Scornful (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Astrid

The Raiders of Valhalla MC have been my family since I was born, but it wasn't until death came calling that I truly understood what that meant.

I was seven when Mom's car was hit.

One minute everything in my life was normal, and the next… well, it fell apart.

They said she died instantly, but I only found that out years later.

After my mother’s death, I learned what it meant to be the only daughter—at the time—of the VP.

Within hours, my father was back in our home, motorcycles lining the driveway outside.

Brothers arrived so fast. I remember seeing everyone there and thinking about how empty it felt before.

What I didn't know then—what they shielded me from until I was old enough to handle the truth—was that my mother's death was no accident.

The Culebra Cartel had made it look like one, but she had been targeted, murdered.

The "accident" had been carefully orchestrated as a way to hurt the club, but more specifically, my father.

I was sixteen when Dad finally told me the truth and I didn’t know what to do with it.

It felt good to know the truth in a sense, but it gutted me at the same time.

By then, the Culebra Cartel no longer existed—at least not in any form that would threaten our family again.

The cartel had been causing issues for the Mackenzie family, so Runes made a deal with them and suddenly the problem with the cartel had ceased to exist.

I don’t miss the shadows in my father's eyes whenever they happen to come up, ghosts that haunt him still.

All I know for certain is that every man responsible for my mother's death met an end far more painful than the one they gave her.

Raiders protect their own, we avenge our fallen.

These aren't just words in our world—they're sacred vows written in blood.

Seventeen years later, I still remember Runes—President of the Raiders and the closest thing to a grandfather I've ever known—kneeling in front of me at my mom's funeral.

My small hand disappeared inside his massive, calloused palm. "You'll never be alone, little one," he'd promised, ice-blue eyes so like his son Tor's locked on mine. "We protect our own."

He wasn't lying.

My father may have been broken by grief, but the club was there for him every step of the way.

My brothers Emil and Oskar—fourteen and ten at the time—stepped up, becoming more than siblings to me in a sense.

They became my guardians, my fierce protectors.

When nightmares had me screaming at 2 a.m., Oskar would appear in my doorway, baseball bat in hand, ready to fight whatever monsters haunted me.

Emil taught me to throw a punch by thirteen.

Oskar showed me how to hot-wire a car by fifteen—"Just in case," he'd said with that crooked grin that got him out of trouble with everyone except our dad.

They were my safety net, my constant shadows.

They still are, even now that they're full patch members themselves, even though I've told them a thousand times I don't need them hovering.

The truth about Mom's murder changed something in all of us.

For me, it was the reality that the club wasn't just about brotherhood and family barbecues and men who called me "princess" while slipping me candy.

It was about a world where violence wasn't just possible but necessary, where enemies lurk in shadows, where protection came at a price paid in blood.

The carefree child I might have been died with that knowledge, replaced by someone more cautious, more aware of the darkness that exists.

I take a long pull from my beer, letting the icy liquid slide down my throat as I lean against the bar at the clubhouse.

Music throbs through the space, the bass vibrating in my chest.

Around me, the typical Friday night party is in full swing—brothers in their cuts drinking and laughing, old ladies clustering around tables, prospects running around keeping drinks filled.

It’s basically the damn heartbeat of the club.

"You're thinking too loud."

The deep voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to find Geirolf standing next to me at the bar.

He's one of the few brothers who doesn't make me feel like I'm still nine years old with pigtails.

He's always treated me like I had a brain between my ears, not like some dorky club kid.

Either way, his presence doesn't aggravate me the way some of the others do when I'm in this mood.

I counter, raising an eyebrow. "Says who?"

"Says the way you're stranglin’ that beer bottle." His ice-blue eyes drop to my hand, where my knuckles have gone white around the neck of the bottle. "Want to talk about it, or would you prefer I find someone else to annoy?"

That pulls a reluctant smile from me. "I might actually prefer the annoyance, thanks."

He nods and leans against the bar beside me, his muscular arm just inches from mine.

Heat radiates from him like a furnace, then again it always does.

Out of all the brothers at the club… Geirolf is the one I could never stop staring at, but I’m in a… I don’t even know what to call it.

Laken and me, everything about us is complicated, and I still have a lot of love for him even though I shouldn’t.

Laken has hurt me in more ways than I could ever possibly count, and at the moment we’re not together, but that could change next week.

Geirolf on the other hand—he’s kind of like Channing Tatum—you can admire him from afar but you can’t touch.

"Fine by me," he says, voice rumbling low enough that only I can hear him over the music. "Annoying beautiful women is my specialty."

I snort, covering the flush that wants to creep up my neck. "Very smooth, Gandolf. Does that usually work for you?"

I don’t know when it started happening, but at some point I gave him Gandolf as a nickname, mainly because it gets under his skin.

He shrugs one broad shoulder, the movement pulling his black t-shirt tight across his chest. "I'll let you know when I try it on a woman, not a demon."

I roll my eyes, but the heaviness that's been sitting on my chest all day eases a little.

My gaze drifts across the room to where my father stands with Runes, their heads bent in conversation.

Fenrir's face is serious, jaw tight with whatever news they're discussing.

Probably something else about the Patriot.

Ever since that bastard tried to kidnap Tindra last month, the club's been on high alert.

My dad's face is so much like my brothers'—the same blade of a nose, same stern jaw, same piercing eyes.

Some days I can still see my mother in them—in the way their eyes crease when they smile.

"They've been like that all night," Geirolf comments, following my gaze. "Somethin’s goin’ on."

"It's gotta be the Patriot. After what happened with Tindra and Flora..." My voice falters.

Geirolf's jaw tightens at the mention of Flora.

Her funeral is still fresh in everyone's mind.

Rio standing hollow-eyed beside the casket, their two-year-old daughter Florencia in his arms, too young to understand that mama wasn't coming back.

Meanwhile, Dasha was holding Cali, the newborn baby that somehow survived when Flora didn’t.

Flora wasn’t around us for a long time, but nothing can fill the hole left in her absence.

Geirolf looks right into my eyes as I take another sip of my beer. "You shouldn't worry about club shit, you know."

"Hard not to, when it keeps impacting people I care about." I keep my eyes trained on his. "I'm not a kid, Geirolf."

"Trust me," he says, his eyes dropping for a fraction of a second to look me up and down—staring at my body—snapping back to my face, "I'm well aware of that."

Heat flares low in my belly at the look, and I quickly push it down.

I can’t feel the way he makes me feel.

He's off-limits, completely and utterly, no matter how those ice-blue eyes make me feel.

No matter how his rare smiles seem directed at me more often lately.

Then again, I’ve been on and off with a man who doesn’t treat me right, a man who isn’t much of a man in the first place.

It’s a toxic cycle I can’t seem to break.

Geirolf changes the subject. "How's work at the spa?"

I latch onto the lifeline. "Good. Busy. Fern's thinking of expanding, adding a few more treatment rooms."

"Your hands that magical, huh?" There's a glint in his eye that makes me think there's an innuendo buried in there somewhere, but I choose to ignore it.

"I'll have you know I'm the most requested massage therapist there," I say with all the sass in the world. "People book weeks in advance for these hands."

"I believe it." His voice drops a notch, and something in the air between us shifts.

Across the room, my father's gaze lands on us, his eyes narrowing slightly at how close Geirolf is to me.

Geirolf notices too and casually takes a step back, creating a more appropriate distance between us, causing the moment to shatter like glass.

"Astrid!" Ingrid's voice cuts through the tension as my baby sister bounces over, her red hair swinging like a curtain of silk.

At sixteen, she's all legs and attitude, sage green eyes bright with mischief. "Dad says I can borrow your black boots for the concert tomorrow if you say it's okay."

"The ones with the silver studs?" I ask, still feeling Geirolf's presence like a physical weight beside me.

"Yeah! Please? I'll literally be the only girl there in basic shoes if you don't let me."

God, I can barely remember what it was like for my biggest worry to be my shoes.

"Fine, but if you scuff them, you're buffing them back to perfect condition."

She squeals and throws her arms around me. "You're the best sister ever!"

"Mmhmm. Tell that to my favorite sweater you 'borrowed' and returned with a coffee stain."

She grins nervously. "It looks better with character."

Ingrid notices Geirolf then, and her eyes widen slightly before her face settles into a calculating look I know all too well.

She's too observant for her own good.

"Hi, Gandolf," she says, voice suddenly syrupy sweet. "Taking care of my big sister?"

"Trying to," he responds, the corner of his mouth lifting. "She's making it difficult. And, little girl, the only one who gets to call me that cool ass wizard is your sis here."

"She always does," Ingrid agrees, ignoring my glare. "It's like a hobby for her."

"Don't you have homework or something?" I grit, needing her to go and make this situation less awkward.

Ingrid rolls her eyes dramatically. "It's Friday night. Even nerds don't do homework on Fridays."

"Then go bother someone your own age," I suggest, giving her shoulder a gentle push. "Pretty sure I saw Gunnar and Bjorn by the pool table."

With one last glance between Geirolf and me, Ingrid bounces away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

"Your sister's going to be trouble," Geirolf observes.

"Already is," I agree. "But she's got a good heart. Dad's going to have his hands full when she starts dating."

" If he lets her." Geirolf's tone is wry. "Your father's protectiveness is legendary."

I think about how fiercely Dad guarded me after Mom died, how he vetted every friend, every activity, every moment of freedom.

How that protectiveness somehow hasn’t saved me from Laken.

The thought of my—ex/first love—sends a chill through me, the memory of his voice in the back of my mind.

"Yeah, well, look how well that turned out for me," I mutter, taking another swig of beer.

Geirolf studies me, his expression impossible to read, just like always. "The asshole who hurt you," he says quietly. "You never talk about him."

I tense. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit, princess"

I blink, surprised by the edge in his voice. "Excuse me?"

"I said bullshit, princess." His eyes harden, a flash of anger that isn't directed at me but rather for me. "I've seen you flinch when someone raises their voice. I've watched you check every exit when you enter a room. I've noticed how your smile doesn't reach your eyes half the time, and whenever you have the fuckin’ sense to be “rid” of him for the ten minutes you are, you’re happier for it."

My throat tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" He leans closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "I know what it looks like when someone's been hurt, Astrid. I've seen enough of it in my life."

I stare at him, caught between anger and a strange, terrible relief that someone sees through me.

For a moment, I consider telling him everything—about Laken's constant criticism, the way he made me feel worthless, the nights I spent weighing every bite I took under his watchful gaze.

He always made me feel like being curvy was something I needed to fix, like it was wrong.

I hate the way I still hear his voice in my head, still feel him breaking me down, bit by bit.

So, why do I always go back?

Because I’m a fool, he’s my first love, I know he’s capable of being better—but he won’t. That’s what I need to convince myself—he won’t.

It's one thing for the women to know about my situation—they understand in a way the men never could.

But the brothers?

They'd see it as weakness, or worse, as an insult to my father's position.

The VP's daughter, letting some outsider break her down? Unthinkable.

"I appreciate the concern," I say finally, my voice cool, "but I handled it."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, respecting my boundaries even if he doesn't believe me. "If you ever need anything?—"

"I won't." I cut him off, already regretting the harshness in my tone. "But...thanks," I add more softly.

Before he can respond, a commotion near the door draws our attention.

Rio has arrived with little Florencia in his arms, the toddler's eyes wide at the noise and lights of the clubhouse.

Several women immediately swoop in, cooing over the child, offering Rio drinks, food, support.

This is how the club heals—together, becoming the family that fills the gaps death leaves behind.

"I should go help with Florencia," I say, already moving away from Geirolf and the dangerous feelings he stirs. "Dasha and I promised to watch her and Cali while Rio gets a break."

Geirolf nods, letting me walk off, but as I do, I feel his eyes on me.

"Astrid," he calls, and I pause, half-turning. "You're stronger than you think."

Four simple words, but they land in my chest like stones dropped in still water, rippling outward.

I give him a small nod and continue on, not trusting myself to respond.

As I cross to where Rio stands with Florencia, I catch my father watching me.

A warning prickles up my spine—nothing good could come from whatever's brewing between Geirolf and me, nothing but trouble.

But as I take Florencia from Rio's arms, feeling the toddler's warm weight against my chest, I can't help but glance back at Geirolf.

He's already turned away, headed toward my father and Runes, confident as ever.

I force my attention back to Florencia, tickling her until she giggles—a sound too rare since her mother's death.

Meanwhile, Dasha has Cali—the sweet baby starting to smile the moment she sees her.

But part of me is hyper focused on Geirolf—his presence across the room.

It’s like a compass needle finding north, that is how I feel when it comes to him, and I can’t, because that would be a fucking disaster.