Page 30 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

"You. However, you're willing to give yourself. Whatever you're willing to share."

"What if I'm never willing to share everything? What if there's always part of me that remembers the watching, the lying? What if I can never fully trust you the way I would have if we'd met normally?"

"Then I live with that. Earn what I can. Accept what I can't."

It's not a fairy tale answer.

Not a promise that love conquers all.

It's real, complicated, honest.

It's acknowledging that we're building on damaged ground but building anyway.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll be your ol' lady. But we do this as equals. You don't make decisions for me. Don't hide things from me."

"Agreed."

"And we go slow. I'm not ready to just pretend everything's fine. This isn't a clean slate. It's writing over old words that still show through."

"I know."

"But I'm willing to try. To build something new, even if it's built on a cracked foundation."

He reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving me time to pull away.

When I don't, his hand finds mine. Warm. Solid. Real. "That's more than I deserve."

"Yes, it is."

We sit there, hands linked, the weight of commitment between us.

It's not forgiveness, not yet.

But it's a choice.

My choice.

And in this life where choices are so often taken away, that means everything.

"There's something else," he says. "Even though the threat is over, I don’t think you should go back to your old apartment. Too many memories, and the lease is up anyway. I checked with the landlord, he's already got it cleaned and re-rented."

"I know."

"Move in with me. Not here, my place. I have a house on the other side of town. Nothing fancy, but it's safe. Private. Two bedrooms, so you can have your own space when you need it, even turn it into an art studio, and sometimes we can head down to the cottage for a little getaway."

Living together. Real commitment. Real life.

"That's a big step."

"We've already been through bigger shit than that."

True. Kidnapping, torture, death, betrayal.

Moving in together seems almost quaint in comparison.

"Can I paint there?"

"Of course, and there's a garage if you need more space."

"And we have boundaries? I'm not ready to share a bed every night. I think we should build up slowly."

"Whatever you need. Your room, my room, our room—however you want to structure it."

My phone buzzes.

Text from my mom:

Family dinner tonight. Everyone. No excuses. 7 PM sharp.

"Family dinner," I tell him. "You're invited. Or commanded, knowing my mother."

"She doesn't hate me?"

"She's reserving judgment. But you saved Dad, so that bought you some grace. Plus, she knows this world. Knows judgment is a luxury we can't always afford."

We arrive at my childhood home just before seven.

The house looks the same as always—white siding, black shutters, perfectly maintained because Dad won't tolerate anything else.

But there's a security camera now, positioned to watch the driveway.

New locks on the door.

Subtle changes that speak to not-so-subtle threats.

The dining room is set with the good plates, the ones Mom only uses for holidays and when she's trying to pretend everything's normal.

The china with tiny roses around the rim.

She's even lit candles.

Not romantic candles—tall white pillars that smell like vanilla, like she’s trying to make this dinner mean something.

Dad's already at the table, his bandaged hand resting carefully on the placemat.

He's learned to eat with his right hand now, the left too damaged.

He nods when he sees us, a king acknowledging subjects.

Or maybe a father acknowledging the man fucking his daughter. Hard to tell with him.

"Oskar."

"Sir."

"Sit. Starla's making enough food for an army."

We sit, Oskar beside me, but not touching, giving me space while being close.

He's learning.

The chairs are the same ones from my childhood—dark wood, uncomfortable backs that force good posture.

I used to hate these chairs.

Now they feel like anchors to better times.

Helle arrives, looking more put together.

She's changed clothes, brushed her hair, put on makeup to hide the exhaustion.

She catches my eye—our secret sits between us like another dinner guest.

Mom brings out pot roast, potatoes, and vegetables.

Comfort food.

The kind she makes when she needs to mother us through something.

The meat falls apart at the touch of a fork, the potatoes are whipped with too much butter, the carrots are glazed with brown sugar.

"Looks great, Mom."

"Just eat."

We do.

Awkward at first, the clink of silverware too loud.

Then easier as food and forced normalcy work their magic.

Dad and Oskar talk about bikes, specifically the vintage Harley Dad's been restoring for three years.

Mom asks Helle about school.

"How are classes?" Mom's voice is carefully casual.

I jump in before Helle can fumble. "She's got finals coming up. Been studying like crazy."

"Good. Education's important. Especially for women in this life. Need something that's yours."

Helle nods, pushes food around her plate.

The guilt is eating her from the inside, I can see it. But now isn't the time.

"So," Dad says eventually, because someone had to. The elephant in the room needs addressing. "You two are together."

"Yes," I answer.

Mom reaches over, squeezes my hand.

The rest of dinner is easier.

Still weighted with everything unspoken, but manageable.

We're all trying, and maybe that's enough.

Mom brings out dessert—apple pie because she knows it's my favorite.

The crust is perfect, flaky and buttery.

The apples are soft but not mushy.

She's spent time on this, caring for us the only way she knows how.

"I love you all," she says suddenly, surprising everyone. "Our family is beautiful, and you all mean so much to me."

"Mom—" Helle starts.

"No, let me say this. We almost lost everything. Elfe almost died. We almost lost your father. We've been through hell. But we're here. Together. Broken but together. That matters."

We all nod, emotion thick in the room.

Later, after dinner, Oskar takes me to his place.

He shows us his room—our room, maybe.

It's bigger than the one I've been using.

King bed, dark furniture, surprisingly neat for a single man.

Or maybe not surprising. After all, this man is insanely controlled.

"I want to try," I tell him.

"Try what?"

"Sleeping in the same bed every night. Being close. I need to know if I can."

"We don't have to—"

"I know. But I want to. My choice, remember?"

He nods, starts to undress.

I watch him, this man who's been watching me.

Scars tell stories of violence survived—the one on his ribs from Thiago, older ones from fights I don't know about.

Muscles speak of strength used for protection and destruction equally.

He's beautiful in that dangerous way.

Beautiful and mine, if I want him.

I pull off my shirt, no ceremony.

No performance, just undressing.

But his eyes track every movement like I'm art he's memorizing.

"You're staring."

"You're letting me."

Once I get down to underwear, we get into bed.

Awkward at first, finding positions like teenagers who don't know how bodies fit together.

We finally settle with me on my side, him curved behind me.

Not quite spooning but close.

I can feel the heat of him through the space between us.

"This okay?"

"Yeah."

His arm drapes over my waist, careful.

I can feel his breathing, forced, steady and controlled.

He's trying so hard not to spook me. "You can relax. I'm not going to break."

"I know."

But he doesn't relax. Neither do I.

We're both too aware, too careful.

Walking on eggshells made of our own trauma.

"This is stupid," I say, turning to face him. "We're acting like strangers."

"Aren't we? In some ways?"

"No. You know everything about me. Watched me for months. Saw me at my worst, my most vulnerable. And I know you now. The real you."

"And?"

"And I want you. I want you for the rest of my life, Oskar." I kiss him.

Not angry like before.

Not desperate.

Just want, pure and simple.

This is me choosing.

This is me taking back my power, one kiss at a time.

He responds carefully at first, then with more heat when I don't pull away.

My hands explore his chest, those scars I've memorized.

His hands stay frustratingly still at his sides. "Touch me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. Anywhere. Just stop being so careful."

His control breaks like a dam failing.

Hands sliding over skin, relearning my body with permission this time.

Every touch is question and answer—is this okay? Yes. What about this? God, yes.

When he kisses my neck, I moan.

When his hand cups my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, I arch into it.

This is what I needed—connection.

"I need more," I tell him.

"Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me. Now."

"Elfe—"

"Stop making me beg for what's already mine."

He rolls me onto my back, settles between my thighs.

We're both still in underwear, that last barrier.

His weight on me feels right. Safe but not suffocating. "You're sure?"

"Stop asking. Just fuck me already."

The rest of our clothes disappear with fumbling hands and nervous laughter when his boxers get caught on his foot.

Then he's there, right there, pressing against me, waiting for final permission.

"Please," I whisper.

He enters me slowly, watching my face for any sign of distress.

There isn't any.

Just want, need, completion.

Like pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together.

"Okay?"

"Perfect."

He moves, slow at first, then faster as I urge him on with hands and hips and words.

This isn't tender lovemaking.

It's claiming. Reclaiming. Taking back what trauma tried to steal.

It's writing our own story over the one that was forced on us.

"Mine," I gasp as pleasure builds.

"Yours," he agrees. "Always yours."

"Yes."

I flip us, taking control.

Riding him while he watches with wonder and something like worship.

This is my choice, my body, my pleasure.

He's just lucky to be included.

"Touch me," I demand.

His thumb finds my clit, circles with exactly the pressure I need.

He learned that from watching but I'm choosing to benefit from that knowledge now. "Let go. I've got you."

I do.

I come apart while he watches with permission this time.

He follows, my name a prayer on his lips.

We collapse together, sweating and breathing hard.

After, we lie tangled, sweat cooling. "That was—"

"Fucking amazing," I finish. "So good."

"Yes."

"Good. Remember that. Because I want more of this, Oskar."

"I will."

We're quiet, processing. Then I laugh.

"What?"

"We're really doing this. Moving in together. Being together. After how crazy everything has been."

"Is that funny?"

"It's insane. You stalked me. I should hate you."

"But you don't."

"No. I love you. It's fucked up and probably unhealthy, but it's true."

"I love you too."

"I know. You killed your brother for me. That's either love or insanity."

"Both, probably."

"Probably."

I curl against him, his arm around me. Safe. Chosen. Mine. "Oskar?"

"Yeah?"

"The watching. It's really done? You won't do it again?"

"If you want privacy, you have it. If you want space, you get it."

"And if I want you to watch? Sometimes? When I'm painting or sleeping or just existing?"

He's quiet, then, "Then I watch. When you ask. How you ask."

"Good."

It's not perfect. We're not perfect.

The foundation is cracked, the trust rebuilt with tape and hope.

But it's ours. Our choice. Our future.

"I forgive you," I whisper. Not completely true yet, but becoming true. "Or I'm starting to. Piece by piece."

"You don't have to—"

"I know. But I'm choosing to. Day by day. I'm choosing to forgive because holding onto the anger hurts me more than it hurts you. Because I'd rather build something new than stay trapped in something old."

He pulls me closer. "I'll earn it. Every day."

"I know."

Tomorrow brings moving boxes and new spaces and building life together.

But tonight is for rest, for bodies that know each other, for trust rebuilt one moment at a time.