Page 9 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER FIVE

Elfe

The loft feels too quiet when we get back.

Emil and Saga are in the living room with the dogs, but their conversation stops when we walk in.

The silence is heavy, weighted with questions they're not asking.

Saga's eyes search my face, cataloging damage she can't see but knows is there.

Emil watches Oskar, some kind of silent brother communication happening that I can't decipher.

"Everything okay?" Saga asks carefully. Her voice has that forced casual tone people use when things are very much not okay.

"Fine." The lie tastes like copper. Like blood. Like the smell that filled that warehouse. "Just tired."

Oskar's hand ghosts over my lower back.

Not quite touching but there. Present.

The almost-contact makes my skin hypersensitive, aware of every inch of space between us. "She needs some rest. It’s been a long day."

"It's barely nine," Emil observes. His tone is mild but his eyes are sharp, taking in details—my shaking hands, Oskar's protective positioning, the way I'm holding myself like I might shatter.

"Feels like even later." I move toward the hallway, each step deliberate and careful like the floor might give way. "I'm going to shower then go to bed."

Luna follows me, tail low, whining softly in her throat.

She knows something's wrong.

Animals always know.

They smell fear like perfume.

Rex and Odin stay with Oskar, flanking him like guards.

Pack recognizing pack. Protector acknowledging protector.

In my room, I close the door and lean against it.

The wood is solid against my back. Real. Here.

Not in that warehouse with its copper smell and artistic arrangement of death.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Three bodies. Arranged like art installations.

Deliberate placement of limbs. My name is carved into flesh like a love letter written in violence.

Someone spent time on that. Made it beautiful in its horror.

My stomach churns, and acid burns my throat.

I strip mechanically.

Jeans that smell like motorcycle exhaust and fear.

Shirt damp with nervous sweat.

The leather jacket Oskar gave me with its Kevlar lining—protection I needed just to ride through my own city.

Each piece of clothing feels contaminated somehow, like the night's horror has seeped into the fabric.

The bathroom light is harsh. Too bright. Fluorescent honesty that shows every flaw. I catch my reflection and freeze.

There it is.

The scar on my shoulder where I hit the counter seven months ago.

Pale now, faded to silver.

But still there, still real.

Evidence written on my skin that I almost died in my own kitchen. That men put their hands on me and tried to—

For the little artist.

The words flash behind my eyes.

Carved deep. Deliberate. Each letter cut with precision.

Someone killed three men and marked them for me.

Like a gift, like those horror movies where the killer leaves presents.

My knees hit the tile hard.

The impact shoots pain up my legs, but I barely feel it.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't—

The room tilts, spinning like a carnival ride.

My chest is too tight, like someone's sitting on it.

Heart hammering so hard it might crack ribs from the inside.

This is how I die.

Not from Los Coyotes but from my own body betraying me.

From memories that have teeth and claws and won't stay buried.

I'm back there. Kitchen floor. Linoleum cold against my cheek. Blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue.

Hands tearing at clothes. The sound of fabric ripping. Weight crushing me. Can't move. Can't scream. Can't—

The door crashes open.

"Elfe." Oskar's voice cuts through the panic like a blade through fog.

He's on his knees beside me before I can process he's here.

The tile protests under his weight.

He must have heard me fall. Heard something.

His presence fills the small bathroom, making it feel safer and more dangerous at once.

"Hey. Look at me." His voice has a command in it, but gentle. Like coaxing a wild animal.

Can't. Can't look. Can't see. Everything's blurry. Tears or panic or both turning the world into watercolors.

"Count with me." His voice is steady. Calm. Like he's done this before. No panic in him at finding me broken on the bathroom floor. "Five things you can see."

I force my eyes to focus through the tears. "The... the tile. White tile. Has a crack in the corner."

"Good. What else?"

"Your hands." They're on my shoulders. Grounding. Not restraining. Important difference. His knuckles still have faint bruises from last night's violence. "The cabinet. It's oak. The... the towel on the rack. Blue. The shower curtain with those stupid fish on it."

"Four things you can touch."

I reach out blindly and find his arm first. Solid. Real. Warm through his shirt. "You. The floor. It's cold. My..." I touch my own chest, feel my racing heart. "My necklace. The wall behind me."

"Three things you can hear."

"Your voice." It's the loudest thing. The most real. An anchor in the storm. "The fan. Someone's TV through the walls—sounds like a game show."

"Two things you can smell."

"Your cologne." Pine and leather and something wild underneath. "Shampoo. From earlier. Coconut."

"One thing you can taste."

"Fear." The word slips out before I can stop it. Raw honesty on my tongue.

"That's okay. Fear's just information. Your body is telling you to pay attention.

" His thumbs stroke my shoulders. Gentle circles that shouldn't be soothing but are.

"But you're safe. You're in Emil's loft.

Safest place in the city. Behind three locked doors and biometric scanners. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you."

My breathing slows incrementally. Still too fast but better. The room stops its nauseating spin and settles back into place.

"How did you know?" I whisper. My throat feels raw like I've been screaming. Maybe I was. "How to do that? The counting thing?"

Something flickers in his eyes. Pain. Old hurt. "My mom—Charm—she had panic attacks. After she lost a baby. After Ingrid was born."

"Oh." The single syllable carries weight.

"Yeah. Dad was on a run once when she had a bad one.

Gone for days with the club. I was just a kid.

Had to figure it out." His hands are still on my shoulders.

Steady. Present. "Got good at recognizing the signs.

The breathing that goes shallow and quick.

The look in someone's eyes when they're drowning in their own head.

The way muscles lock up right before the spiral. "

"I'm sorry. About the baby."

"Long time ago. She's okay now. Mostly. I don’t think a woman can ever get over that sort of grief, but they learn to live with it." He shifts, sitting beside me against the wall. Not crowding. Just there. Our thighs barely touch, but that small contact feels like everything. "What triggered it?"

"The scar." I touch my shoulder without thinking. The raised tissue that will never be smooth again. "And remembering those bodies. Someone carved 'little artist' into a person for me. Who does that? What kind of person thinks that's a gift?"

"Someone who thinks violence is a gift." His voice is matter-of-fact. No judgment.

"Is it? In your world?"

He's quiet for a long moment. I can hear him breathing, measured and controlled. "Sometimes. Protection through brutality. Safety through fear. It's fucked up, but it's how we survive. How we keep what's ours safe."

"And someone's doing that for me. Killing for me."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Don't know yet." But something in his voice says he suspects. There's a tightness there, a recognition he's not voicing. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. Because I need to know if they're protecting me or stalking me. If they're hero or villain. If I should be grateful or terrified."

"Maybe they're both."

I turn to look at him.

Really look.

He's in just a t-shirt and jeans.

Feet bare like he ran here without thinking.

Hair messed like he's been running his hands through it.

There's a wildness to him.

"Like you?"

"I'm no hero."

"But you protect me."

"That's different."

"Why?"

He meets my eyes. Those dark eyes with gold flecks that see too much. That have seen too much. "You know why."

The air changes, almost thickens like honey.

We're still on my bathroom floor, me naked, which hides nothing, and him in clothes he clearly threw on.

But something shifts.

The molecules between us vibrate differently.

"How long?" I ask. "How long have you looked at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I hung the moon. Like I'm something precious. Like I matter more than breathing."

His jaw works. I can see the muscle tick. Control slipping through his fingers like water. "Always."

"That's not—"

"Since before I had any right to." The words come out rough. Scraped raw from somewhere deep. "Before the attack. Before anything gave me permission to want you."

"You wanted me before?" The revelation rocks me.

Before, when I was whole.

When I laughed without checking exits first.

When I was just Ivar's artistic daughter who drank too much sometimes and painted weird things.

"I noticed you before. The girl who painted her feelings in colors I didn't have names for. Who laughed too loud at Bubba's—this bright sound that cut through all the smoke and misery. Who gave her dad shit and made your mom smile."

His hand finds my face. Cups my cheek. His palm is calloused. Warm.

"Then after... watching you survive. Rebuild. Fake being okay when you were dying inside. You're the strongest person I know, Elfe. How could I not—"

I kiss him.

No warning. No buildup. Just my mouth on his because I need to taste those words.

Need to feel something other than fear and panic and the memory of other hands that weren't careful.

That took without asking.

He freezes for a heartbeat.

Everything in him going still.

Then he's kissing me back.

Soft at first, controlled, testing.

Then I bite his bottom lip—instinct more than thought—and control shatters like spun glass.

His hand tangles in my hair, not pulling but holding.

Angles my head where he wants it.