Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tor
The aroma of sizzling meat and spices wafts through the clubhouse, drawing me like a siren's call to the kitchen.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me.
Meghan stands at the stove, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, wisps escaping to frame her face.
She's stirring something in a massive pot, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Starla flits around her, chopping vegetables, while Aziza arranges an array of decadent desserts on the counter.
My chest tightens at the sight of Meghan.
It's been a week since her bastard of a father attacked her at the mall, and I still can't shake the image of her bruised and battered face from my mind.
Having her here, safe in the clubhouse, eases some of the anxiety that's been gnawing at me.
But I know it's only temporary.
Sooner or later, we'll have to face the reality of the situation.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence. "Something smells good in here."
Meghan looks up, a smile lighting her face. "Hey, you. Just in time for a taste test."
I cross the room, sliding an arm around her waist and dropping a kiss on her temple. "Lucky me. What's on the menu?"
Meghan leans into me for a moment before turning back to the stove. "Starla's famous chili, cornbread, and enough sides to feed an army,"
I inhale deeply, savoring the rich scent. "Smells like heaven."
Starla grins, brandishing her knife. "Don't let the boys hear you say that. They might think you've gone soft."
I snort, moving to grab a beer from the fridge. "Let 'em try to say that to my face."
As I crack open the bottle, my gaze falls on Tindra, curled up in the corner of the main room with a book.
My daughter.
The word still feels foreign on my tongue, a mix of wonder and disbelief.
She looks up, offering a shy smile, and I feel my heart constrict.
"How's the book, kiddo?" I ask, leaning against the counter.
Tindra holds it up, revealing a worn copy of "The Hobbit." "It's really good. I like all the adventures."
I nod, a memory stirring. "I read that when I was about your age. Maybe we can watch the movies together sometime?"
Her eyes light up. "Really? That would be awesome!"
Meghan catches my eye, her expression soft.
I know she's been worried about how Tindra and I would bond, given the circumstances.
But it's been surprisingly easy.
The kid's smart as a whip and has a wicked sense of humor that catches me off guard sometimes.
"So, what's the occasion?" I ask, gesturing to the feast in progress. "Club meeting I forgot about?"
Aziza laughs, sliding a tray of cookies into the oven. "Does there need to be an occasion for good food and good company?"
I raise an eyebrow. "In this place? Usually."
Meghan turns, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "I just thought it would be nice to do something for everyone. They've all been so supportive this past week."
Gods, the constant threats looming over us like a storm cloud.
I guess it will never change.
We’ll never have the level of peace we yearn for.
I take a long pull from my beer, trying to push away the anger that rises whenever I think about it.
"That's real nice of you, darlin'," I say, forcing a smile. "I'm sure the boys will appreciate it."
Starla snorts. "Please. They'll inhale it without tasting a bite. Animals, the lot of them."
I can't help but chuckle. She's not wrong. "Hey now, some of us have manners."
Starla challenges, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yeah? Name one."
I open my mouth to retort, but Meghan cuts in. "Children, play nice. There's enough food for everyone, manners or not."
I watch as she moves around the kitchen, her movements sure and practiced.
It's clear she's in her element here, and I find myself wondering how many nights she spent cooking for her father, trying to placate his temper with a hot meal.
The thought makes my blood boil.
"Need any help?" I offer, pushing off from the counter.
Meghan shakes her head. "We've got it under control. Why don't you go relax? I'll let you know when it's ready."
I hesitate, not wanting to leave her side.
It's been like this all week—the constant need to keep her in my sight, to make sure she's safe.
I know it's irrational, that she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
But the fear of losing her again is a constant ache in my chest.
"You sure?" I ask, searching her face for any sign of discomfort.
She meets my gaze, her eyes softening. "I'm sure, Tor. Go. We'll be fine."
I nod, reluctantly heading for the door.
As I reach the threshold, I hear Starla's voice, low and teasing.
"You two are disgustingly cute, you know that?"
I pause, curious to hear Meghan's response. "Oh, shut up," she grumbles, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
"I'm serious! I haven't seen Tor this smitten since... well, ever."
There's a moment of silence, and I find myself holding my breath.
"I’m glad we found our way back to each other," Meghan says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "But, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared sometimes."
The vulnerability in her tone makes my chest ache.
I want to go back in there, to gather her in my arms and promise her the world.
But I know it's not that simple.
We've both been hurt before, and trust doesn't come easy.
I force myself to walk away, heading for the main room of the clubhouse.
The familiar sights and sounds wash over me—the low hum of conversation, the crack of pool balls, the faint strains of rock music from the Bluetooth speakers.
It's home, has been for years.
I make my way to the bar, nodding at the few brothers scattered around.
Bodul is behind the counter, polishing glasses with a rag.
He looks up as I approach, a knowing glint in his eye.
"The old lady kick you out of the kitchen?" he asks, reaching for a bottle of whiskey.
I grunt, sliding onto a stool. "Something like that."
He pours a generous measure into a glass and slides it across to me. "You look like you need one."
I knock it back in one swallow, relishing the burn. "Thanks, brother."
Bodul leans on the bar, his voice lowering. "How's she holding up?"
I shrug, tracing patterns in the condensation on the bar top. "As well as can be expected. She's tough, you know?"
He nods, refilling my glass. "That she is. And your kid?"
A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. "Tindra's good. She's strong, just like her mother."
"Gets that after the both of you," he says with a wink.
I snort. "God, I hope not. She deserves better than that."
Suddenly, there’s a loud commotion coming from the kitchen.
I slide off my barstool and head inside, making sure the ladies are okay.
Once I’m in the doorway, I see everything is fine, besides a dropped pile of dishes. “You all good in here?”
Meghan looks up from where she kneels on the ground, picking up what she dropped. “Yeah, just me being clumsy.”
Starla makes some sort of remark that I don’t hear, and Meghan laughs at it like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
For a moment, I'm struck by how normal it all seems—how dangerously close to the life I've started to imagine for us.
My stomach growls. “Fuck, it smells so good.”
Starla beams, always proud of her cooking. "It’s going to be a keeper, that’s for damn sure. Oh, by the way," she adds, her tone casual, "are you excited about Meghan going back to work tomorrow?"
The question catches me off guard.
I blink, looking at Meghan. "You're going back to work tomorrow?"
Meghan nods, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Yeah, I was going to tell you later. Your dad said the prospects will be there to keep an eye on things."
I feel a flare of irritation—both at Meghan for not telling me sooner, and at my father for making decisions without consulting me. "Prospects? That's not good enough."
Meghan sighs, a hint of exhaustion creeping into her voice. "Tor, don't you think you're being a little dramatic? It's just work. The prospects will be right there if anything happens, which it won't."
I step closer, lowering my voice. "Meghan, your father is still out there. We can't take any chances."
"I can't hide forever," she argues, her sage green eyes flashing with determination. "I need to get back to some kind of normal life."
I run a hand over my face, frustrated. "Normal? There's nothing normal about this situation. A full patch should be with you at all times."
Meghan rolls her eyes. "And what, hover over me while I'm making lattes? Come on, Tor. I'll be fine."
I open my mouth to argue further, but Starla clears her throat pointedly. "Maybe we should talk about this later," she suggests, glancing between us.
I clench my jaw, my frustration building. "Meghan, you're not thinking this through. Your father is unpredictable. Thinking you'll be fine is just..." I pause, searching for the right word, "It's stupid."
The moment the word leaves my lips, I know I've crossed a line.
Starla's eyes flash with anger.
"Hey, that was uncalled for," she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
I turn to face her, my chest heaving. "I'm not going to apologize for being blunt. Someone needs to be the voice of damn reason around here."
Meghan rolls her eyes, and I can see the hurt beneath her annoyance.
It's our first real argument since she's been back, and it stings more than I expected.
"You know what?" Starla interjects, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "And to think I was trying to convince Meghan that she should tell you about Tindra ages ago."
The world stops spinning for a moment.
My eyes widen, and I feel a rush of heat flood my face.
"Wait," I growl, my voice dangerously low, "so you knew about my daughter and you didn't tell me?"
I can see Meghan tense, her eyes darting between Starla and me.
She knows I'm about to snap, and she's right.
Starla lifts her chin defiantly. "Of course I did. I'm Meghan's best friend."
The rage building inside me threatens to explode.
I've accepted a lot of things lately—Meghan's return, the revelation about Tindra—but this feels like a betrayal I can't swallow.
"And you didn't think I had a right to know?" I spit out, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.
Starla opens her mouth to respond, but Meghan steps between us, her hands raised placatingly. "Tor, please. It wasn't Starla's secret to tell."
I shake my head, trying to clear the red haze of anger clouding my vision. "No, it wasn't. It was yours, Meghan. And you chose to keep it from me for years."
The hurt in Meghan's eyes is like a knife to my gut, but I can't back down now.
This isn't just about Tindra anymore—it's about trust, about the foundation of whatever it is we're trying to build together.
I run a hand through my hair, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind.
How many other secrets are there?
How many more surprises am I going to have to face?
"I need some air," I mutter, turning on my heel and striding toward the door.
I can hear Meghan calling after me, but I don't stop.
I can't face her right now, can't look into those sage green eyes without feeling the weight of everything we've lost and everything we still might lose.
As I push through the heavy industrial door into Bubba's Bar, the familiar scent of leather and whiskey hits me.
It's comforting, a reminder of simpler times.
I can’t be in the fucking clubhouse right now. I need a damn break.
But as I scan the room, taking in the handcrafted tables and the exposed brick walls, I realize that nothing about this life has ever been simple.
I make my way to the bar, my fingers tracing the mixture of wood, concrete, and resin that Magnus crafted.
It's beautiful, intricate—like the web of lies and half-truths I seem to be caught in.
"Whiskey," I growl at the bartender, not caring if I sound like a dick.
As I wait for my drink, I can't help but wonder how many more surprises this life has in store for me, and if Meghan and I will be strong enough to weather them all.
The bartender hands me my drink and I give him a curt nod.
I shake my head, my fingers clenching around the whiskey glass as the words escape my lips, "What in the actual fuck?"
The door swings open from the clubhouse, and Ivar strides in, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's going on? I heard raised voices back in the there."
My jaw clenches as I turn to face him, the anger bubbling up inside me like molten lava.
I can feel my chest tattoo stretching as I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Hey, brother," I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Quick question for you. Did you know that your wife was aware I had a daughter?"
Ivar's eyes widen, and he swallows hard.
His gaze darts to the clubhouse, and he sighs.
After what feels like an eternity, Ivar turns back to me. "No," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't aware."
I can't help but laugh, a harsh, bitter sound that echoes off the exposed brick walls. "Well, at least I wasn't the only one in the fucking dark."
My mind is reeling.
How could Starla keep this from Ivar?
How many other secrets are being kept in this clubhouse?
The thought makes my skin crawl, and I have to resist the urge to punch something.
Instead, I take another swig of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat.
It's a welcome distraction from the storm of emotions raging inside me.
“Come on, man. Come back in and talk with your girl.” Ivar urges me.
I want to sit here at the bar in Bubba’s and have some space, but I understand what he’s trying to do.
Reluctantly, I follow him and head back inside the club, going straight to the kitchen.
I want to calm down and chat with her in a healthy manner, but the second I see her, rage boils up within me.
"You know," I say, my voice low and dangerous, "I thought we were family here. I thought we had each other's backs. But apparently, that only applies when it's convenient."
I can see the hurt in Meghan's eyes, the regret in Starla's, but right now, I can't bring myself to care.
The betrayal cuts too deep, reopening wounds I thought had long since healed.
This is bullshit.
I should have known about my daughter before Starla.
It doesn’t matter if she’s Meghan’s best friend or not.
Just as the tension in the kitchen reaches its breaking point, Fenrir comes straight up to us, his imposing frame filling the doorway.
His eyes dart between Ivar and me, sensing the crackling atmosphere.
"You two busy?" he asks, his gruff voice cutting through the silence.
I shake my head, grateful for the interruption. "Not anymore," I mutter, my fingers still wrapped tightly around the whiskey glass.
Fenrir nods, his expression grave. "Good. I need you both. Come with me."
"Thank the Gods," I breathe, setting the glass down with more force than necessary.
As I turn to follow Fenrir, Meghan's voice stops me.
"Tor, wait," she calls, her tone laced with desperation.
I look back at her, my chest tightening at the sight of her worried face.
Despite everything, the love I feel for her burns bright and fierce.
But right now, it's tangled up with anger and hurt.
"I love you," I say, my voice rough with emotion, "but I need some fuckin' space right now."
Without waiting for a response, I stride out of the kitchen, following Fenrir and Ivar to the garage.
The cool air hits my face as we step outside, a welcome relief from the stifling room we've left behind.
As soon as the heavy door slams shut behind us, Fenrir turns, his eyes narrowing. "Do I want to know what that was about?"
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. "No, you really don't. What's going on?"
Fenrir studies me for a moment, then nods, apparently deciding to let it go. "One of our distributors on the streets got into it with someone who deals the Patriot's shit," he explains, his voice low and urgent. "He's got the guy held up in his basement."
My pulse quickens at the mention of the Patriot.
After everything that's happened with Meghan, the thought of getting our hands on one of their dealers is almost too good to be true.
For a moment, I push aside the turmoil of the last few minutes, focusing on the task at hand.
"Shit," I breathe, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through me. "This could be our chance to get some real intel on that fucker."
Ivar nods, his earlier shock giving way to determination. "How long has he been holding him?"
"Not long," Fenrir replies. "Maybe an hour. We need to move fast before the Patriot realizes one of his guys is missing."
I crack my knuckles, a grim smile spreading across my face. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go pay this asshole a visit."
As we head toward our bikes, I can't help but glance back at the clubhouse.
Part of me wants to go back, to smooth things over with Meghan.
But another part, the part that's still raw and angry, is glad for the distraction.
Whatever happens next, I know one thing for certain: things are about to get a whole lot more complicated.