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

CHAPTER THREE

Dasha

"Everything" is a big word, and Rio looks like it might kill him to honor it.

He glances toward the living room where the girls are engrossed in some animated movie about talking animals, their giggles drifting through the doorway.

Then he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen, far enough away that we can talk without them overhearing.

"Wine?" he asks, already reaching for a bottle from the rack above the refrigerator.

"Definitely."

He pours two generous glasses of red, and I notice his hands are steady despite the tension radiating from every line of his body.

This is Rio in crisis mode—controlled, focused, dangerous.

It should scare me.

Instead, it makes me want to wrap my arms around him and tell him we'll figure this out together.

"The text you got," he starts, settling across from me at the kitchen table. "It's from them. The Culebra cartel."

"The ones who killed Flora." It's not a question.

I know this much, have pieced together enough over the years to understand that his wife's death wasn't random.

"Yeah." He takes a long drink of wine. "What you don't know is that two nights ago, I interrogated one of their lieutenants. Miguel Santos."

The name means nothing to me, but the way Rio says it—cold, final—tells me everything about how that interrogation ended.

"He told me things," Rio continues. "Things about their plans. About you."

My stomach drops. "What about me?"

"They've been watching you, Dasha. For months. Learning your routines, taking pictures, building a profile." His jaw clenches. "They know about us. About how I—" He stops, swallows hard. "About how you matter to me."

"Rio—"

"Santos said they've been watching multiple women connected to the club. Meghan, some others. But specifically you." He meets my eyes, and the raw fear there takes my breath away. "They have photos of you at your apartment, walking to your car, at the shop. They know where you live."

The wine tastes like ash in my mouth. "Why? I'm nobody to them."

"You're not nobody." His voice drops, intense and certain. "You're mine. And they know hurting you would destroy me."

The possessiveness in his tone should probably bother me.

Instead, it sends heat racing through my veins. "I'm yours?"

He goes still, seeming to realize what he's said. "I didn't mean?—"

"Yes, you did." I lean forward, needing him to understand. "And I'm glad you did. Because I've been yours for longer than either of us wants to admit."

"Dasha—"

"Tell me the rest," I interrupt, not ready for whatever protest he's about to make. "What else did Santos say?"

He looks like he wants to argue, but eventually continues.

"He said Flora did more than we knew. She reported suspicious cargo manifests at her job, costing them millions in product.

That's why they targeted her specifically.

" His hands tighten around his wine glass.

"And he said that Bembe—their new leader—has been planning something.

That taking Flora wasn't enough. He wants to take you too. "

The words come crashing down to me. "He wants to kill me to hurt you."

"Over my dead body." The violence in his voice is absolute. "I've already got the club on it. We declared war this morning. Full surveillance on their operations, protection details on all family members."

"Is that why you were acting so strange today? The car outside the coffee shop?"

He nods. "They're not even trying to hide anymore. They want me to know they're watching."

"Wait." A chill runs through me as I remember. "There was a man today. At the coffee shop."

Rio goes completely still. "What man?"

"Mid-thirties, average looking, but something felt off about him. He asked if I was Dasha, said he was a friend of a friend. Then he sat there for over an hour just... watching me." I drain my wine glass, needing the liquid courage. "I thought I was being paranoid, but?—"

"What time?" His voice has gone deadly quiet.

"Around ten-thirty. He ordered black coffee and barely touched it."

"Fuck." Rio's already pulling out his phone, typing rapidly. "Did he say anything else?"

"Just asked if I worked there most days. Rio, I'm sorry, I should have?—"

"No." He reaches across the table, takes my hand. "You did nothing wrong. This is on me for not warning you sooner." He shows me his phone—he's sent a description to someone. "I'm just glad you noticed. Most people wouldn't have."

"So what do we do?"

"We keep you safe. I've already texted the club—there are brothers watching the house right now. Tomorrow we'll figure out a better long-term solution. Maybe you stay here for a while, or?—"

"Or maybe we stop pretending this is just about keeping me safe." I stand, moving around the table until I'm standing in front of him. "Maybe we finally admit what this really is."

He looks up at me, and the hunger in his eyes makes my knees weak. "Dasha, this isn't the time?—"

"When will it be the time, Rio?" I'm tired of waiting, tired of pretending. "When there's no danger? When the girls are older? When you stop being scared of letting me in?"

"I'm not scared of letting you in." He stands too, towering over me even in my heels. "I'm scared of losing you."

"Then stop pushing me away." I reach up, cupping his face in my hands. "I'm here. I'm choosing to be here, knowing the risks. Let me choose you."

For a moment, we just stare at each other, years of unspoken want crackling in the air between us.

Then his phone buzzes.

He checks it, frowning. "Tor says there's movement outside. Two cars, both ends of the street." He types quickly. "They're just watching for now, but?—"

"But they're making sure we know they're there." The reality of the situation hits me again. "Rio, maybe I should?—"

"No." He sets his phone down, frames my face with his hands. "Whatever you're about to suggest that involves you leaving, the answer is fuck no."

"I was going to say maybe I should learn to shoot."

That surprises a laugh out of him, short and rough. " Dios mio , woman."

"What? If people are trying to kill me, shouldn't I know how to defend myself?"

"I'll teach you," he promises. "Tomorrow. Tonight, you're safe here."

From the living room, Cali calls out, "Daddy, I'm thirsty!"

The moment breaks, and Rio steps back. "Let me get them ready for bed. Then we can?—"

"I'll help," I say, because that's what we do. We're a team, even if we haven't defined exactly what kind.

The next half hour is the chaos of bedtime routines.

Teeth brushing, pajamas, negotiations over how many stories constitute "just one more."

It's so beautifully normal that I can almost forget there are cartel members sitting outside watching the house.

Rio takes story duty while I clean up the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and wiping down counters.

Domestic and ordinary, except for how my hands shake slightly when I think about those photos Rio mentioned.

How long have they been watching me?

How many times have I been oblivious to danger while making lattes and small talk?

"They're asleep." Rio reappears in the kitchen doorway. "Out like lights."

"Good." I dry my hands, turn to face him. "Now, where were we?"

"Dasha—"

"No." I move toward him, done with the distance. "No more deflecting. No more protective nobility. Just the truth."

"Truth?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"The truth is that I've wanted you since the first time you smiled at me in that coffee shop.

The truth is that I watch you with my girls and imagine a life I have no right to want.

The truth is that every time you stay over, I lie awake thinking about walking down that hall to the guest room. "

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Why don't you?"

"Because I'm selfish." His voice is raw. "Because once I have you, I won't be able to let go. Because you deserve better than a man with blood on his hands and enemies who want to hurt the people he loves."

"What if I don't want better?" I close the distance between us. "What if I want you?"

"Dasha—"

I kiss him.

It's not graceful or perfect.

It's desperate and hungry and years overdue.

For a moment, he goes completely still, and I think I've made a terrible mistake.

Then his arms come around me, and he's kissing me back like a drowning man who's finally found air.

He tastes like wine and promise and home.

His hands span my waist, pulling me against him until there's no space between us.

I make a sound I don't recognize, needy and wanting, and he groans in response.

"Dasha," he breathes against my mouth. "We should?—"

"Stop talking." I fist my hands in his shirt. "Just kiss me."

He does, backing me against the counter, caging me with his body.

Every point of contact burns—his thigh between mine, his hands skimming my sides, his mouth moving to my throat.

"Fuck, I've wanted this," he murmurs against my skin. "Wanted you. Do you know what you do to me? Walking around my house in my shirts, making breakfast like you belong here?"

"I do belong here." I gasp as he finds that spot where my neck meets my shoulder. "I've belonged here for as long as I can remember."

He pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are black with want. "Say that again."

"I belong here. With you. With the girls. In this life, dangerous or not."

"Dasha—" His phone buzzes again. Then again. And again.

"Ignore it," I plead, but I can already see him shifting back into protective mode.

He checks the messages, and whatever he sees makes him go rigid. "They're moving. Three cars now." He shows me the screen—updates from the brothers watching the house. "They're not approaching, just... circling."

"They're trying to scare us."

"They're succeeding." He runs a hand through his hair. "This is exactly what I didn't want. You in danger because of me, because of being close to the club."

"Hey." I take his face in my hands again, forcing him to look at me. "This isn't your fault. And I'm not running."

"You should be. Any sane person would be."