for seven months.

Because I know your coffee order and your favorite song and the way you bite your lip when you're anxious.

Because you're mine even if you don't know it yet.

But I can't say any of that. "You're under the club's protection. That means you're under mine."

"Is that why you're always at the bar? Protection duty?"

Eh, I need to be careful.

The last thing I want to do is reveal too much. "It's a good place to drink, keep an eye on things."

She takes another sip. Liquid courage. "Were you watching me tonight? Is that how you knew about the messages?"

"I saw you drop the glass. Saw how scared you looked. When you disappeared into the storage room, I followed." True enough. She doesn't need to know about the months before.

"What about the blood? The marks outside?"

"Some people needed to learn about boundaries."

"Did you... did you kill them?"

"Do you want the truth?"

She thinks about it. Really considers. "Yes."

"Then yes. Two men were waiting by your car. They had zip ties and a van. They were going to take you." I meet her eyes. "So, I took them first."

She should be horrified. Should run. Should call me a monster.

Instead, she says, "Good."

We drink in silence for a moment.

The fire pops, wind rattles the windows.

Her phone, still in my pocket, buzzes occasionally.

I ignore it.

Let them threaten.

Let them rage.

They won't find her here.

"Can I tell you something?" Her voice is small. Fourth glass, making her loose. "Something I've never told anyone?"

"Yeah."

"When they broke into the apartment—Los Coyotes—I knew I was going to die." She stares into her wine. "Not thought. Knew. Could see it happening. Almost like I felt it. And part of me... part of me was okay with it."

"Elfe—"

"No, let me finish." She takes a shaky breath. "They threw me against the counter. One of them, the bigger one, he got on top of me. Started ripping my shirt. Said he'd go slow. Make it last. That they had hours before anyone would miss me."

My hand tightens on the glass so hard it might shatter.

"I could smell him," she continues. "Cigarettes and sweat and something sour. Feel his weight. His hands. He was so much stronger. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could just lie there while he—"

"You fought back." Can't let her spiral into that memory. "You survived."

"I got lucky. The knife was in my pocket. My hand found it by accident when he was..." She swallows hard. "When he was pulling at my jeans. I just stabbed. Didn't aim. Didn't think. Just pushed it into whatever was closest."

"His hand."

She looks up, surprised. "How did you know?"

Fuck. Careful. "Emil mentioned it. Said you fought like hell."

"One lucky stab. That's all. If he hadn't pulled back, if his partner hadn't been distracted, if Emil and Saga hadn't come home.

.." She drains her glass. "I paint it, you know.

Over and over. Different versions. Sometimes I win.

Sometimes I don't. Sometimes they're monsters with no faces. Sometimes they look like everyone."

"What do you do with the paintings?"

"Hide them. Burn them. Start over." She laughs, but it's bitter. "Saga thinks I'm getting better because I'm painting again. She doesn't know I only paint nightmares now."

"Maybe that's how you process it."

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just broken." She reaches for the bottle. I move it away gently. "I'm not drunk."

"Not saying you are. But you don't need wine to tell me this."

"I need something. You're... I barely know you, even though we’ve known each other for years, but I'm telling you things I can't tell other people. Why is that?"