Page 69 of Monstrosity

Is this actually happening?

"You've bled for us. Killed for us. Protected our families as if they were your own." He pauses, looking around the room. "Brothers, I put it to you. Has this man earned his patch?"

The roar of approval is deafening.

Fists pound on tables, boots stomp the floor.

"Then by the power vested in me as President of the Raiders of Valhalla," Runes continues, pulling something from his cut, "I present you with your full colors. Welcome to the brotherhood, Rio."

He holds out the patch—the full Raiders of Valhalla rockers.

My hands shake slightly as I take them.

"Turn around," Tor says, grinning. "Let's do this right."

I turn, and Fenrir steps forward with a knife, carefully removing the prospect patch I've worn for so long.

Then, it all happens in a blur, multiple brothers work to sew on my new colors.

The weight of them feels different—heavier with responsibility, but also lighter somehow. Like I'm finally where I belong.

"Brother," Runes says when they're done, pulling me into a hard embrace. The others follow, each welcoming me properly into the brotherhood.

"About fucking time," Ivar mutters, but he's smiling.

"Hell of a timing, Prez," I manage when the congratulations die down.

"Figured you should face tonight as a full member," Runes replies. "You've more than earned it, and your woman deserves an old man with full colors."

That gets another round of cheers and good-natured ribbing.

"Now," Runes says, bringing us back to focus. "Let's go show these fuckers what happens when they threaten the Raiders of Valhalla. All of us. Together."

A rumble of agreement runs through the room. These men are ready for blood.

"Lock and load, brothers. We ride in thirty."

Kirkjaempties, men heading out to say goodbye to their ol’ ladies and kids.

I make my way to our room, finding Dasha helping the girls into pajamas.

"But it's not even dark yet," Cali protests.

"Movie night in the main room," Dasha explains. "Thought you might want to be comfy."

Smart woman, giving them something to focus on besides the men leaving.

"Daddy!" Florencia runs to me. "We made you something!"

She produces two pieces of paper—drawings in crayon.

Hers shows a stick figure on a motorcycle with "DADDY" written in careful letters.

Cali's is more abstract but includes what might be a heart. Or a potato. Hard to tell with five-year-old art.

"For luck," Florencia explains seriously.

"They're perfect." I fold them carefully, tucking them inside my cut. "I'll keep them with me."