Page 26 of Sadistic

"Meaning you don't punish her for saying goodbye to a life she didn't choose to leave." She squeezes my hands. "You want a partner, not a prisoner. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Then act like it. Show her why you're the better choice. Show her what she gains, not just what she's lost."

"And if she doesn't see it?"

"Then you're not the man I raised." She stands, smooths her dress. "Now get changed. You look like a corporate raider, not a man claiming his bride."

"This is Armani."

"Exactly my point."

An hour later, we're in three separate cars heading to the clubhouse.

Security protocol—never make yourself an easy target by traveling together.

I drive myself because I need the control, need my hands on the wheel and my foot on the gas.

Mikhail's in the passenger seat, reading updates on his phone.

"Her car just pulled into the clubhouse," he reports. "She's with her sister."

"Good."

"Vadim says the boy—Njal—he's already there. Drinking heavily."

My hands tighten on the wheel. "He touches her?—"

"He won't." Mikhail's voice is certain. "Vadim made things clear."

The rest of the drive passes in silence.

I know every inch of this route—have driven it dozens of times over the years, watching, waiting.

The Raiders of Valhalla clubhouse sits on the outskirts of Tallahassee, far enough from everyday people to keep their business private.

We arrive just as the sun starts its descent.

The parking lot's full—church orkirkja,I think they call it is in session, every member called in for this.

I spot her car immediately.

That piece of shit Honda she refuses to replace even though she could afford better.

Pride or stubbornness, maybe both.

"Wait here," I tell Mikhail.

"Doran—"

"I said, wait."

I get out, breathe the air mixed with fried oils from the restaurant attached to their clubhouse, and whiskey.

The sound of bikes rumbling in the distance, voices raised in the club.

This is her world—violence wrapped in brotherhood, loyalty paid in blood.