Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Tor
The low rumble of voices seeps through the heavy wooden door of kirkja, drawing me closer like a moth to flame.
I press my ear against the intricately carved surface, the Norse runes beneath my palm a stark reminder of our heritage.
My father's voice, deep and commanding, rises above the rest.
"The Patriot," he says, the name dripping with venom. "That's what this bastard calls himself these days!"
My heart rate quickens.
I know I shouldn't be eavesdropping, but the tension in Dad's voice is impossible to ignore.
The memory of our encounter in the city flashes through my mind—the taco stand owner's terrified face, the sickening crunch of bone as Dad's fist connected with one of the Patriot's men.
"He sent a message back," Dad continues. "Says we've made a grave mistake interfering with his business."
A chorus of angry mutters follows his words.
I can picture the scene inside.
The full patch members and officers gathered around the table Magnus crafted, their faces etched with a mixture of concern and rage.
"What exactly did the message say, Runes?" It's Fenrir’s gravelly voice, our VP always quick to get to the heart of the matter.
There's a pause, and I hold my breath, straining to hear.
"He said, and I quote, 'You've poked the bear, old man. Prepare for the consequences.'"
The silence that follows is deafening.
My mind races, piecing everything together.
This Patriot, whoever he is, isn't backing down, and neither will we.
"Fuck that noise." Kraken’s voice breaks the silence. "We've dealt with worse than some wannabe with delusions of grandeur."
A few grunts of agreement follow, but I can sense the underlying current of unease.
We may have survived the cartel, but that victory has come at a steep price.
"We're not looking for a war," Dad says, his tone measured but firm. "But we won't stand by and let this piece of shit terrorize our city. Not after everything we've been through."
I shift my weight, wincing as the floorboard beneath me creaks.
The voices inside fall silent, and I freeze, heart pounding.
After a moment, Dad resumes speaking, his voice lowered.
I lean in closer, straining to make out the words.
"...keep eyes and ears open. Anything suspicious, you report back immediately. We need to know what we're dealing with before we make a move."
The scraping of chairs signals the end of the meeting.
I quickly step back from the door, my mind whirling with everything I've heard.
As I turn to leave, the door swings open, and I come face to face with my father.
His eyes narrow as he takes in my proximity to kirkja .
"Tor," he says, his voice a mixture of frustration and concern.
"How much did you hear?"
I consider lying for a split second, but there's no point.
Dad can read me like an open book. "Enough," I admit. "This Patriot guy, he's serious trouble, isn't he?"
Dad sighs, running a hand through his graying hair.
The other patches file out behind him, their faces grim.
"Nothing we can't handle," he says, but I can see the worry lines etched around his eyes.
"I want to help," I say, squaring my shoulders. "Whatever you need, I'm in."
A flicker of pride crosses Dad's face.
“For now, we gather intel. No heroics, you got that? I'm not eager for a repeat of last time."
The unspoken words hang heavy between us.
I know he's thinking of me lying in that hospital bed, tubes snaking from my body, hovering between life and death.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Got it, Dad. I'll be careful."
He claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "Good. Now, go find Meghan. Take her to Bubba's, have a drink. Try to relax a little."
I raise an eyebrow. "You sure? With everything going on..."
"We can't put our lives on hold every time some asshole decides to cause trouble," Dad says firmly. "Go. Enjoy yourself. But keep your eyes open."
As I turn to leave, Dad calls out, "And Tor?" I look back, meeting his steely gaze. "We protect our own. Always."
I nod, a fierce surge of loyalty burning in my chest.
"Always," I echo.
The main room of the clubhouse is the complete opposite ofthe tension-filled air of kirkja.
Music pulses from the speakers and the familiar clack of pool balls fills the air.
I scan the room, my eyes landing on Meghan.
She's perched on one of the barstools Magnus crafted, chatting with Charm.
The sight of her eases some of the tightness in my chest.
As I approach, Meghan's eyes light up, a smile spreading across her face. "Hey, you," she says, her voice warm. "Everything okay? You look... tense."
I force a smile, not wanting to burden her with the weight of what I've just learned. "Yeah, just club stuff. Nothing major."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I push the guilt aside. "How about we head next door? I could use a drink."
Charm's sharp gaze flicks between us, and I know she's not buying my nonchalance.
But she simply nods, giving Meghan a quick hug. "You kids have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Meghan laughs, the sound like music to my ears. "That doesn't leave much off the table, Charm."
As we make our way to the heavy industrial door connecting the clubhouse to Bubba's, I can't help but marvel at how natural Meghan seems here.
It's like she's always been a part of our world, fitting in seamlessly.
The door swings open, revealing the familiar warmth of the bar.
The exposed brick walls and snaking pipes overhead give the place its signature industrial-chic vibe.
We settle into a booth, the polished wood smooth beneath my hands.
"So," Meghan says, leaning forward, her eyes searching mine. "Are you going to tell me what's really going on, or do I have to guess?"
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "That obvious, huh?"
She reaches across the table, her fingers intertwining with mine. "To me? Yeah. You've got that look—the one that says you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."
For a moment, I consider brushing it off, sticking to the story of "just club stuff."
But as I look into Meghan's eyes, I'm struck by the depth of concern and care I see there.
She deserves the truth—or at least, as much of it as I can safely share.
"There's a new player in town," I say quietly, leaning in close. "Calls himself the Patriot. He's causing trouble, trying to muscle in on local businesses."
Meghan's brow furrows. "The Patriot? Sounds like a real charmer."
I can't help but chuckle at her dry tone. "Yeah, a real stand-up guy. Dad and I ran into some of his men in the city. It... didn't end well for them."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Are you okay? Did anyone get hurt?"
The concern in her voice warms me, even as I rush to reassure her. "We're fine. Just some bruised knuckles and wounded pride on their end. But now this Patriot is making threats, talking about consequences."
Meghan's grip on my hand tightens. "That sounds serious, Tor. What are you gonna do?"
I shrug, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "For now? We watch and wait. Gather intel. Figure out what we're dealing with before making any moves."
She nods slowly, processing. "And you're okay with that? The waiting?"
Her question catches me off guard.
Am I okay with it?
Part of me itches for action, wants to hunt down this Patriot and show him exactly what happens when you threaten the Raiders of Valhalla.
But I don’t have a choice.
As a prospect, it’s my job to follow orders.
"I have to be," I say finally. "After everything that happened with the cartel... we can't rush in blind."
Meghan's free hand comes up to cup my cheek, her touch impossibly gentle. "You've been through so much already. It's not fair that you have to deal with this now."
I lean into her touch, closing my eyes briefly. "Life's not fair, sweetheart. But having you here? That makes it a hell of a lot more bearable.”
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, jerking me out of my thoughts.
I turn to see Fern, my dad's ol’ lady, gesturing for me to come over.
She's standing with a group of the other club women, their faces etched with concern.
I give Meghan's hand a quick squeeze before making my way over to them.
Fern's eyes are blazing, her jaw set in a hard line.
Before I can even open my mouth to greet her, she cuts straight to the chase.
"What the hell is going on, Tor?"
I hesitate, weighing my options.
Dad would probably want to handle this himself, fill Fern in when he's ready.
But I can see the determination in her eyes, the way she’s squaring her shoulders.
She's not going to let this go.
"Come on, spill it," Fern presses, crossing her arms. "I know something's up. Your dad’s barely been talking to me today, and all I’m getting are short answers."
I run a hand through my hair, buying myself a few more seconds. "Look, Fern, I'm not sure if?—"
"Tell me, Tor." Her voice is firm, brooking no argument.
"Now. I already know you’re probably flappin’ your jaws to Meghan, so have the decency to fill me in on it too."
I sigh, knowing she’s making one hell of a point.
"Okay, okay. You remember that run into the city Dad and I went on?"
Fern nods, her eyes never leaving my face.
"Well, we ran into some trouble. There was this taco stand owner, a good guy, just trying to make an honest living. But these thugs were there, trying to shake him down for protection money."
I can see the anger flashing in Fern's eyes.
She's always had a soft spot for the underdogs, the ones who can't fight back.
"Dad and I, we stepped in. Couldn't just stand by and watch, you know?" I continue, my fists clenching involuntarily at the memory. "We roughed them up pretty good, sent them packing."
Fern's expression softens slightly, a hint of pride creeping in. "Good. Those bastards deserved it."
But then her eyes narrow again. "But that's not all, is it? What aren't you telling me, Tor?"
I take a deep breath, bracing myself. "Dad... he really went to town on one of them. The guy started talking about his boss, saying we’d regret it. The normal type of shit."
Fern's eyebrows shoot up. "His boss?"
I nod grimly. "Yeah. Apparently, these weren't just some random thugs. They answer to someone. Someone who calls himself the Patriot."
The name hangs in the air between us, but I look and see if she recognizes the name like Dad did.
I can see the wheels turning in Fern's head, piecing together what this might mean for the club.
"Jesus," she mutters, shaking her head.
"I’ve never heard of him. Did your dad seem worried?"
I shrug, trying to project more confidence than I feel.
"What does it matter? We'll handle it, Fern. We always do."
Magnolia, her usual fiery demeanor amplified by the news, breaks the uneasy silence. "Of course, we can't have more than a couple weeks of peace before something else is fuckin’ happening."
I feel my jaw clench, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.
Despite the anxiety churning in my gut, I force my voice to remain steady.
"We're going to handle it," I assert, meeting each woman's gaze in turn. "Whatever this Patriot throws at us, we'll be ready."
The conviction in my words surprises even me.
My father emerges first, followed by some of the other brothers.
My father's eyes immediately lock onto Fern, and he calls out to her.
"Fern—" he begins, but she cuts him off before he can continue.
"Don't worry about it," Fern says, her voice steady and assured.
She glances at me, almost like she’s proud. "I forced Tor to bring me up to speed."
I watch as my father's expression shifts, a mixture of relief and concern flashing across his face.
He nods, accepting Fern's words without argument.
It's one of the things I've always admired about their relationship—the trust, the lack of bullshit between them.
"Listen up," he says, his tone inviting no argument. "No one, and I mean no one, is coming into our city and stirring shit up. Not after everything we've been through with the cartel."
I watch as his gaze hardens, his jaw clenching in theway that it does when he's dead serious about something. "I won't allow it to happen. We've bled too much, fought too hard to let some outsider waltz in and threaten what's ours."
The room falls silent, everyone hanging on his words.
I feel a swell of pride in my chest, mixed with a familiar knot of worry.
My father, the unshakeable leader, the man who's guided us through hell and back.
"We've faced worse," he continues, "and we've come out stronger. This 'Patriot'? He's just another punk who doesn't know who he's messing with."
As I listen to my father's words, my mind drifts back to that hospital room, the beeping of machines, the smell of antiseptic.
I remember the look on his face when he thought I might not make it.
The fear that I'd never seen before, raw and unguarded.
Since then, I've noticed a change in him.
The way his eyes follow me more closely, how he's quicker to step in when there's even a hint of danger.
It's subtle, but it's there.
"Tor." My father's voice snaps me back to the present.
"You with us, son?"
I nod, meeting his gaze.
"Always, Dad. We've got this."
Dad runs a hand through his graying beard, his eyes scanning the room. "All right, I've got some shit to handle with the boys. Tor, Magnus, you two stay back here."
Magnus, ever the cautious one, leans forward.
"Should we be on high alert, Prez?"
My father shakes his head, his expression softening slightly.
"No, nothing like that. Just stay here or head back over to the clubhouse. Keep your eyes open, but don't go looking for trouble."
I nod, “Sounds good. Won’t let you down, Dad.”
He offers me a soft smile. “You never do, son.”
I turn and see Meghan’s now at the bar.
"What's your poison?" I ask, sliding onto the seat next to her.
"Whiskey, neat," she replies, and I can't help but grin.
This woman never ceases to surprise me.
I signal the bartender and order our drinks.
When they arrive, I raise my glass. "To... new beginnings?"
Meghan clinks her glass against mine, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "To new beginnings."
As we sip our drinks, I find myself getting lost in conversation with her.
It's easy, natural, like we've known each other for our entire lives instead of a few years.
We talk about everything and nothing—her favorite books, my childhood adventures, the best place to get Italian in town.
"You know," I say, leaning in closer, "I can't remember the last time I felt this... content."
Meghan's eyes soften, and she reaches across the bar top to take my hand. "Me neither. It's... it's nice, isn't it?"
I nod, feeling a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the whiskey. "More than nice. It's..."
"Scary?" she finishes for me, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.
"Yeah," I admit. "But in a good way, you know?"
She takes a deep breath, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of my hand. "I'm falling for you, Tor," she says softly. "And fast. It terrifies me, but... I can't seem to stop it."
My heart races at her words, both fear and excitement coursing through me.
I've never been good at expressing my feelings, but with Meghan, I want to try.
"I'm falling for you too," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't want to stop it either."
The smile that lights up her face is brighter than any sun, and I know atthat moment that I'd do anything to keep it there.
As we sit in Bubba's, surrounded by the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
A couple of hours pass, us making conversation, shooting the shit, and just having a damn good time.
I stand up, offering my hand to Meghan. "Want to get out of here?" I ask, my voice low and husky.
She takes my hand, her light sage green eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I thought you'd never ask," she replies with a smirk.
We make our way through Bubba's, nodding to a few of the patrons as we pass.
The heavy industrial door leading to the clubhouse opens with a soft beep as I swipe the key card in my cut.
Once inside, I lead Meghan down the hallway toward my room, my heart pounding with each step.
As soon as we're through the door, Meghan's lips are on mine.
Her kiss is hungry, passionate, and I respond with just as much need.
My hands find her waist, pulling her close as she presses me against the wall.
"God, Tor," she breathes against my neck, her fingers pulling off my cut and throwing it on my desk.
"I want you so bad."
I groan as her hands slide over my chest, taking off my shirt, tracing the lines of my tattoo.
"I want you too, Meghan. You have no idea."
She steps back, her eyes roaming over me as she starts to peel away my clothes.
"Oh, I think I have some idea," she says with a wicked grin.
I can't help but marvel at the woman before me.
Meghan's tough exterior has softened, revealing a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.
I reach out, cupping her face in my hands.
"You're beautiful," I murmur, brushing my thumb across her cheek. "Inside and out."
A blush creeps across her face, and for a moment, I see the girl beneath the hardened exterior.
"Tor," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.
I kiss her again, softer this time, pouring all the unspoken feelings into it.
As we move toward the bed, I can't help but think how right this feels.
It's not just lust or physical attraction—it's something deeper, something that scares and thrills me in equal measure.
Meghan pushes me onto the bed, straddling my hips as she looks down at me with a mix of desire and affection.
"You ready for this, big guy?" she teases, grinding against me.
I groan, my hands sliding up her thighs. "More than ready," I reply, my voice rough with need.
As she sinks down onto me, I'm overwhelmed by the sensation.
It's not just the physical pleasure, though that's intense enough.
It's the emotional connection, the feeling of being completely in sync with another person.
"Tor," Meghan gasps, her hands braced on my chest as she moves. "God, you feel so good."
I sit up, wrapping my arms around her as we move together.
Our bodies find a rhythm, slow and deep at first, then building in intensity.
I lose myself in the taste of her skin, the sound of her breathless moans, the feeling of her nails digging into my back.
As we near the edge, I can't help but think how different this is from any other encounter I've had.
This isn't just sex—it's making love, as cheesy as that sounds.
And as we cry out together, clinging to each other in the aftermath, I know that everything has changed.
"Meghan," I murmur, brushing her hair back from her face. "I..."
She silences me with a kiss, soft and tender. "I know," she whispers. "Me too."
As we lay there, tangled in each other's arms, I feel a sense of peace I've never known before.
Whatever challenges we face—the Patriot, the club, our own fears—I know we'll face them together.