Page 7

The parking lot's full—church or kirkja, 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.

Not so different from mine.

She's standing by her car, Dalla beside her.

They're both in jeans and light leather jackets, but Revna wears the earrings I sent.

At least it’s not blistering hot out today.

The sapphires catch the dying light, marking her as mine even if she doesn't fully accept it yet.

I approach from behind, silent despite my size.

She's arguing with her sister about something—probably about going in, facing what waits inside.

"Welcome home, little wolf."

She spins, and there it is—that fire my mother saw in the photos.

But there's something else too.

Exhaustion. Grief.

The echo of goodbye still clinging to her.

My name sounds like a curse in her mouth. "Doran."

"You're wearing the earrings."

Her hand goes to her ear automatically. "You said?—"

"I know what I said." I step closer, noting how Dalla moves protectively between us. "Hello, Dalla."

"Asshole."

"Charming." I don't look away from Revna. "Ready for this?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice. You can walk in there as my future wife, united front, showing strength. Or you can walk in there as a sacrifice, letting everyone see you as weak." I offer my arm. "Which do you prefer?"

She stares at my arm like it's a snake.

Then, surprising me, she takes it.

"United front," she says quietly. "But we're talking after. Privately."

"Whatever you want."

Dalla snorts. "Right. Whatever she wants. That's rich."

"Dal, not now," Revna says.

The clubhouse door opens, and Njal storms out, drunk and angry. He sees us—her hand on my arm, the earrings, the clear message of possession—and his face twists.

"Revna—"

"Walk away," I say, voice carrying enough threat to penetrate his drunk haze.

"Fuck you!" Njal looks right at her, and fire shoots through my veins. "Rev, baby, please?—"

"Go home, Njal." Her voice is steady, but I feel her trembling. "Please. Just go home."

He takes a step forward. I shift, putting myself between them.

Behind me, I know Mikhail's already out of the car, ready.

"She was mine first," Njal spits.

"Was," I agree. "Past tense."

Dalla grabs his arm. "Come on. Let me drive you home."

"I don't need?—"

"Yes, you do." She's stronger than she looks, already steering him toward his bike. "Rev, I'll be back."

Revna nods, fingers tightening on my arm as her sister leads her ex away.

We stand there, watching them go, her grief obvious.

"Thirty-six minutes," I say quietly.

She stiffens. "What?"

"You were in his apartment for thirty-six minutes." I turn her to face me. "Did you think I wouldn't know?"

"I thought you'd have the decency?—"

"I don't do decency when it comes to you." I touch one of the earrings. "But I understand goodbye. We all have ghosts in our past, little wolf."

Something shifts in her eyes.

Not softening exactly, but... considering.

"Inside," I say. "Time to make this official."

The clubhouse reeks of beer and testosterone.

Everyone in here, except the women, have leather cuts on, hard faces watching us enter.

My parents are already here—my father commanding one corner with his presence, my mother somehow making the grungy space look like a photo shoot.

A man comes up and escorts us down a hallway, opens a door, and there's a few men seated around the table.

Runes holds court at the head table, gray creeping into his beard, eyes tired.

The deaths of his prospects weighing on him.

"Volkolv," he says as we approach.

"Runes." I guide Revna to a chair, my hand on her back. "We need to talk about your dead prospects."

The room goes silent.

"Erik and Anders were good boys," Runes says finally. "They didn't deserve what happened to them."

"No one deserves a baseball bat to the skull." I remain standing, Revna seated beside me. "But these new Culebra fuckers don't care about what people deserve."

"Which is why we're here," my father interjects. "The alliance?—"

"The alliance was already sealed," Runes cuts him off. "My daughter for your protection."

"Your daughter for my son," my mother corrects coolly. "Let's not pretend this is just about protection. This is about survival, about putting both of our forces together. Yours and ours."

I watch Revna during this exchange.

She sits straight-backed, chin up, playing the part of dutiful daughter while her mind clearly races.

Working angles, I'd bet. Looking for leverage.

"Two weeks," I announce. "The wedding happens in two weeks."

"That's too soon—" someone starts.

"Two weeks," I repeat. "Unless you'd like to lose more prospects while we debate timelines?"

Runes looks at Revna. "Baby girl?"

She stands, and the room holds its breath.

This is her moment—accept gracefully or fight publicly.

Her mother is standing in the corner, hands shaking, obviously angry about what’s been agreed.

"Two weeks works," she says clearly. Then, surprising everyone: "But I have conditions."

The room erupts.

Shouting about knowing her place, about how this deal was already made.

I let it wash over me, watching her weather it like a storm.

"Enough!" Runes slams his hand on the table. "Let her speak."

"I’ve already spoken to Doran about these conditions, but I’m letting you all know as well.

I will finish my law degree at UF, not some random school.

I maintain my own residence until graduation.

And—" she looks directly at me—"I want it in writing that my sister is protected but not bartered. Ever."

Smart girl.

Getting Dalla's safety locked down publicly.

"Done," I say before anyone else can speak.

"Just like that?" She's suspicious.

"Just like that."

My father clears his throat. "Perhaps we should discuss the full terms?—"

"Perhaps," Revna interrupts—actually interrupts the Aleksandr Volkolv, which makes my mother hide a smile—"we should discuss why two boys are dead and what exactly this alliance protects our people against."

The room goes silent again.

Different quality this time—surprise rather than anger.

"The Culebra cartel," Runes says slowly, "has been moving north. They want?—"

"They want revenge against your clubs for the actions made in the past. But they want more than that. They want Florida." I take over. "The ports, the distribution routes, the connection to both Atlanta and the Caribbean. With the Italians gone and the Mexicans scattered, it's open territory."

"And you'll stop them?" Revna asks me directly.

"We'll stop them."

"How?"

I smile, sharp as a blade. "By being worse than anything they can imagine."

She studies me for a long moment. "I need to speak with you. Privately. Now."

Another eruption from the room, but I'm already moving. "Lead the way."

She heads for the back door, past the kitchen, out to the yard out back.

The door closes, and she rounds on me. "Surveillance? Really?"

"You knew?—"

"I’m fucking furious. I knew you were watching, Doran. It’s like I can feel your eyes on me, but I didn't know you had every detail of my life cataloged like some fucking nature documentary." She's pacing now, energy crackling. "Thirty-six minutes? You timed it?"

"I time everything about you."

"That's not normal!"

"Neither is marrying for an alliance." I catch her arm, stop her pacing. "But here we are."

"Here we are," she repeats bitterly. "With you knowing every detail of my goodbye fuck while I know nothing about you except you're obsessed enough to stalk me for five years."

"You want to know me?" I back her against the wall. "Ask."

"Why me? Dalla's older?—"

"By twelve minutes."

"You know that too?"

"I know everything ." I cage her with my arms, not touching but close enough to feel her heat.

"I know you broke your arm at seven trying to climb the oak tree behind your house.

I know you're allergic to strawberries but eat them anyway as long as you have your epi-pen.

I know you write poetry when you can't sleep and burn it in the morning. "

Her breath catches. "How?—"

"Because you're mine. Have been since the moment I saw you." I lean closer. "Fifteen years old, telling your father to go fuck himself in front of a room full of killers. Do you remember it?"

"I... yes."

"You wore a red sundress. Had a bruise on your knee from skateboarding. Your hair was longer then, past your waist." I touch a strand that now barely reaches her shoulders. "You cut it the day you turned eighteen. Rebellious little mc princess."

"Stop."

"You want to know me? This is me. Every detail of you cataloged, yes.

Every man who got too close was removed.

Every threat assessed and handled." I pull back enough to see her face.

"I'm not a good man, Revna. I'm not kind or gentle or whatever the fuck Njal pretended to be. But I'm yours as much as you're mine."

She's quiet for a long moment. "Two prospects are dead."

The subject change doesn't surprise me.

She needs time to process.

"Yes, they are."

"I knew them. They’d steal cookies from my mom's kitchen. One was twenty-two, and the other twenty-four, both of them just became prospects five months ago." Her voice cracks slightly. "Dead because of some territorial pissing match."

"Dead because your father's too proud to admit he needs help."

"And marrying me fixes that?"

"Marrying you binds our families. Makes hurting the Raiders of Valhalla the same as hurting the Bratva and the Irish mafia. Even the Culebra cartel aren't stupid enough to take us both on."

"So I'm a shield."

"You're a queen," I correct. "Or will be, if you're smart enough to seize it."

She laughs, short and bitter. "Queen of what? Your surveillance kingdom?"

"Queen of Florida. Start there, expand as needed." I step back, give her space. "Your law degree isn't just for show. I'll need someone who understands both sides—legal and illegal."

"You're serious."

"Always."

She studies me in the dying light.

There's something harder in her eyes now.

Something calculating.

Good.

"I won't be passive," she warns. "I won't sit at home popping out babies while you play gangster."

"I'd be disappointed if you did."

"And Njal?—"

"Is done." My voice goes cold. "Whatever you had is over. No contact, no secret meetings, no 'just friends' bullshit. You want honesty? There it is. I'm possessive, I'm jealous, and I don't share."

"I wasn't asking to?—"

"I know." I soften slightly. "You were saying goodbye. I understand that. But it's done now."

She nods slowly. "What about you? Any goodbyes you need to say?"

"No."

"No ex-girlfriends? No broken hearts littering your past?"

"I've been waiting for you for five years," I remind her. "Rather kills the dating life."

"You didn't... there was no one?"

"There were women. Transactions, not relationships." I shrug. "Nothing worth a goodbye."

She processes this. "That's somehow worse."

"Is it?"

"Yes. It means I'm marrying a man who sees women as either possessions or transactions."

"I see people as useful or not useful," I correct. "You're the exception."

"Lucky me."

The door opens, and a woman I don’t recognize appears. "Rev, we need to—oh. Sorry."

"It's fine, Elfe." Revna moves away from me, toward the woman. "We're done here."

"Are we?" I catch her hand as she passes. "Two weeks, little wolf. Use them wisely."

She pulls free, but not before I feel her pulse racing. "I intend to."

They leave together, and I watch them go.

My phone buzzes—Mikhail with updates, my parents with questions, the world demanding attention.

But I stay in the yard a moment longer, smelling her perfume on the air.

Vanilla and something floral, layered over the scent of another man.

That will change.

Everything will change over the next two weeks.