Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tor
I stare at the photo on my phone, unable to look away from Tindra's smile.
My daughter. The words still feel strange, even after a week of getting to know her.
I'm sitting alone in my room at the clubhouse, the familiar scents of cedar and sandalwood drifting in from the hallway, but my mind is miles away.
Aziza told us that the clubhouse stunk and put in these scent warmers all through the place.
Aesir has been going around unplugging them just to fuck with her and she found him out last night.
The girl whacked the hell out of him with a rolling pin, which was quite a sight.
A knock at the door startles me.
I quickly lock my phone screen and shove it in my pocket.
"Yeah?" I call out, my voice gruffer than intended.
Ulf pokes his head in. "Prez wants to see you in the main room."
I nod, standing up from my bed. "Be right there."
As Ulf disappears, I take a deep breath, steeling myself.
I've managed to keep Tindra a secret from everyone at the clubhouse for the past week, even my old man.
It's not that I'm ashamed—far from it.
This is all so new, so fragile.
I need some time to wrap my head around it before bringing the club into the mix.
I make my way down the hallway, my boots echoing on the worn wooden floors.
The main room of the clubhouse is bustling with activity as usual.
A couple of prospects are shooting pool, while Lexi drapes herself over one of the leather couches, chatting up Emil.
Olivia, one of the other horas , sits over on the side and watches, assessing the situation in the club.
The massive Raiders of Valhalla logo painted on the far wall looms over everything, a constant reminder of who we are and what we stand for.
My father, Runes, is behind the long, curved bar that Magnus crafted.
His weathered hands are wrapped around a glass of whiskey, his piercing gaze fixed on me as I approach.
I slide onto a barstool. "You wanted to see me?"
He nods, pushing a glass toward me. "Have a drink with your old man."
I eye the amber liquid, debating.
It's been a few days since I've had a drop of alcohol, wanting to keep a clear head for my talks with Tindra.
But refusing would raise suspicions, so I take a small sip, letting the burn settle in my throat.
"You've been scarce lately," he observes, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Everything all right with you?"
I force myself to meet his gaze steadily. "Yeah, just been thinking about some things. Needed a bit of space to clear my head."
He grunts, not entirely convinced. "Club business or personal?"
"Personal," I admit.
It's not a lie, not really.
Runes leans in closer, lowering his voice. "Meghan?"
I can't help the way my body tenses at her name.
My father doesn't miss it, his eyebrows raising slightly.
"It's complicated," I say finally, taking another sip of whiskey to buy myself time.
"Son, when it comes to women, it's always complicated," Runes chuckles. "But you've been different since she came back to town. I'm not blind."
I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of my secret pressing down on me.
Part of me wants to tell him everything—about Tindra, about the dinners we've shared, about the way my heart feels like it might burst every time I look at her.
But another part of me wants to keep this precious, new thing to myself for just a little longer.
"I'm just... figuring some things out," I say finally. "With Meghan, with myself. It's a lot to process."
Runes nods slowly, studying my face. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Not just as your President, but as your father."
The sincerity in his voice nearly breaks me. I swallow hard, fighting back the urge to spill everything. "I know, Pops. And I appreciate that. I just need a little more time to sort through it all myself first."
He claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "All right, son. Just don't let it interfere with club business. We've got that situation brewing with the cartel, and I need your head in the game."
I nod, grateful for the change of subject. "Of course. Any new developments?"
As he fills me in on the latest intel, my mind drifts back to Tindra.
I think about her laugh, so similar to Meghan's, and the way her eyes light up when she talks about her favorite books.
I think about how much I've missed, and how desperately I want to make up for lost time.
But I also think about the dangers that come with this life.
The violence, the constant threat.
Is it fair to drag Tindra into this world?
Then again, danger lurked around the corner when they were hours away.
The fact of the matter is this world isn’t safe anymore.
His voice cuts through my thoughts. "Tor? You with me?"
I blink, focusing back on him. "Yeah, sorry. Just... processing."
He gives me a look that says he doesn't quite buy it, but he doesn't push. "All right. We'll talk more about the cartel situation later. For now, why don't you go help Magnus with that new shipment of parts? Might do you good to get your hands dirty."
I nod, grateful for the excuse to escape.
As I head toward the garage, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It's a text from Meghan:
Tindra wants to know if you're free for dinner tonight.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
I glance around to make sure no one's watching before quickly typing out a reply:
Wouldn't miss it for the world.
As I pocket my phone and push open the garage door, the scent of diesel and grease fills my nostrils.
It's familiar, comforting.
But for the first time in my life, it doesn't feel like enough.
There's a whole other world waiting for me now, one filled with homework help and family dinners and a daughter's laughter.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the work ahead.
Magnus looks up from the engine he's working on as I approach. "There you are, brother. Thought you might've forgotten about us little people," he jokes.
I force a laugh, grabbing a wrench. "Never. Just been... busy."
"Uh-huh," Magnus says, giving me a knowing look. "Busy with a certain blonde, maybe?"
I feel my face heat up, but I keep my expression neutral. "Maybe," I say noncommittally. "Now, what do you need help with?"
As Magnus explains the project, I try to focus on the task.
But my mind keeps drifting to Tindra, to Meghan, to the life I never knew I wanted but now can't imagine living without.
I've faced down rival gangs, stared down the barrel of a gun, and survived a bullet to the chest.
But nothing has ever terrified me as much as the thought of screwing this up—of losing my daughter before I've really had the chance to know her.
As I work alongside Magnus, my hands moving almost on autopilot, I make a silent promise to myself.
I will find a way to balance this new life with my old one.
I will be the father Tindra deserves, and the man Meghan needs.
And somehow, someway, I'll keep them safe from the dangers of this world.
It won't be easy.
Nothing worth having ever is.
But as I think about Tindra's smile, about the way Meghan's eyes soften when she looks at me, I know it'll be worth it.
The hours pass in a blur with half-hearted conversations.
I do my best to stay present, to engage with Magnus and the other brothers who drift in and out of the garage.
But I’d be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t elsewhere, counting down the minutes until I can see my girls again.
Finally, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, I wipe my hands on a rag and step outside.
The evening air is cool against my skin, a welcome relief after the stuffy heat of the garage.
I pull out my phone, seeing a new text from Meghan:
We're making lasagna. Don't be late. 6pm.
A warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the weather.
I type out a quick reply:
I'll be there at 6, promise.
I'm about to head out when I hear the garage door slam shut behind me.
Turning, I see my old man.
The look on his face tells me he wants answers and he wants them now.
Magnus clears his throat and reads the room, “I’m gonna head inside for a bit.”
The second Magnus is gone, my father is grilling me.
"I thought I was good with not knowing shit, but I’m not. What the fuck is going on with Meghan?" he demands, not bothering with pleasantries as he strides toward me.
My heart races, but I force myself to stay calm.
I've been dreading this conversation, but I knew it was coming.
I take a deep breath, meeting his gaze steadily.
"Meghan was pregnant when we broke up all those years ago," I say, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. "She had a baby girl... I have a daughter."
His eyes widen, his weathered face a mix of shock and disbelief.
For a long moment, he just stares at me, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head.
"Jesus Christ, Tor," he finally mutters, running a hand through his graying hair. "How long have you known?"
"About a week," I admit. "I wanted some time to process it, to get to know Tindra before I told anyone."
As I say this, my mind drifts to Arik, my "little brother" who's actually my biological son.
The irony of the situation isn't lost on me.
I was just a kid myself when Arik was born, too young and too wild to be a father.
Fern and my father stepped up, adopting him as their own.
Now, here I am, faced with another chance at fatherhood, and this time, I'm determined to get it right.
His voice pulls me back to the present. "How do you feel about all this?" he asks, his tone softening slightly.
I pause, considering my answer. "I'm shocked, yeah. But I'm not mad. Tindra, she's... she's incredible, Dad. Smart as a whip, perceptive as hell. She's got Meghan's eyes and my stubborn chin."
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "Sounds like trouble."
I can't help but chuckle. "You have no idea. Last week, she grilled me about the inner workings of a Harley engine for a solid hour. I swear, she absorbed more in that conversation than some of our prospects do in a month."
As I speak, I feel a swell of pride in my chest.
It's a new feeling, this fierce love for a child I've only just met.
But it's there, undeniable and all-consuming.
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You want to be involved in her life," he says. It's not a question.
I nod, meeting his gaze. "More than anything."
Runes runs his hand along his face, the rough scrape of his calloused palm against his beard audible in the quiet of the garage. "That's a lot to take in, son," he says, his voice gruff but tinged with concern.
I nod, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "It is," I agree, leaning back against the worn leather of the couch. "But I think it's going to be well worth it."
My father's eyes narrow slightly, a question forming behind them. "Why didn't she tell you before now?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.
I take a deep breath, the memory of Meghan's terrified face flashing through my mind. "After she was in a coma, she felt like the club life was dangerous," I explain, keeping it simple. "Then she was attacked by her father here in Tallahassee and she wanted to run. I can't blame her for it. She was terrified."
As I speak, I can feel the familiar anger rising in my chest at the thought of what Meghan went through.
My fists clench, and I have to force myself to relax.
He watches me closely, his eyes softening with understanding. "You love her," he says quietly, more of a statement than a question.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. "I always have," I admit, the words carrying the weight of years of unspoken emotion.
My father leans back, considering this. "Most men would have been upset with the fact a woman hid their child from them," he observes, his tone neutral.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling the conflicting emotions churning inside me. "It's not like I'm not upset," I confess, my voice low. "I am. But I'm not going to let my frustration overrule the happiness I'm feeling right now."
I pause, trying to find the right words to express the tumult of emotions I'm experiencing. "Meghan and I, we've got a lot of shit to sort out. Time to make up for. But it'll happen. We'll figure it out."
As I speak, I can't help but picture Meghan's face, the way her eyes light up when she laughs, the determined set of her jaw when she's focused.
Despite everything, the thought of her still makes my heart race.
He nods slowly, his weathered face softening as he regards me. "You've grown up a lot over these years, son," he says, a hint of pride in his gravelly voice.
I can't help but chuckle, feeling a warmth spread through my chest at his words. "Well, that's usually what happens,"
It's a rare moment of levity between us, and I savor it, knowing how quickly things can change.
As if on cue, my father's expression shifts, his features hardening into the mask of the MC president. "I need you and Emil to go out for a while," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
My brow furrows at the sudden change of topic.
Emil?
Fenrir's oldest son?
It's an odd pairing, and I can't help but wonder about the reasoning behind it.
"Why Emil?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. "Why not one of the prospects?"
He fixes me with a stern look, his blue eyes as unyielding as steel. "Because I said so," he growls, his voice low and authoritative.
I feel a familiar tension creep into my shoulders, a reflexive response to that tone.
But I push it down, reminding myself that I'm not a kid anymore.
I'm a man now, with a daughter of my own.
The thought of Tindra brings a small smile to my face, even as I nod at my father.
"Fair enough," I say with a light chuckle, hoping to ease the sudden tension in the air.
Inside, though, my mind is racing.
What's so important about this job that it requires Emil specifically?
And why the secrecy?
He leans in close, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "I need you deep in the bad side of the city tonight. No cuts, nothing identifying. Take one of the beater cars and rough yourselves up a bit. We need more of those drugs with the Eagle on 'em."
My stomach tightens.
This isn't our usual territory, and shit could go sideways if we’re made.
We're stepping into dangerous waters.
"Got it," I nod, already mentally preparing for the role I'll need to play. "I'll make sure we look the part."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. "Here's three hundred. Get it done tonight." His eyes bore into mine, conveying the gravity of the situation.
I pocket the money, my mind already racing through the logistics. "Consider it handled," I assure him, turning to leave.
The main room of the club is filled with laughter and clinking bottles as I scan for Emil.
I spot him by the bar, Lexi still draped over him like a second skin.
God, I hope he’s not fucking plastered.
Her long, manicured nail traces a path down his chest as she purrs, "Why don't we take this upstairs, handsome?"
I roll my eyes.
We don't have time for this shit.
"Uh-uh," I interject, stepping between them. "Emil's coming with me."
Emil's face falls, a grunt of annoyance escaping him. "Sorry, sweet cheeks," he mutters to Lexi, who pouts dramatically.
As we round the corner, I fill Emil in on the basics. "We're going fishing for Eagles," I explain, keeping my voice low. "No cuts, no colors. We're playing addicts tonight."
Emil nods, his earlier disappointment replaced by focus.
“Meet me down here in ten minutes. Look the part.”
We head to our rooms, stripping off our cuts and finding something more appropriate to wear.
This is the part of the job that requires a different kind of strength—the ability to become someone else entirely.
I run a hand through my hair, mussing it up.
With one look in the mirror, I think I look the part and I head downstairs.
Emil’s already there waiting for me.
"Ready?" I ask Emil, my voice already taking on a rougher edge.
He nods, his own transformation complete. "Let's do this."
As we head out to the beater car, I can't help but think of Tindra, safe at home with Meghan.
I need to knock this out and fast.
I have to be at Meghan’s by six tonight for dinner.
The beater car rumbles to life as I turn the key, the engine sputtering like it's on its last legs.
Perfect for our cover.
We peel out of the clubhouse lot, leaving behind the safety of our world and heading straight into the belly of the beast.
As we cruise through Tallahassee, the scenery changes drastically.
Clean streets give way to litter-strewn sidewalks, well-maintained buildings morphing into dilapidated structures with boarded-up windows.
This is the part of town the tourists never see, the underbelly that keeps the city's darker appetites satisfied.
"There," Emil mutters, nodding toward a shifty-looking character loitering near an alleyway.
I pull over, my heart rate picking up.
This is it.
I take a deep breath, channeling the desperation of a man in need of a fix. "Stay alert," I mumble to Emil before stepping out of the car.
As we approach the dealer, I can feel the weight of my responsibility pressing down on me.
This isn't just about scoring drugs—it's about protecting our territory, our family.
"Look man," I say, my voice rough and urgent as we reach the dealer. "Can you help a boy out? I need a bundle of smack, man."
The dealer looks up, his eyes narrow and calculating.
He sizes us up, probably trying to determine if we're worth the risk. "Best I can do is $150, man," he finally says.
I start digging in my pockets, my hands shaking slightly for effect. As I pull out the cash, I intentionally fumble, dropping bills onto the grimy sidewalk.
"Fuck," the dealer mutters in annoyance, eyeing the scattered money warily.
I crouch down, hastily gathering the bills. "Sorry, sorry," I mumble, playing up the addict act.
Inside, I'm hyper-aware of our surroundings, watching for any signs of trouble.
Standing back up, I hand over the money to the dealer.
He counts it quickly, then pulls out a small package from his jacket.
As he passes it to me, I ask, "Yo, what's your name for next time?"
The dealer hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. "Rio," he says simply.
I nod, pocketing the drugs. "Cool, man. I'll be back when I'm out."
Rio gives a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "All good, brotha. Stay safe out there."
As Emil and I turn to leave, I can't help but feel a mixture of relief and tension.
Walking back to the car, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "That went smooth," Emil mutters under his breath.
I nod, my mind already racing ahead to what comes next. "Yeah, but let's not celebrate yet. We've still got a long night ahead of us."
As we climb back into the beater, I can't shake the feeling that something big is going on.
The beater car rumbles to life as I turn the key, the engine coughing like it's on its last legs.
Emil and I exchange a look, both of us eager to get back to familiar territory.
As we pull away from the curb, my eyes dart to the rearview mirror, making sure we're not being followed.
"Let's take a look at what we got," I say, keeping my voice low even though we're alone in the car.
Emil nods, fishing the small baggie out of his pocket.
Under the dim glow of passing streetlights, we examine the package.
There, stamped clearly on the side, is the unmistakable silhouette of an eagle.
"Shit," I mutter, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. "It's the same as before."
Emil lets out a low whistle. "Your old man's not gonna like this, Tor."
I grunt in agreement, my mind already racing ahead.
As we approach the clubhouse, I can see Ulf's silhouette by the gate.
He buzzes us in without hesitation, but I catch the questioning look in his eyes as we pass.
He knows something's up.
I park the car and turn to Emil. "You good to debrief with the others?" I ask, already reaching for the baggie.
He nods, understanding my unspoken request. "Yeah, I got it. Go do what you gotta do."
Pocketing the drugs, I head into the clubhouse, my eyes scanning for my father.
The main room is bustling with activity, but I spot him quickly, standing with Fenrir and Kraken near the bar.
As I approach, I can feel the weight of their gazes.
My father's eyes narrow slightly, reading the tension in my shoulders.
"Well?" he asks, his voice low and expectant.
I pull out the baggie, holding it up so they can see the eagle insignia clearly. "It's everywhere," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the churning in my gut. "Same stamp as before. Whoever this is, they’re trying to take our territory."
Fenrir curses under his breath, while Kraken's face hardens into a mask of barely contained rage.
But it's my father's reaction that really gets to me.
His eyes darken, a storm brewing behind them that I haven't seen in years.
"Tell me everything," he commands, and I launch into a detailed account of our night, from the dealer we met to the exact words exchanged.
As I finish, my father runs a hand over his face, the lines around his eyes seeming deeper than ever. "This changes things," he says, his voice carrying a weight that sends a chill down my spine. "Shit's gonna change, and it's gonna change fast."
I nod, feeling a mix of anticipation and dread coiling in my chest. "What's our next move?"
My father exchanges a look with Fenrir and Kraken, a silent communication born from years of trust and shared battles. "We're gonna hit back," he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "Hard. But first, we need to know exactly what we're dealing with."
As they start discussing strategy, my mind drifts momentarily to Meghan and Tindra.
I need to be there by six, and I hope my father lets me out of here before then.