Chapter 1 #2
I move on instinct—drop Ingrid's wrist, catch his hand, twist.
He yelps and backs off, cradling his wrist.
"Bad idea," I tell him.
The bartender's watching now, phone in hand, probably deciding whether to call the cops.
Time to go.
"Ingrid," I say, voice low. "You can walk out with me, or I can carry you. Your choice."
Her friends start protesting, but Ingrid waves them off.
"Fine." She slides off the barstool, unsteady. "Fine. Whatever. Let's go."
She doesn't look at her friends as we leave.
Doesn't look at me either.
Just walks, shoulders squared, like she's marching to execution.
Outside, the night air seems louder after the bar's chaos.
She stops when she sees my bike.
"Oh no. No way. I'm not getting on that."
"How else do you plan to get home?"
"Uber."
"Your phone's at eight percent battery."
She checks. Curses. "I'll call someone."
"Who? Your friends who are three drinks past caring? Your mom, who you don't want to worry? Or maybe your dad, the VP, who would love to know his daughter's been getting shit-faced downtown?"
Her jaw works. "I hate you."
"I know."
"This is kidnapping."
"Call the cops then."
She doesn't.
Because she knows I'm right even if she won't admit it.
I hand her the helmet I keep strapped to the bike—the one I bought three months ago after the second time I had to come get her, the one I tell myself is just practical but is really because some part of me always knew I'd be here again.
She takes it without a word, fumbles with the strap.
Her hands are shaking.
I reach out, and fasten it for her.
Our eyes meet.
This close I can see the cracks in her armor—the exhaustion, the pain, the desperate need to feel anything other than worthless.
"I'm not the enemy," I tell her quietly.
"Then what are you?"
Everything you don't see.
Everything you won't let yourself want.
"Someone who gives a shit," I say instead.
I swing my leg over the bike, kick it to life.
The engine rumbles between my thighs, familiar and steady.
Ingrid hesitates.
Then she climbs on behind me, her body pressing against my back, her arms wrapping around my waist.
She's warm despite the humidity.
Soft.
Real.
Mine, that voice whispers again.
I ignore it.
The ride back to the clubhouse is torture.
Every shift of her body against mine.
Every breath I feel through my cut.
Every moment of awareness that Fenrir's daughter is wrapped around me, trusting me to get her home safe, and all I can think about is how badly I want to pull over and kiss her until she forgets every man who came before me.
But she's drunk.
Vulnerable.
This isn't the time.
Except when we pull through the compound gates, past the guard shack where the prospect on duty waves us through without question, Ingrid's grip on me tightens.
"Don't take me home," she says against my back.
"You need to sleep this off."
"I don't want to be alone."
Fuck.
"Ingrid—"
"Please."
That one word destroys me.
I should take her home anyway.
Should walk her to her door, make sure she locks it, leave before I do something stupid.
Instead, I find myself steering toward the clubhouse.
Toward my room.
Toward everything I've been trying not to want.
The clubhouse is quiet this time of night—most members either gone home or passed out drunk in the common room.
Anyone who is up is getting shit-faced at Bubba’s next door.
I park my bike and help Ingrid off.
She's steadier now, the ride sobering her slightly.
Or maybe it's the awareness of where we are.
What this means.
"Your room?" she asks.
"Unless you want to sleep on the couch in the main room."
"Your room," she decides.
We slip inside through the side entrance, avoiding the main room where I can hear someone snoring on the leather sectional.
The hallway to the member rooms is dim, lit only by emergency lighting.
My room is the third from the end on the second level.
I unlock it, push the door open, and step aside to let her in.
She moves past me and I catch her scent—alcohol and perfume and something underneath that's just her.
The door clicks shut behind us.
The room is small, masculine, nothing special.
Queen bed unmade from this morning.
Dresser with bike parts scattered across the top.
Clothes draped over the chair in the corner.
Boots by the door.
No pictures.
No personal shit.
Just a space I sleep in between club business and trying not to think about the girl currently standing in the middle of it.
"Bathroom's there," I tell her, nodding toward the en-suite. "You should drink some water."
She doesn't move toward the bathroom.
Doesn't move at all.
Just stands there, looking at me with those green eyes that see too much and not enough.
"Why'd you come get me?" she asks.
"Already told you."
"No. Really. Why do you always come?"
Because I can't not.
Because watching you destroy yourself is killing me.
Because I'm in love with you and I don't know how to stop.
"Because someone should," I say.
"But why you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning I'm not sure she even realizes.
"Ingrid—"
"They don't come for me," she interrupts. "Njal didn't. Bjorn didn't. But you always do. Why?"
"Because they're idiots who didn't deserve you."
"And you do?"
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
"I'm not trying to deserve anything," I tell her. "I'm just trying to make sure you're okay."
"I'm not okay."
The admission is so quiet I almost miss it.
She sways slightly, catching herself on the dresser.
I'm across the room in two strides, hands on her arms, steadying her.
"Easy."
"I'm so tired, Gunnar."
"I know."
"Tired of pretending. Tired of being what everyone expects. Tired of—" Her voice breaks. "Tired of being the girl nobody kept."
Her words from our conversation outside echo back, taking on new weight.
The girl nobody wanted to keep.
"That's not true," I tell her.
"Yes it is. Njal proved it. Bjorn proved it. I'm only good for one thing, and even then—"
"Stop."
"It's true."
"It's not."
"Then why—" She looks up at me, eyes swimming. "Why does everyone leave?"
"Because they're fucking cowards who couldn't handle what you are."
"What am I?"
Everything.
"Real," I say. "Fierce. Worth more than they could understand."
She laughs, but it's broken. "You don't mean that."
"I do."
"You're just being nice because you feel sorry for me."
"I don't feel sorry for you."
"Then what do you feel?"
The question is a trap.
A door I've kept locked for a year.
But she's looking at me with those eyes, and I'm so tired of lying.
"Everything," I admit. "I feel everything."
She goes still.
"Gunnar—"
"You want honesty? Here it is. I've been watching you for a year.
Watching you hurt. Watching you destroy yourself.
Watching other men touch you when they don't deserve to breathe the same air.
And every time you post those pictures, every time you go out looking for trouble, I lose my mind because I can't—" I stop, jaw tight. "I can't watch you do this anymore."
"Simple. Don't watch."
"I can't help it."
"Why?"
Because I'm in love with you.
Because I've been in love with you since that night Bjorn broke your heart and you didn't cry, didn't break, just smiled like nothing hurt.
Because I see you when nobody else does.
"Because you matter," I say instead.
Something shifts in her expression.
"I matter," she repeats, like she's testing the words.
"Yes."
"To you?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
Too much.
More than I should admit.
More than is smart or safe or appropriate given who her father is.
But she's here, in my room, looking at me like I'm the only real thing in her world right now.
And I'm done lying.
"More than you know," I tell her.
She steps closer.
"Show me."
"Ingrid—"
"Show me I matter. Show me I'm not just—" Her voice cracks. "Show me I'm worth keeping."
"You are."
"Prove it."
It's the worst idea.
She's drunk, vulnerable, looking for validation in all the wrong places.
I should put her in my bed, take the floor, let her sleep it off.
I should be the good guy.
The safe choice.
But when she rises up on her toes and presses her mouth to mine, every good intention I have burns to ash.
She tastes like whiskey and desperation.
Her hands fist in my cut, pulling me closer.
And I'm lost.