Page 9 of Viking (Dixie Reapers MC #24)

“Living room, obviously,” I said, gesturing around. “TV’s got all the streaming services. Kitchen’s through there.”

I led them through to the kitchen, where gleaming stainless-steel appliances contrasted with the rustic wooden cabinets. It was the one room I’d splurged on when renovating the place -- cooking was the closest thing to therapy I’d found over the years. Not that I’d ever admit it.

“I keep the basics,” I said, opening the refrigerator to reveal milk, juice, eggs, fresh vegetables. “And there’s cereal, bread, peanut butter. We can get kid stuff, or whatever else the two of you want.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Karoline said, that surprised tone creeping into her voice again. “Thank you.”

Athena had released her aunt’s hand and was examining a handmade quilt draped over the back of a kitchen chair. Her tiny fingers traced the pattern, those watchful eyes taking in every detail. The quilt was a gift from an old lady I’d helped last winter -- payment for fixing her roof.

“Let me show you the bedrooms,” I said, conscious of the ticking clock. If someone was tracking them, we had a limited window before they’d trace Karoline to the compound. Better to get them settled quickly. “Down this hallway.”

The first door on the right opened to reveal my study -- computer, more books, gun safe, club paperwork I’d need to secure now. “My office. Off-limits unless there’s an emergency.”

I continued down the hall, pushing open the next door. “This will be Athena’s room.”

The space had been my guest room, rarely used except when a brother needed to crash after a party.

But I’d shot off a text to Jed before heading to Karoline’s place and asked him to fix up the two bedrooms for Karoline and Athena.

He’d found a twin bed and rails in one of our storage buildings.

For now, it just had a plain gray comforter, but we could fix that.

“I know it’s not much,” I said, suddenly aware of how inadequate my efforts might seem. “We can get more stuff, make it more… kid-friendly.”

Karoline’s eyes filled with tears as she took in the room. “You did all this today? How?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Just some basics. Didn’t want her sleeping in an adult bed. Safety hazard. We keep some stuff on hand for emergencies. This seemed to qualify.”

Athena had moved past us into the room, her rabbit still clutched in one arm as she approached the bed. Somewhere, Jed had found a few stuffed animals and placed them on the bed.

“That’s an elephant,” I said, squatting down to her level but keeping a respectful distance.

She didn’t respond verbally, but her eyes flicked to mine briefly before she placed her rabbit next to the elephant, arranging them as if introducing old friends to new.

“She likes it,” Karoline said softly. “I can tell.”

I straightened up, oddly pleased by this small victory. “Your room is across the hall.”

I pushed open the door to reveal a queen-size bed with fresh navy sheets and a thick comforter, a dresser with an attached mirror, and a small writing desk beneath the window. Simple, functional, but comfortable.

“Bathroom’s attached,” I said, pushing the door wider to reveal the en suite. “And there’s a lock on both doors. For your… you know. Peace of mind.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

“You can get settled,” I said, eager to escape the sudden awkwardness.

I retrieved the luggage from the entryway, giving them a moment alone. When I returned, Athena was opening drawers in her room, peering inside with cautious curiosity, while Karoline stood in the doorway watching her.

“Where would you like these?” I asked, holding up the bags.

“I can manage,” Karoline said, reaching for them.

“I’ve got it,” I insisted, carrying them into her room and setting them on the bed. “Need help unpacking?”

The question sounded ridiculous even to my own ears. What did I know about helping a woman unpack? But some part of me wanted to be useful, to do something beyond providing walls and locks.

“That’s okay,” she said with a gentle smile. “But thank you for offering.”

I retreated to the kitchen, giving them space to settle in. From there, I could hear Karoline’s soft voice as she helped Athena arrange her belongings in the drawers, the occasional creak of the floor as they moved around the room.

Twenty minutes later, Karoline emerged from the hallway. “She’s exploring her room. I think she might be warming up to the elephant. She’s arranged all the animals in a circle on the bed.”

“Good,” I said, not sure what else to say. “That’s good.”

An awkward silence fell between us, filled with all the things we weren’t saying. She wasn’t the girl I remembered, and I certainly wasn’t the young man who’d ruffled her hair and called her “Little Kringle.” We were strangers connected by grief and danger and the memory of someone we’d both loved.

“I put a photo of Kris on the nightstand,” she said suddenly, her voice catching. “The Christmas one.”

I wanted to reach for her, to offer some comfort, but I didn’t know if I had the right. Instead, I gripped the edge of the counter, anchoring myself against the wave of shared grief.

“I miss him,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “And I’m so angry at him for not telling me about Athena. For not trusting me. And then I feel guilty for being angry when he’s -- when he’s --”

“When he’s gone,” I finished for her. “You’re allowed to be angry, Karoline. Grief isn’t neat and tidy.”

She nodded, wiping quickly at her face. “I should check on Athena. She gets anxious in new places.”

I let her go, recognizing her need for space.

Through the hallway, I caught a glimpse of her sitting on the edge of Athena’s bed, her hand gently stroking those copper curls as she examined the stuffed animal arrangement.

The little girl leaned against her aunt’s side, still not speaking but seeking comfort in the physical contact.

Something twisted in my chest -- a sharp, unfamiliar ache at the sight of their shared grief, their vulnerability.

I turned away, giving them privacy, but the image stayed with me -- two copper heads bent together, surrounded by the meager comforts I’d tried to provide; fragile and precious and now mine to safeguard.

* * *

I stood in my kitchen, staring at the contents of my refrigerator like they might rearrange themselves into a meal suitable for a traumatized child and her exhausted aunt.

Cooking for myself was one thing -- steak, potatoes, whatever was quick and filling.

Cooking for guests, especially these particular guests, felt loaded with significance I wasn’t prepared to analyze.

From down the hall came the sound of running water and Karoline’s gentle voice as she helped Athena with her bath.

The domestic sounds filled my house with an unfamiliar warmth that was both comforting and unsettling.

I settled on spaghetti -- simple, familiar, kid-friendly.

As I browned the meat and chopped onions, I found myself listening to the muffled conversation from the bathroom.

Karoline’s voice rose and fell in soothing cadence, occasionally asking questions that received no audible response.

Was the kid talking at all? Or was she still locked in that silent observation mode I’d seen earlier?

By the time they emerged, hair damp and smelling of my soap, I had three plates on the table and garlic bread warming in the oven. Athena wore pajamas covered in cartoon dogs, her wet curls sticking up in all directions. She looked even smaller without her day clothes, more vulnerable.

“Something smells good,” Karoline said, lifting Athena onto the stack of books I’d placed on a chair. “Spaghetti?”

“Hope that works,” I replied, setting a smaller portion on Athena’s plate. “Wasn’t sure what she likes.”

“Spaghetti’s perfect. It’s one of her favorites, right, Athena?”

The little girl nodded, her eyes fixed on the plate I’d set before her. No verbal response, but at least it was acknowledgment. I wasn’t sure how Karoline knew the girl loved spaghetti. She said they’d just met, and yet, they seemed to be bonding well.

We ate in semi-awkward silence for a few minutes, the weight of our situation hanging over the table. Through the window, I could see brothers moving around the compound.

“So,” Karoline said finally, “how does security work here? Are there always people watching the entrances?”

I nodded, grateful for the practical topic.

“Three shifts, rotating guards. Everyone carries at all times. Cameras on all entrances and motion sensors on the perimeter.” I took a sip of water.

“No one gets in without us knowing. And everyone here would die before letting anything happen to a child.”

Her eyes moved to Athena, who was carefully twirling spaghetti around her fork with surprising dexterity for a three-year-old. “That’s… reassuring. In a terrifying sort of way.”

“You’ll be safe here,” I repeated, needing her to believe it. “Soon, I’ll introduce you to some key people -- Tempest, who’s our Sergeant-at-Arms, handles security. Savior, our President. His old lady, Dessa, is a sweetheart and is great with small kids.”

Karoline nodded, her gaze drifting to the window where she could see some of the men gathered. “They all look so…”

“Dangerous?” I supplied.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But also… I don’t know. There’s something about how they move, how they watch each other’s backs. Like soldiers.”

“Many of them are. Ex-military. They understand brotherhood, loyalty.”

She studied me for a moment. “Is that why you joined the club? The brotherhood?”

I considered my answer carefully. “Partly. After my parents died, I didn’t have family. The Reapers became that for me.”

Athena had finished eating and was now watching me with those solemn eyes, a smear of sauce on her chin. Without thinking, I reached for a napkin and handed it to her. She took it, wiping her face with careful precision.