Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tor
I sit in kirkja , stewing in frustration.
We’ve been battling the Patriot and his cartel for far too long, and I’m sick of it.
Blood spilled, lives lost, and still, we’re no closer to bringing him down.
My hands clench into fists on the table in front of me, the grain of the wood beneath my fingers barely registering.
Ten more overdoses this week alone.
Enough is fucking enough.
"We've gotta do something," I growl, my voice low and menacing. "We can't keep sitting back while this prick destroys our city."
"Amen to that," Dag, our treasurer, mutters, running a hand through his long, dark brown hair.
He’s just as pissed as the rest of us.
"Tor’s right," Runes, my father and President of our MC, says. "We've been dancing around this asshole long enough. It's time we take the fight to him."
The others around the table, all of our full patches and officers, grunt in their agreement.
The tension in the room is practically suffocating.
"We need a plan," Fenrir, our VP speaks up, "We go in half-cocked, and we're as good as dead."
He’s right.
We tried that before, and it almost cost me my life.
I still bear the scar across my chest, a reminder of how cruel this life can be.
It was Meghan's face that flashed through my mind then, her beautiful eyes.
Memories of being in the hospital together, both healing, both creating a bond neither of us would ever understand.
"We need to hit him where it hurts," I state, my mind starting to formulate a plan. "His ego, his bank account, and... his family."
The tension in the room spikes at that last one, but I press on. "Look, I know it's fucked up, but desperate times and all that shit."
"Tor's got a point," Ivar grunts, his expression dark. "We've tried the honorable route. Time we got our hands a little dirty."
The others exchange looks, but no one disagrees.
We’re all thinking the same thing.
"All right," My father speaks, slamming his fist on the table. "We move tonight. We'll hit his stash houses, take what we can, and torch the rest. Then we go after his family."
A coldness settles over the room, but I know there’s no turning back now.
Logi leans forward, his weathered hands gripping the edge of Magnus's intricately carved table. "It'll be the DEA hanging around soon enough," he growls, his eyes darting from face to face. "And when they do, they're gonna start fucking up the shit we're running for Liam."
I feel my jaw clench at the mention of our Irish connection.
Liam's shipments are a significant part of our income, and any disruption could spell disaster for the club.
Kraken nods, his massive frame seeming to fill half the room. "Logi's right," he rumbles. "We can't afford that kind of heat."
Dag, speaks up yet again. "Agreed. It's time we deal with this Patriot problem once and for all."
I scan the room, taking in the determined faces of my brothers.
The wooden sculptures of our Norse gods seem to watch us, their silent judgment weighing heavily on my shoulders.
My fingers absently trace the skull tattoo on my chest, a reminder of the oaths I've sworn to this club.
Fenrir's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and decisive. "We know a good bit about him, and now is the time to strike."
I'm about to voice my agreement when a sudden pounding on the door makes us all jump.
My father bellows, "We're busy in here!"
"I know, but–" Ulf's voice is cut off abruptly.
"For fuck's sake!" The familiar sound of Starla's irritation precedes the door flying open.
Her eyes sweep the room, landing on me with an intensity that makes my blood run cold.
"Meghan's hurt," she says, and my world stops spinning.
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, my heart pounding in my chest.
"What happened?" I demand, my voice a low growl that barely contains the panic rising within me.
But Starla's already turning, gesturing for me to follow.
As I move toward the door, I catch glimpses of my brothers' faces—concern, confusion, and in some cases, a hint of knowing.
They've seen how I look at Meghan, how I've changed since she came back into my life.
I push those thoughts aside, focusing only on getting to her.
My boots echo on the wooden floor as I follow Starla, each step feeling like an eternity.
All I can think about is Meghan—her light sage green eyes, the way she tries to hide her vulnerability behind sarcasm and toughness.
And now she's hurt, and I wasn't there to protect her.
The guilt and fear threaten to overwhelm me, but I force them down.
Right now, Meghan needs me to be strong.
As we near the main room, I steel myself for what I might find, silently vowing that whoever hurt her will pay dearly for it.
The scene that greets me as we enter the main room of the clubhouse is chaotic, but my eyes lock immediately on Tindra.
My little girl is trembling, tears streaming down her face, and it feels like a knife twisting in my gut.
I'm by her side in an instant, crouching down to her level and placing my hands gently on her arms.
"What happened, baby? Can you tell me?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.
I need to be her rock right now, even as my insides are churning with worry and rage.
Tindra's lower lip quivers as she tries to speak through her sobs. "We... we were at the mall," she manages, her voice small and shaky. "This man came... he was yelling at Mom. He... he hit her, Dad. He hit her so hard."
My jaw clenches, and I have to remind myself not to tighten my grip on Tindra's arms.
The thought of someone laying a hand on Meghan, on my family, makes me want to tear this town apart until I find the bastard responsible.
"It's okay, sweetheart," I murmur, pulling her into a hug. "You're safe now. Both of you are safe." I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair, reminding myself that she's here and unharmed.
"Can you do something for me? Can you go find Dalla and Rev? They'll take care of you while I check on your mom."
Tindra nods, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
As she walks away, I turn my attention to the couch where Meghan is laying down.
The sight of her makes my heart clench.
She's battered and bruised, with Gwen hovering over her, applying gauze to various cuts and scrapes.
I approach slowly, not wanting to interrupt Gwen's work.
Meghan's eyes meet mine, and despite the pain evident in her gaze, I see a flicker of relief.
It takes everything in me not to pull her into my arms right then and there.
"How is she?" I ask Gwen, my voice low and tight with barely contained emotion.
Gwen glances up at me, her hands steady as she continues to tend to Meghan's wounds. "She's pretty banged up, but nothing life-threatening. I'm just making sure there's no sign of concussion or internal injuries."
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
I want to punch something, preferably her assailant's face.
But right now, Meghan needs me calm and focused.
I take a deep breath, pushing down the rage threatening to overwhelm me. "Meghan, I..." I start, but words fail me.
The woman I've come to care for is now at the center of a storm that threatens to engulf us all.
But as I look into Meghan's eyes, seeing the strength behind her pain, I know one thing for certain—we’re going to get through this.
I lean in closer to Meghan, my voice low and urgent. "Tindra told me a little of what happened, but I need more details. Did you see what the guy was driving or anything like that?"
Meghan's light sage green eyes lock onto mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them.
She takes a shaky breath, wincing slightly at the pain it causes. "I can do you one better," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "My father did this."
The words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut.
I reel back, my mind struggling to process what she's just said. "Your father?"
The question comes out harsher than I intended, disbelief and anger warring inside me.
Meghan nods, but the movement causes her to wince again.
Gwen, who's been silently working beside us, speaks up. "Take it easy, honey. Try not to move too much."
I watch as Gwen gently removes the gauze, revealing the full extent of Meghan's injuries.
The sight of her battered face, the split lip, makes my blood boil.
How could anyone do this to their own daughter?
As Gwen carefully cleans the wounds, Meghan's eyes never leave mine. "My father," she continues, her voice stronger now, tinged with a mix of fear and determination, "is a very bad man, Tor."
She pauses, and I can see her steeling herself for what comes next. "He's the Patriot."
The revelation hits me like a freight train.
The Patriot—the very man we were just discussing in kirkja , the one causing havoc in our territory.
He's Meghan's father?
My mind races, connecting dots I never knew existed.
The way Meghan always seemed guarded, her reluctance to talk about her past—it all makes a sick kind of sense now.
Meghan's eyes widen, a mixture of fear and gratitude swirling in those sage green depths.
My father approaches, his heavy footsteps echoing in the suddenly quiet room.
His eyes are narrowed, jaw set tight. "Did I just hear you correctly?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.
Meghan nods, wincing slightly at the movement. "Yes," she confirms, her voice barely above a whisper.
She looks up at him, her light sage green eyes filled with a mix of fear and determination. "I take it you've heard of him?"
I watch as his expression darkens further.
He runs a hand over his face, letting out a long, frustrated breath. "Heard of him? Sweetheart, the Patriot is fucking up shit for us right now. He's selling drugs in our territory, filled with fentanyl and causing a bunch of overdoses. He’s been a pain in our asses for years."
Meghan's brow furrows, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind.
She bites her lower lip, then winces at the pain it causes. "Can I ask... have a majority of these deaths been people of color? Black, Latino?"
Runes exchanges a look with me, surprise evident on his face. "In fact, they have," he confirms slowly. "How did you know?"
A bitter laugh escapes Meghan's lips, quickly followed by a grimace of pain. "That wasn't an oversight," she says, her voice laced with disgust. "My father planned it that way. It's how he kills the people he hates without getting all the heat for it."
The revelation hits me like a punch to the gut.
I've known some evil bastards in my time, but this... this is a whole new level of fucked up.
I feel my fists clenching at my sides, the urge to find this man and make him pay growing stronger by the second.
Gwen's voice cuts through the tension, all business. "Meghan, I think you might need stitches above your lip. Let me take a closer look."
I watch as Gwen gently examines Meghan's face, her touch professional but kind.
Meghan sits still, her eyes meeting mine over Gwen's shoulder.
I can see the pain there, not just physical, but emotional.
The weight of her confession hangs heavy in the air.
"Yep, you definitely need stitches," Gwen confirms after a moment.
She reaches into her med kit, pulling out a small tube. "I'm going to use liquid stitch. It'll hold better and hurt less than traditional stitches."
As Gwen works, applying the liquid stitch with practiced ease, I find myself lost in thought.
How long has Meghan been carrying this secret?
How much danger is she in now that we know?
And what the hell are we going to do about her father?
"All done," Gwen announces, stepping back to survey her work. "Try not to talk for a couple of minutes, okay? Let it settle."
Meghan nods, giving Gwen a grateful look.
She waits a moment, letting the liquid stitch set as Gwen instructed.
When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"There's more, Tor." She swallows hard, wincing as the movement pulls at her split lip. "My father... he told me that Tindra and I were going to be part of his group. His followers. His people. That we’d be breeders." Her voice breaks on the last word, and I can see the disgust written plainly across her face. "I told him we wouldn't. That's when he..." She gestures vaguely at her injuries.
My blood runs cold at her words.
The thought of Meghan and our daughter in the clutches of that racist, drug-pushing piece of shit makes me want to tear the clubhouse apart with my bare hands.
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
"He won't touch either of you," I growl, reaching out to gently cup Meghan's face. "I swear it, Meghan. I'll do whatever I can to keep you both safe."
As I say the words, I realize just how true they are.
I'd burn the whole world down if it meant protecting Meghan and Tindra.
It's a feeling that both exhilarates and terrifies me.
I've never felt this strongly about anyone before, and the depth of my emotions catches me off guard.
Meghan leans into my touch, her eyes closing briefly.
When she opens them again, I can see the conflict there. "I don't want to put you in danger," she murmurs. "Or the club. Maybe... maybe we should just leave. Start fresh somewhere else."
The thought of Meghan and Tindra leaving sends a jolt of panic through me. I shake my head firmly. "No. You're safest here, with us. With me." I look around at my brothers, seeing the determination on their faces. "We protect our own, and you're my family. Your father won't know what hit him."
The room falls into an uneasy silence, the weight of Meghan's revelation pressing down on all of us.
I meet my father’s eyes, seeing my own anger and determination reflected there.
One thing's for sure—the Patriot's days of terrorizing our town are numbered.
And if I have anything to say about it, he'll pay dearly for what he's done to Meghan.
I lean in close to Meghan, my voice low and intense. "I'm going to hunt down your father and make him pay for this."
My fists clench at my sides, the rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "No one hurts my family and gets away with it."
Meghan winces as Gwen presses a particularly tender spot. "I'm okay," she insists, her voice hoarse but determined. "Just busted up pretty bad. Nothing I can't handle."
I can't help but smile at her stubbornness, even as worry gnaws at my insides.
That's my Meghan, tough as nails even when she's hurting.
I kneel beside the couch, careful not to get in Gwen's way.
"You don't have to be tough right now," I tell her softly, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her. "We've got you. You're safe here."
Meghan's eyes soften for a moment, and I see the vulnerability she usually keeps hidden. "Tor," she whispers, and my name on her lips is both a comfort and a plea.
I want to ask her more about what happened, to hunt down the son of a bitch who did this to her.
But I know now isn't the time.
Right now, she needs to heal, and I need to be here for her and Tindra.
"I'm here," I assure her, finally allowing myself to gently take her hand in mine. "And I'm not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together, I promise."
As I sit there, holding Meghan's hand while Gwen continues her examination, I'm acutely aware of the eyes of my brothers on us.
They're seeing a side of me I've kept hidden for so long—the protective, caring man beneath the tough biker exterior.
But in this moment, I don't care.
All that matters is the woman in front of me, and making sure she knows she's not alone.