Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Tor
I pace the length of the main room, my boots echoing against the hardwood floor.
The air is thick with tension, cigarette smoke, and the lingering scent of last night's whiskey.
Geirolf calls from his perch at the bar. "Tor, you're gonna wear a hole in the floor."
He's nursing a beer, even though it's barely past noon.
Then again, time doesn't mean much in our world.
I grunt in response, my eyes fixed on the ornate Viking clock above the bar.
Fifty-three minutes until Liam Mackenzie and his brother-in-law, Aleksandr, arrive.
Fifty-three minutes until whatever shit storm they're bringing hits our shores.
"You know anything about why they're coming?" I ask, finally pausing my relentless pacing.
Geirolf shakes his head, his long beard swaying with the motion. "Nah, brother. Your old man's been tight-lipped about it. But you can bet it ain't good."
I nod, my jaw clenching. Dad—Runes to everyone else—has been on edge all morning.
It's not like him to be rattled, especially not by a visit from Liam.
Something's off, and it's setting my teeth on edge.
"Hey," a soft voice interrupts my brooding.
I turn to see Starla, her curly brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. "Your dad's asking for you. He's in kirkja ."
I mutter a thanks and head toward the meeting room where we hold kirkja .
The wooden door, intricately carved with Norse symbols, feels heavier than usual as I push it open.
Inside, Dad's standing at the head of the table, his hands braced on the polished wood.
The axe-shaped gavel lies before him, untouched.
He looks up as I enter, and for a moment, I see the weight of his position etched in the lines of his face.
"Tor," he says, his voice gruff. "Close the door."
I do as he asks, then lean against it, crossing my arms. "What's going on, Dad? You've been wound tight all morning."
He sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. "Liam doesn't make house calls unless something's seriously wrong. Last time he showed up unannounced like this was when the Patriot first started sniffing around our territory."
The mention of the Patriot sends a surge of anger through me.
That bastard's been a thorn in our side for far too long. "You think this is about him?"
"I don't know," Dad admits, and the uncertainty in his voice unsettles me more than anything else. "But whatever it is, it's big enough to bring both Liam and Aleksandr here in person."
I nod, processing this. "What do you need me to do?"
"No fuckin’ clue," he says, his eyes locking with mine. "Whatever's coming, we need to present a united front. The club can't afford any cracks in our armor right now."
"You got it," I assure him, straightening up. "I'll make sure everyone's on their best behavior."
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "Good man. Now, go check on your mother. She's been stress-baking all morning."
I can't help but chuckle at that.
Fern might not be my biological mother, but she's got all the fierce protectiveness of a mama bear. "Will do. And Dad? Whatever happens, we got this."
Back in the main room, the scent of fresh-baked cookies wafts from the kitchen.
I follow my nose, pushing through the swinging door to find Fern surrounded by cooling racks laden with chocolate chip cookies.
"Jesus, Mom," I say, eyeing the veritable mountain of baked goods. "You planning to feed an army?"
Fern turns, flour dusting her cheek and a wooden spoon in her hand. "Language, young man," she scolds, but there's no heat in it. "And you never know who might stop by. It's always good to be prepared."
I snag a cookie, ignoring her half-hearted swat. "Dad sent me to check on you. You doing okay?"
She sighs, setting down the spoon. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just...worried. Your father doesn't get nervous easily, and when he does..."
"Yeah," I nod, understanding all too well. "But we've weathered worse storms, right?"
Fern smiles, reaching up to pat my cheek. "That we have. Now, make yourself useful and take some of these out to the boys. Lord knows they could use something other than beer in their stomachs."
I grab a platter, piling it high with cookies.
As I push back through the door, I nearly collide with Ivar.
"Whoa, watch it," he says, steadying the plate. His eyes light up at the sight of the cookies. "Fern stress-baking again?"
I nod, offering him one. "Yeah. Dad's got her worried."
Ivar takes a bite, speaking around a mouthful of cookie. "Can't blame her. This Liam visit's got everyone on edge. Even the prospects are picking up on it."
I glance over at the group of prospects huddled near the pool tables, their usual cockiness replaced by nervous energy. "Speaking of, they finish cleaning the bikes?"
"Yeah, made 'em do it twice just to keep 'em busy," Ivar grins. "Geirolf's idea. Said if they're gonna hang around, might as well make 'em useful."
I chuckle, setting the cookie platter down on the bar. "Smart man. Last thing we need is them getting in the way when Liam arrives."
The mention of Liam's name sends a ripple of tension through the room.
Conversations quiet, and I can feel eyes on me, looking for reassurance.
It's moments like these that remind me of the weight of being the Prez’s son, the expectation to have answers even when I'm as in the dark as everyone else.
I clear my throat, raising my voice slightly. "All right, listen up. In about thirty minutes, we're gonna have some important guests. I want this place spotless, and I want everyone on their best behavior. Got it?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir" and nods ripple through the room.
The prospects scramble to start tidying up, while the patched members settle into a tense waiting game.
I make my way over to where Starla's sitting, her eyes glued to her phone.
"Everything okay?" I ask, curious about her unusual quietness.
She looks up, startled. "Oh, yeah. Just... just catching up with an old friend."
Something in her tone catches my attention. "An old friend, huh? Anyone I know?"
Starla hesitates, and in that moment, I know .
My stomach drops as she confirms my suspicion. "It's Meg. We've been talking a bit lately."
The name hits me like a physical blow.
Meghan.
It's been fifteen years since I've allowed myself to think about her, to say her name out loud.
The wound of her pushing me away eventually scarred over, but hearing her name rips it wide open again.
Starla's voice sounds distant, muffled by the sudden roaring in my ears. "Tor? You okay?"
I force myself to nod, to breathe. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. How... how is she?"
Starla's eyes are full of sympathy, and I hate it. "She's doing all right. Working all the time. You know how it is."
"That's... that's good. Keeping busy is good," I manage to say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I'm glad she's doing well."
Before Starla can say anything else, I turn away, needing to escape the flood of memories threatening to drown me.
I make my way to the bar, signaling for a shot of whiskey.
It's early, but fuck it.
Some ghosts can only be kept at bay with a healthy dose of alcohol.
As I down the burning liquid, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
For a moment, I see the young man I was fifteen years ago, full of hope and dreams of a future with Meghan.
Then I blink, and I'm back to the present, the hard lines of my face a testament to the years and battles since she left.
I set the empty shot glass down with a sharp clink and straighten my shoulders.
Fern’s voice is raised in a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Rev, come on, open up the door," she's saying, her hand resting on the worn wood.
I turn and she’s standing outside one of the club bathroom’s door.
I scoot off my barstool and head over.
"Everything all right?" I ask, approaching cautiously.
Dealing with my teenage sisters isn't exactly my strong suit, but for Fern, I'll try.
She turns to me, relief evident in her eyes. "Oh, Tor, thank goodness. Maybe you can talk some sense into your sister."
I bite back a groan.
Whatever's going on with Rev, I have a feeling I'm woefully unprepared to handle it.
But as I look at Fern's worried face, I know I have to try.
For her, and for the family we've built together.
"Rev?" I call out, rapping my knuckles gently on the door. "It's Tor. Want to tell me what's going on?"
A muffled sob comes from behind the door, followed by Rev's trembling voice. "No, Mom! I'm so freaking embarrassed."
I'm about to respond when my other little sister, Dalla, comes rushing up, a hoodie clutched in her hands. "Got it, Mom," she says breathlessly.
I raise an eyebrow, looking between Fern and Dalla. "What the hell's goin' on?"
Dalla giggles, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Rev just got her period and had a gusher. Now she needs a hoodie to cover up so we can go back to the house and get her some clean clothes."
I shake my head, feeling a mixture of discomfort and amusement. "God, Dal. Descriptive enough?"
Internally, I can't help but smirk.
My little sisters love to get a rise out of me, and Dalla's particularly skilled at it.
I can practically see the glee in her eyes as she watches for my reaction.
Turning to Fern, I clear my throat. "So, uh, my assistance isn't needed?"
She shakes her head, laughing softly. "I guess not, but thank you, Tor. We've got this handled."
I nod, relieved to be excused from this particular woman problem.
As I walk away, I can hear Fern coaxing Rev out of the bathroom, her voice soft and reassuring.
My mind drifts back to the impending visit from Liam and Aleksandr, and I decide to check on the prospects.
They're lounging at the bar, drinks in hand, laughing like they don't have a care in the world.
These fuckers were supposed to be cleaning up the clubhouse.
I sidle up to the end of the bar, joining in their laughter for a moment before dropping my bombshell. "Oh, god, that's so funny," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "But you know what's even funnier? All those smudge marks on the bikes in the garage, and the shitty cleaning job the lot of you have done."
Their laughter dies instantly, replaced by looks of panic and guilt.
Hakon, one of the prospects, speaks up. “But we just cleaned them up twice today.”
"Did I stutter? Get to fuckin' work," I order, my voice hard as steel.
They scramble off their stools, practically falling over each other in their haste to get to the garage.
As they disappear, Geirolf appears at my side, cackling. "We're having too much fun with this lot of prospects," he says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I nod, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. "If they're tough enough, they'll end up staying instead of bowing out like the last pussies we had in here."
As I watch them go, I can't help but think of my own prospect days.
It feels like a lifetime ago, before the shooting, before Meghan... I push the thought away, focusing on the present.
Geirolf leans against the bar, his expression turning serious. "So, we need to get any specific shit done today since Liam's showing up?"
I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "Nah, I asked my old man. He said no, but..." I pause, my green eyes scanning the room. "I'm sure he'll want us around when they meet."
"Good," Geirolf nods, relief evident in his voice. "I'll be glad to see them. Maybe we can finally get some of this shit figured out on how to handle the Patriot."
The mention of the Patriot sends a surge of anger through me.
I clench my fist, feeling the familiar skull ring dig into my skin. "Yeah," I growl, "It's about fuckin' time."
I turn away from Geirolf, pacing the length of the bar.
The clubhouse suddenly feels too small, too confining.
My mind races with thoughts of the Patriot, that bastard who's been encroaching on our territory for far too long.
"Fifteen years," I mutter under my breath. "Fifteen goddamn years he's been testing the waters."
If it were me I would’ve handled this ages ago, but there’s a reason my father does things the way he does, and I have to trust that.
Still, it pisses me off to no end.
Images from last week flash through my mind—Geirolf and I, out on a routine ride, spotting that kid with the baggie.
The insignia wasn't Liam's Irish Wolfhound.
No, it was a fucking eagle.
I slam my fist on the bar, my frustration coming out of me. "They're getting bolder," I growl to Geirolf, who's watching me with concern. "We saw it ourselves. That eagle... The Patriot's men are pushing harder. Harder than ever before"
Geirolf nods grimly. "I know, brother. But with Liam coming... maybe we can finally put an end to this shit."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage boiling inside me. "We need to handle this. Soon. Before it's too late."
The weight of the situation settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket.
I can feel the eyes of the club on me, waiting to see how the President's son will react.
But all I can think about is protecting what's ours, what we've built.
Then it makes me think of her , the woman I let push me away.
The woman I walked out on when shit got tough.
I was young and damn was I stupid.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I barely register the feel of a body pressing against mine.
A sultry voice purrs in my ear, "Why you looking so sad, sugar?"
Irritation flares through me as I recognize Lexi, one of the club's hóras . I push her away, probably harder than necessary, and fix her with a steely glare.
"Lexi," I growl, my voice low and dangerous, "now isn't the fucking time. If you're that bored, go look for someone else."
She recoils, hurt and surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with indifference. "Jeez, someone's in a mood," she mutters, sauntering away.
I turn back to the bar, my hands clenched into fists.
The thought of Meghan has opened up a floodgate of memories I've spent years trying to dam up.
Her smile, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the feel of her in my arms...
Gods, what I’d do to have her there again.