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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Revna

The spare room at the clubhouse smells like fried food from Bubba’s next door and stale cigarettes, with an underlying note of oil that is probably bleeding out from the walls.

Someone—Mom, most likely—hung my wedding dress on the back of the door, where it glows like a ghost in the dim light from the parking lot.

Even in this industrial room with its exposed brick walls and massive window overlooking the back yard where members sometimes barbecue, the dress manages to look ethereal.

The contrast is stark—delicate beadwork and silk against raw brick and steel beams that remind everyone this used to be a warehouse before the club claimed it.

I've been staring at it for two hours.

The digital clock on the nightstand blinks 11:47 PM in aggressive red numbers.

In twelve hours, I'm supposed to put on that dress and marry Doran Volkolv.

Become part of his world officially, permanently.

Take vows that mean something, even if the marriage started as an arrangement.

My phone sits silent on the nightstand.

No texts from Doran since earlier.

He's respecting my request for space, which somehow makes everything harder.

It would be easier if he pushed, if he became the controlling asshole I accused him of being.

Then I could hate him cleanly.

Instead, I'm lying here on a mattress that's seen better decades, thinking about the skull charms and Bembe's threats and Njal somewhere out there, sick and spiraling.

The clubhouse is quieter than usual.

Most of the members went home to their families once Dad confirmed the building was secure.

Only a few prospects remain on watch, taking shifts by the doors.

I can hear them occasionally—low voices, the clink of beer bottles, someone's radio playing classic rock.

I need water.

Or air. Or both.

The hallway is dimly lit, emergency lighting creating more shadows than illumination.

My bare feet make no sound on the worn carpet as I navigate toward the kitchen.

The main area is empty, chairs stacked on tables, the bar locked down for the night.

Evidence of Mom's stress baking still lingers—the sweet smell of vanilla and cinnamon.

The kitchen light is already on.

Ingrid sits at the small table, hands wrapped around a mug of what smells like tea.

She's changed clothes since earlier—jeans and an old Raiders of Valhalla t-shirt that probably belonged to Bjorn once upon a time.

Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, face clean of makeup.

She looks younger this way, vulnerable. "Can't sleep either?" she asks without looking up.

"Not a chance." I grab a glass from the drying rack, fill it with water from the tap. "You?"

"I have to do something tonight. Wanted herbal tea first. Calm the nerves." She finally meets my eyes. "I wanted to talk to you before I go."

Something in her tone makes me pull out the chair across from her. "What kind of something?"

"The kind that might save your wedding from becoming a bloodbath." She wraps her hands tighter around the mug. "I'm going to see Njal."

My stomach drops. "Ingrid?—"

"I know what the plan is. Redirect his mania toward Bembe, let him become the solution to everyone's problem." Her laugh is bitter. "Use his sickness as a weapon."

"How did you?—"

"I suggested it." She takes a sip of tea, hands trembling slightly. "God help me, I suggested using a sick man's delusions to solve a cartel problem."

The weight of that confession settles between us.

I think about Njal—the good times, before his mood swings got worse.

Teaching him to cook in his tiny apartment kitchen.

The way he'd laugh at my terrible jokes.

Now he's out there, mind fractured, about to be aimed like a missile at another problem.

"You don't have to do this," I say quietly.

"Yes, I do." She sets down the mug with a decisive click. "If I don't, he shows up at your wedding tomorrow. Manic, armed, convinced he's saving you from Satan himself. How many people die in that scenario?"

"We don't know he'd?—"

"I do know. He called me six times today. The last message was fifteen minutes of him explaining how Doran is literally a demon wearing human skin and only he can see it." She pulls out her phone, shows me the call log. "He's completely gone, Revna. The Njal we knew isn't driving the bus anymore."

I stare at the evidence of his calls, each one probably more desperate than the last. "I should have seen the signs earlier. Should have pushed him to get help."

"We all should have. His family, the club, me." She pockets the phone. "But we didn't, and now we're here. The question is what we do about it."

"So you're going to—what? Convince him Bembe is the real threat?"

"He's already primed for it. Paranoid about the cartel, about threats to you. I just have to..." She pauses, looking sick. "I just have to nudge his delusions in the right direction."

The moral implications make my head spin.

We're talking about using someone's mental illness against them, turning their sickness into a weapon.

But the alternative is Njal showing up tomorrow, causing chaos that could get him and others killed.

"Why tell me?" I ask. "Why not just do it?"

"Because you loved him once. Maybe still care about him." She meets my eyes. "You deserve to know. To have a choice in this."

"What choice? Stop you and risk my wedding becoming a massacre? Or let you do this and live with knowing we used his illness against him?"

"Those are the choices." She doesn't sugarcoat it. "Sometimes there are no good options, just different degrees of awful."

Footsteps in the hallway make us both tense.

Dalla appears in the doorway, hair wild from sleep, wearing an oversized shirt that says "Future Doctor, Current Mess."

"What are you two doing up?" She notices our faces, the tension. "What's wrong?"

"Ingrid's about to go weaponize Njal's mania," I say flatly.

Dalla freezes. "Excuse me?"

Ingrid explains quickly, efficiently.

With each word, my sister's face goes through a journey—shock, disgust, reluctant understanding.

"So we're using mental illness as a weapon now?" Dalla sinks into a chair. "That's where we are?"

"Would you prefer he show up at the wedding?" Ingrid challenges.

"I'd prefer he get help without becoming a pawn in some fucking chess game." Dalla looks at me. "You can't be okay with this."

"I'm not okay with any of this," I admit. "I'm not okay with Bembe threatening our family. I'm not okay with Njal being sick and untreated. I'm not okay with getting married tomorrow while all this is happening."

"Then don't," Dalla says simply. "Call it off. Run. We'll figure something out."

"And leave everyone to deal with the consequences? The cartel war that follows? More dead prospects?" I shake my head. "I can't."

"So you'll let Ingrid do this instead. Use someone you cared about as a weapon."

"I'm sitting right here," Ingrid reminds us. "And I'm not doing this for fun. I'm trying to keep everyone alive."

"By manipulating a sick man."

"By redirecting someone who's already fixated on violence." Ingrid stands. "You think I want this? You think I'm happy about using someone I..." She stops, collects herself. "Someone I care about? But between this and watching him die tomorrow, I choose this."

The kitchen goes quiet except for the hum of the ancient refrigerator.

Somewhere in the building, a door closes.

Normal sounds that feel surreal given our conversation.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Elfe:

Something's happening downtown. Cops everywhere. News saying possible gang altercation.

My blood runs cold. "It's already started."

Ingrid checks her phone, face paling. "That's not... I haven't even left yet."

Another text from Elfe:

Shots fired near the old warehouse district. Isn't that where some of Bembe's guys hang out?

"Njal," I breathe. "He didn't wait."

Ingrid is already moving. "I have to go. Maybe I can still?—"

"Still what?" Dalla demands. "He's already there. It's already happening."

"I can make sure he survives it," Ingrid says grimly. "That's something."

She's gone before we can argue, the back door slamming behind her.

Dalla and I sit in the sudden silence, processing what's happening.

"This is so fucked up," my sister says finally.

"Yeah."

"Tomorrow you marry into this. Officially. Forever."

"I know."

"Is he worth it? Doran?"

I think about that question, really consider it.

Is he worth the violence, the moral compromises, the constant danger?

Is he worth using sick ex-boyfriends as weapons and having cartel leaders threaten my family?

"I don't know," I admit. "But I think... I think maybe we're worth it. What we could be."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

Dalla reaches across the table, takes my hand. "Whatever you decide tomorrow—showing up or not—I'm with you. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good. Because I have a feeling shit's about to get complicated."

Mom appears in the doorway, flour in her hair and batter on her apron. "Girls? What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," I say, not mentioning Ingrid or Njal or any of it.

"Me either." She moves to the oven, checking whatever's inside. "Thought I'd make cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning. Something special for..." She trails off.

"For my wedding day," I finish.

"Yeah." Her voice cracks slightly. "Your wedding day."

"Mom—"

"Years," she says suddenly, not looking at us. "For years I've known this day would come. Tried to pretend it wouldn't, tried to believe we'd find another way. But here we are."

"It's not your fault," Dalla says.

"Isn't it?" Mom turns, tears tracking through the flour on her cheeks. "I'm your mother. I'm supposed to protect you. Instead, I'm sending my baby girl off to marry a man she barely knows because of a deal made before she was even born."

"I know him now," I say quietly. "Maybe not everything, but I know enough."

"Enough to marry him?"

"Enough to try."

The oven timer beeps.

Mom pulls out a tray of perfect cinnamon rolls, the smell filling the kitchen with warmth and comfort.