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CHAPTER SEVEN

Revna

The key sticks in the lock like it always does, requiring that special jiggle-turn-jiggle combination that's become second nature after two years in this apartment.

My backpack weighs a ton—law textbooks aren't getting any lighter—and my shoulders scream as I finally manage to get inside.

I call out, dropping everything by the door. "Dal?"

"Kitchen!" comes the response, followed by the sound of cabinets slamming.

I find my sister glaring at our empty refrigerator like it's personally offended her.

She's still in her scrubs from her hospital rotation, hair pulled back in a messy bun that's seen better days.

There's a stain on her shoulder—blood or iodine, I can't tell—and dark circles under her eyes that match my own.

"Let me guess," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "We have nothing to eat."

"We have..." she peers inside again, "half a container of questionable Chinese food, three beers, and something that might have been yogurt in a past life."

"Want me to order pizza?"

"Gods yes."

I pull out my phone, already dialing our usual place.

Three rings, like always. "Hey, Tony. Yeah, it's Revna. The usual?" I pause, listening to his familiar grumbling about us needing to try something new. "Extra cheese on half for Dalla. And garlic knots. Yeah, the big order."

After placing the order, I grab a bottle of wine from our "emergency stash" above the refrigerator.

It's the good stuff—well, good for broke college students.

A Pinot Grigio we've been saving for either celebrations or disasters.

Tonight feels like both.

"Want some?"

"Is that even a question?" Dalla's already getting glasses down—the nice ones we bought at Target when we first moved in, pretending we were real adults. "Pour heavy. It's been a day."

We settle on our secondhand couch, the one we found on Facebook Marketplace and spent an entire weekend deep cleaning.

It's ugly as sin—some weird brown-green color that doesn't match anything—but it's comfortable and it's ours.

The left cushion sags where I always sit, the right has a mysterious stain we've covered with a throw pillow.

It's home.

"How was your rotation?" I ask, tucking my feet under me.

"Exhausting. Watched a surgery for six hours straight. My feet are basically stumps at this point." She takes a large sip of wine, closing her eyes. "The attending was a complete ass too. Kept quizzing me on shit we haven't even covered yet, then acting disappointed when I didn't know."

"Dick."

"Complete dick. How was class?"

"Contracts was mind-numbing. Professor Henderson is still obsessed with the mailbox rule. I swear he gets off on it." I pause, wine glass halfway to my lips. "Got an email about that internship at the DA's office."

"The competitive one? Rev, that's amazing!"

"Yeah, well." I stare into my wine, watching the light refract through the pale liquid. "Not sure it matters now."

The elephant in the room sits between us, days away and getting closer.

My wedding.

My arranged marriage.

My life is changing before my eyes.

"About that," Dalla says, reading my mind like she always does. "Dad called me today."

"He called me too. I didn't answer."

"I did." She grimaces. "He wanted to know if we're okay. If you're okay."

"What did you tell him?"

"That he should have thought about that before selling you off like cattle."

"Dal—"

"What? It's true." She refills her glass, movements sharp with anger. "Twenty years, Rev. They had twenty fucking years to figure out another way, and they just... didn't. And now he wants to know if we're okay?"

I watch my sister's hands shake slightly as she pours.

She's angrier than I am, maybe because she doesn't have to marry anyone.

She just has to watch me do it.

"Mom's not doing well, by the way. Dad says she's fine, but I could hear her crying in the background."

My chest tightens. "Is she taking her meds?"

"Who knows? She's barely eating, according to Dad. Just stays in the kitchen baking things no one eats." Dalla laughs bitterly. "Apparently we have seventeen different kinds of cookies at the house right now. The freezer's full of banana bread."

"Stress baking. Remember when Bjorn got shot? She made enough bread to feed the entire club for a month."

"Or when Everly left Dylan? Cupcakes for days." Dalla's smile is sad. "This is different though. This is guilt baking. This is 'I failed to protect my daughter' baking."

"She didn't fail?—"

"Didn't she? Didn't they both?" Dalla's voice cracks slightly.

"Dad knew this was a possibility when we were born. Then Mom found out when we were teenagers, and they had twenty years to figure out an alternative. I’m pissed because Dad had twenty years to save money, make different alliances, find another way.

Instead, he just what... hoped it wouldn't happen. "

I don't have an answer for that.

Because she's right.

Our parents knew the deal they'd made, knew it would come due eventually.

And still they'd raised us like normal girls, let us believe we'd have choices.

Let us go to college, date, plan futures that were never really ours to plan.

"They're fighting," Dalla adds quietly. "Dad didn't say it, but I could tell. He tried to sound normal, but there were these long pauses, like Mom was saying things he didn't want me to hear. She blames him. He blames himself. Everyone blames everyone except the actual fuckers responsible."

"You mean Doran."

"I mean the whole fucking system. The Bratva, the Irish, the MC, all of it." She pulls her knees up to her chest, making herself small the way she does when she's really upset. "Did you know Ingrid's been calling me?"

"What? Why?"

"To check on you. To make sure you're okay." Dalla shakes her head. "Can you believe that? The girl whose heart got broken is checking on you ."

"She's not a bitch," I say automatically.

"I know she's not. That's what makes it worse.

" My sister sighs. "She called me a bitch last time, and honestly?

I probably deserved it. She's just another casualty in all this bullshit.

First Bjorn pushes her away after his leg, treating her like she's weak for wanting to help.

Then Njal uses her as a placeholder, probably promising her things he was never going to deliver on. .."

"She deserved better than both of them."

"We all deserve better than this life." Dalla's quiet for a moment, picking at the label on the wine bottle. "Remember when we were kids? How we used to plan our futures? You were going to be a Supreme Court justice. I was going to cure cancer."

"You still could."

"Could I? Because right now I can barely get through a rotation without wanting to quit. I really want to do the fashion thing. Sure, maybe med is practical, but what if I don’t want to be practical?

Ugh, fuck it." She looks at me. "Speaking of people making bad life choices, did you know Njal went AWOL? "

I freeze, wine glass halfway to my lips. "What, when?"

"Left his cut on his bed and disappeared. That's what Ingrid heard anyway." She watches me carefully. "You really didn't know?"

He left his cut on his bed?

That’s insanity… that’s almost like he’s abandoning the club.

Fuck, it isn’t almost anything.

It’s exactly what he’s doing.

Me being with Doran is really fucking with him, and I don’t think he’s okay.

I… I know I contributed to this, and I feel like he’s not of sound mind right now.

"No, I..." But that's not entirely true. Doran had seemed tense this morning, checking his phone more than usual during the drive.

His jaw had been tight, that muscle jumping the way it does when he's controlling his anger. "When?"

"Sometime last night apparently. After..." She trails off meaningfully.

"After I didn't come home."

"Mmm-hmm." Dalla scoots closer, the couch creaking under our combined weight. "Want to tell me the dirty little details from last night? Wait a second. Is that... is that beard burn on your freaking neck?"

Heat floods my face. "Dalla?—"

"Oh my God, you did not !" Her eyes go wide. "Revna, did you fuck your future husband?"

"Can you not say it like that?"

"How should I say it? Did you make sweet love to your arranged?—"

I throw a pillow at her face. "Stop."

"Never." She's grinning now, earlier troubles temporarily forgotten. "Details. I need all the details. Was it good? Was it weird? Was it angry? Please tell me there was angry sex."

"It wasn't angry," I admit, pulling the pillow against my chest. The wine is making me loose-lipped, or maybe I just need to tell someone. "It was... unexpected."

"Unexpected how?"

I think about how to explain last night.

The whiskey warmth, the surprising vulnerability in Doran's admissions, the way he'd touched me like I was precious.

Like I was something he'd waited his whole life for.

"He was gentle," I say finally. "Careful. Like he was afraid I'd break or run. He kept asking if I was sure, if I wanted to stop. Even when we were... you know... he was watching my face, making sure I was okay."

"And did you? Run?"

"I thought about it. When I woke up this morning, for just a second, I thought about sneaking out.

" I close my eyes, remembering. "But then I heard him in the kitchen, and I followed the smell of coffee, and he was on the balcony looking out at the city.

He looked... lonely. This man who controls everything, who has all this power, and he looked lonely. "

"So you stayed."

"He was making me coffee exactly how I like it.

Had my favorite creamer and everything. When I asked how he knew, he just looked at me like it was obvious.

Like of course he'd know how I take my coffee.

" I meet her eyes. "It should creep me out, right?

But instead, I just felt... seen. Known.

When's the last time someone paid that much attention to what I actually want? "

"Holy shit," Dalla breathes. "You like him."

"I slept with him. Of course I?—"