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CHAPTER THREE

Revna

Doran walks back inside the clubhouse like he owns it, leaving me in the yard with my heart hammering and my mind racing.

"Hey, you okay?" Elfe reappears in the doorway, dark eyes concerned. "That looked... intense."

"I need a drink."

"Say no more." She glances back inside where voices are rising again—probably arguing about wedding details I don't care about. "Let's get out of here before they realize we're gone."

We slip around the side of the building toward Bubba's.

The bar shares a wall with the clubhouse, but has its own entrance, its own crowd.

It's where the hang arounds and prospects drink, where the old ladies gossip, where deals get made that don't require a full table vote.

It's also where Elfe's worked since she turned eighteen, much to her father’s dismay.

"Your dad is still trying to convince you to quit?" I ask as she unlocks the employee entrance.

"Every fucking week." She flips on lights, illuminating the familiar space—scarred wooden bar, pool tables, booth seats, a few of them patched with duct tape from drunken patrons. "Says it's not safe for the daughter of a member to be serving drinks to wannabes and rejects."

"What does your mom say?"

"That I'm an adult who can make her own choices." Elfe moves behind the bar like she belongs there. "Also that Dad's a hypocrite since we all know my mom used to be a hora back in the day."

The main door's locked but she doesn't bother opening it.

This is a private therapy session, not business hours.

She pours two shots of whiskey without asking what I want.

Good Irish stuff from the top shelf—probably Liam Mackenzie's brand, which feels ironically appropriate given who I'm marrying.

"So." She slides my shot across. "The Russian prince finally collected his prize."

I down the whiskey in one burn. "Half Russian, half Irish. And I'm not a prize."

"Could've fooled me with that ring." She gestures at my hand. "Fuck, Rev. That thing could finance a small country."

"It's just a ring."

"Right. And he's just a guy who happened to know you were in Njal's apartment for exactly thirty-six minutes this morning."

I freeze with the empty shot glass halfway back to the bar. "How do you?—"

"Parking lot gossip travels fast. Especially when Dalla's dragging a drunk Njal to his bike and he's screaming about you being watched." She pours us both another round. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Want to drink about it?"

"Definitely."

We move to a corner booth, bottle between us.

The leather squeaks as I slide in, familiar and comforting.

How many nights have Dalla and I spent here, pretending our futures weren't already decided?

"He's been watching me for five years," I say finally. "Tracking everywhere I go, everyone I talk to. Eliminated—his word—thirteen men who got too close."

Elfe chokes on her whiskey. "Thirteen? Jesus, Rev. That's not love, that's a true crime documentary waiting to happen."

"He broke into my apartment the other night. Or had someone do it. He texted me telling me to lock my bedroom window because the third floor isn't as secure as I think."

"What the fuck?"

"That's not even the worst part." I pour another shot, needing the courage. "He knew about the poetry. The stuff I write when I can't sleep and burn in the morning? He knew about it."

Elfe's quiet for a long moment. "Okay, that's genuinely terrifying."

"But I still wore his ring. Still took his arm when he offered. Still agreed to marry him in two weeks." I laugh, but it's hollow. "What does that make me?"

"Smart," she says immediately. "We all know what happened to Erik and Anders. This isn't about choice anymore, it's about survival."

"Is it though? Or am I just telling myself that because it's easier than admitting I might actually—" I stop, unable to finish the thought.

"Actually what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Rev." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. "At least with Njal, you chose him. This guy chose you when you were fifteen. That's fucked up."

"Everything about this is fucked up." I pull my hand back, fidget with the ring. "But he agreed to let me finish law school. Keep my own place until graduation. No timeline on kids."

"He agreed to that? Just like that?"

"Said he wants a partner, not a prisoner."

Elfe snorts. "Men like him don't know the difference."

"Maybe." I think about how he looked in the yard, caging me against the wall but not quite touching.

All that control, leashed but present. "Or maybe he's exactly as dangerous as he seems, and that's why this might work."

"That's a fucked up thing to say."

"It's a fucked up situation."

The front door rattles, someone trying the handle.

Elfe ignores it—bar's closed—but then a key turns in the lock.

"Shit," Elfe mutters. "That's either my dad or?—"

Ingrid walks in like she owns the place, which I mean, I guess we all do when we think about it—it belongs to our fathers, to the club.

She's flawless as always—long red hair, perfectly put together outfit that compliments her alabaster skin.

Sometimes I think she’s some biker version of the Stepford Wives.

She spots us immediately, pauses, then walks over with deliberate casualness.

"Heard about the engagement," she says without missing a beat. "Two weeks, right?"

"Ingrid." I keep my voice neutral. "How's your dad?"

"Fine. Yours?" She doesn't wait for an answer, just slides into the booth beside Elfe without invitation. "Whiskey. Good choice for the occasion."

Elfe pours her a shot because what else can you do when the woman your almost boyfriend is trying to move on with invites herself to your pity party?

"Congratulations, by the way," Ingrid continues. "Doran's quite the catch. Rich, powerful, only slightly psychotic. Every girl's dream."

"Did you need something?" I ask.

"Just wanted to see how you're doing." She downs her shot, sets the glass down with a decisive click. "And maybe warn you about something."

"Warn me?"

"You know, he told me he was trying to move on." Her smile is sharp as glass. "But he'll never get over you, Revna. I heard you were at his apartment earlier today."

It takes me a moment to realize she's talking about Njal. "Ingrid?—"

"We've been sleeping together for four months. Did you know that? Four months of him calling me by your name when he's drunk. Four months of being compared to the perfect Revna who was too good to go public with him."

The words hit me hard.

Four months.

While I was agonizing over our relationship, he was already moving on. Or trying to.

"I didn't know," I say quietly.

"Of course you didn't. Too busy playing secret lovers to notice he had one foot out the door." She pours herself another shot. "But here's the thing—your Russian might have warned him off, but Njal's not the type to give up."

"He has to."

Her laugh is bitter. "You think it's that easy? He's been drinking himself stupid for weeks, talking about winning you back. Keeps saying if it wasn't for the deal, you'd choose him."

"But there is a deal. Has been since before I was born."

"Exactly. Which is why I'm warning you." She leans forward. "He's planning something. I don't know what, but he's been talking to some of the younger guys. The ones who think tradition is bullshit and love should win."

"Love," I repeat. "Is that what he told you we had?"

"Isn't it?"

Elfe shifts beside her. "Maybe you should go, Ingrid."

"Maybe I should." She stands, smooths her perfect hair. "But first—a word of advice? Your Russian doesn't share. Not his toys, not his territory, and definitely not his wife. Whatever Njal's planning, it won't end well for him."

"I'll talk to him," I say.

"No, you won't." Her smile turns knowing. "Because that would require contact, and I'm betting Doran's already made the rules clear. Hasn't he?"

She's right and we both know it.

"Good luck, Revna. You're going to need it." She heads for the door, pauses. "Oh, and the sex is mediocre. In case you were wondering what you'll be missing."

The door closes behind her with a final click.

"Well," Elfe says after a moment. "That was fun."

I drop my head to the table. "Four months. They've been together for four months and I had no clue."

"You and Njal weren't exclusive, and neither was she and him. If I had to bet?—"

"I know. I know we weren't, but..." I sit up, reach for the bottle. "I thought what we had meant something. Turns out he was already auditioning for my replacement."

"Or trying to forget you."

"Same difference."

"It's really not." Elfe takes the bottle before I can pour another shot. "Look, I know this sucks. All of it. But Ingrid's right about one thing—if Njal tries something stupid, Doran won't hesitate."

"You think he'd kill him?"

"I think a man who eliminated thirteen guys just for asking you out wouldn't think twice about eliminating one who actually had you."

The truth of that sits heavy between us.

I think about Njal, drunk and desperate, potentially planning something that would get him killed.

Then, I think about Doran, possessive and violent, waiting for an excuse.

"I can't let that happen," I say.

"You can't stop it either. Not without making things worse." Elfe squeezes my hand. "This is bigger than you and Njal now. It's about the club, the alliance, everyone's survival."

"When did you get so practical?"

"When I spent three years watching this world chew people up." She glances toward the clubhouse. "Speaking of which, we should probably head back before someone notices you're gone."

"Let them notice."

"Rev—"

"I'm serious. In two weeks, I'll be Doran Volkolv's wife. Every move monitored, every choice scrutinized. Right now, I just want to sit in this shitty bar with my friend and pretend none of this is happening."

"Okay." She slides the bottle back. "But we're switching to beer. Last thing you need is to face your future husband shit-faced."

The bottle sits between us, amber liquid catching the bar's dim lights. My hands won't stop shaking.