Page 5 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER THREE

Elfe

I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains and the smell of coffee mixing with bacon.

For a moment, I don't know where I am.

Then it crashes back—the texts, the blood on concrete, Oskar's cottage by the water. His bed.

I'm alone in it now.

The sheets beside me are cold, but they smell like him.

Pine and leather and something wild I can't name.

I stayed here last night.

Slept beside the Executioner and felt safer than I have since the attack.

My phone's on the nightstand, screen dark with missed notifications.

I ignore it.

Honestly, I’m not ready for reality to hit yet.

The sounds from the kitchen are domestic.

Normal. Pans clattering, coffee dripping.

I could almost pretend this is something else.

Something simple.

Not hiding from a cartel.

Not processing that I kissed a killer last night and wanted more.

I pad out barefoot, still wearing his t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, and stop dead in the doorway.

Oskar's at the stove, back to me in all his shirtless glory.

I've seen shirtless men before.

At the beach, at the gym, around the clubhouse.

But this is different.

This is a man who looks like a damn god.

His back is a canvas of ink and scars.

Norse mythology spreads across his shoulders—wolves and ravens and what looks like Yggdrasil, the world tree.

But there are darker symbols mixed in.

Things I don't recognize.

Things that look like warnings.

Scars interrupt the tattoos.

A bullet wound near his ribs.

What might be knife marks along his spine.

Each one showing me how dark and dangerous Oskar can really be.

His shoulders are broader than Emil's.

Muscles move under skin as he flips bacon, his casual strength in every motion.

Dark hair slightly too long, like he hasn't bothered with a barber in months.

When he turns partially to grab a plate, I see him in an entirely different light.

Strong jaw, shadowed with stubble.

That nose that's been broken at least once. And his chest—Gods, it’s perfect.

"Morning." He doesn't turn around. Of course, he knew I was there. "Coffee's ready."

"How long have you been up?"

"Hour maybe. Sleep okay?"

"Better than I have in months." It's true. No nightmares. No waking in panic. Just dreamless rest beside a dangerous man. "Thank you. For staying. For not..."

"For not taking advantage?" He plates the bacon, still not looking at me. "That's a low fucking bar, Elfe."

"Maybe. But my bar's been pretty low lately."

Now he turns.

His eyes travel down my body once, quickly, then back to my face.

Controlled, but I catch the heat there before he shoves it to the side.

"Hungry?"

My stomach answers before I can, growling loudly. He almost smiles. Almost.

"Sit. Food's ready."

I settle at the small kitchen table.

He brings two plates—bacon, scrambled eggs, toast. Simple but perfect, and sets coffee in front of me, two sugars and a splash of milk.

Exactly how I take it.

"How did you know—"

"Lucky guess."

We eat in silence for a moment.

I'm hyperaware of him across from me.

The way his throat moves when he swallows coffee.

The scars on his knuckles as he holds his fork.

The fact that he's still shirtless and I'm still in just his shirt, and neither of us has mentioned it.

"We need to head back soon," he says finally. "The club needs to know you're safe. Your parents are probably losing their minds."

My phone. Right. "I should check in."

I go and grab it from the bedroom.

Twenty-three missed calls.

Fifteen from Mom, six from Dad, two from Saga.

Dozens of texts. My stomach turns into knots.

"They're worried." Oskar's behind me. Moved silently again. "Call them."

I dial Mom first.

She answers before the first ring finishes. "Elfe! Thank God. Where are you? Are you okay? Emil said you were safe but—"

"I'm fine, Mom. I'm with Oskar. We're... somewhere safe."

"You need to come home. Now. Your father's about to tear apart the city looking for you."

"Mom—"

"No arguments. Come home. Bring Oskar if you have to, but come home."

"Put Dad on."

Shuffling, then Dad's voice. Controlled but barely. "Elfe."

"I'm okay, Dad."

"You're not okay. You were threatened. Los Coyotes—"

"I know. Oskar told me."

"Then you know you need to be here. Where we can protect you properly."

"Oskar's protecting me."

"He's one man."

Oskar takes the phone from me before I can respond. "Ivar."

I can hear my dad's voice, sharp and angry, but not the words.

Oskar's face doesn't change. "She's secure... No... That's not your call... Because it’s mine, and I don't answer to you."

More angry sounds from the phone.

"We'll be back this afternoon. But she stays with me... Non-negotiable... You want to challenge that, take it up with Runes."

He hangs up. Hands me the phone.

"That seemed to go well."

"Your father's protective. Can't say I blame him." He moves back to the kitchen and starts cleaning up. "But his protection didn't stop them from getting to you before."

"That wasn't his fault."

"No. But it happened anyway." He turns, meets my eyes. "It won't happen again."

The certainty in his voice makes me believe him. Makes me feel things I shouldn't be feeling.

Not for him.

Not for the club's Executioner who killed two men with his bare hands last night.

But I am feeling them.

Heat low in my belly when he looks at me.

Awareness of every inch of skin his shirt doesn't cover.

Curiosity about things I've never experienced.

Things the attack made me think I'd never want to experience.

"I should shower," I say. "Get dressed."

"Yeah."

But neither of us moves.

The air charges between us.

His eyes drop to my bare legs, then away.

Controlled. Always so controlled.

"About last night," I start.

"What about it?"

"I kissed you."

"I remember."

"You stopped me."

"I did."

"Why?"

He sets down the dish he's washing. Turns to face me fully. "You know why."

"Because I was scared? Drunk?"

"Because you deserve better than a rushed fuck in a safe house while you're running from a cartel."

The crude words should offend me.

Instead, they make heat pool between my legs. "What if that's what I want?"

"Is it?"

I don't know. I've never wanted anyone before.

Never felt safe enough after the attack to even think about it.

But standing here in his kitchen, in his shirt, looking at his scarred chest and dangerous hands...

"I don't know," I admit. "I've never... I haven't..."

"I know."

"How?"

Something flickers across his face. "You have tells. Inexperience shows."

"Is it that obvious?"

"To someone paying attention."

"And you pay attention?"

"To you? Always."

The weight of that word settles between us. Always. Like he's been watching longer than just last night.

"I'm going to shower," I say again.

This time, I move and feel his eyes on me as I walk away.

The bathroom is small but clean.

I strip off his shirt, catch my reflection in the mirror.

Pale skin marked by the past—the scar on my shoulder from hitting the counter, bruises long faded but remembered.

I look fragile. Breakable.

But I survived. I'm surviving.

The shower is hot, the water pressure better than expected.

I stand under the spray and try to make sense of the last twelve hours.

This time yesterday, I was getting ready for my shift. Normal day. Normal fears.

Now I'm in a killer's cottage, wanting things I shouldn't want, hiding from a cartel that really seems to want me dead.

I hear the bathroom door open. Freeze.

"Just bringing you clean clothes," Oskar says. "Leaving them on the counter."

The door closes again.

My heart pounds. For a moment, just a moment, I wanted him to stay.

To pull back the curtain. To—

Stop.

I finish quickly.

I find he's left another of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants that will be huge on me.

No underwear because he wouldn't have any that fits, and mine from yesterday are...

I wrap a towel around myself.

Opening the door. "Oskar?"

"Yeah?"

"I need my underwear. From yesterday."

Silence. Then, "I washed them. They're drying on the porch."

He washed my underwear.

The Executioner did laundry.

I don't know why that makes my chest tight.

I step out in just the towel.

He's in the living room, back to me, on his phone.

The muscles in his back tense when he hears me, but he doesn't turn.

"Magnus says there were three more bodies found this morning," he says. "Los Coyotes, but not our kills."

"So, someone else is hunting them."

"Yeah, it looks like it." He turns finally. His eyes stay on my face with effort.

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends who's doing the killing and why." His phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns. "Get dressed. We need to move soon."

I retreat to the bathroom, pull on his clothes without underwear, trying not to think about how the soft cotton feels against bare skin.

I have to roll the pants at the waist and ankles, while the shirt swallows me.

I look like a child who's playing dress up.

When I emerge, he's pulled on a shirt. Shame.

No. Not shame. Good. Better. Safer.

"We should do some basic defense moves before we go," he says. "In case something happens."

"You think something will happen?"

"I think being prepared is better than being dead."

Hard to argue with that.

He moves the coffee table aside, creating space in the small living room. "Come here."

I approach him carefully, while he positions me in front of him.

"Someone grabs you from behind." His arms come around me, not tight but firm. "What do you do?"

"Scream?"

"If you can. But sometimes you can't. Or no one's there to hear." His breath warms my neck. "Think. What weapons do you have?"

"I... I don't know."

"Your whole body's a weapon. Elbows. Knees. Teeth. The back of your head." He adjusts his hold. "Try to break free."

I struggle, but he doesn't budge. "I can't. You're too strong."

"Don't match strength. I'll always win that fight. Use what you have." His voice drops. "Where are men vulnerable?"

Oh. "Their... balls?"