Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ingrid
Gunnar's room feels too quiet without him in it.
I'm curled up in his bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him—leather and soap and something underneath that's just Gunnar.
My phone sits on the pillow beside me, screen dark, mocking me with its silence.
He's been gone for two hours.
Two hours of staring at the ceiling.
Two hours of checking my phone every thirty seconds.
Two hours of trying not to imagine all the ways this night could end badly.
I should've said it.
When he told me he loved me, I should've said it back.
Instead I choked.
Told him to come back.
Like that was enough.
Like those words could protect him from bullets and knives and the monsters who traffic children.
I press my face into his pillow, breathe him in.
He'll come back.
He promised.
Gunnar doesn't break promises, but people die every day.
Good people.
People who made promises they fully intended to keep.
Stop.
Stop thinking like that.
I grab my phone, check it again.
Nothing.
No texts.
No calls.
No news is good news.
Right?
I force myself out of bed, pace the small room.
His clothes are still draped over the chair in the corner—the jeans he wore yesterday, a t-shirt that's soft from too many washes.
Boots by the door, scuffed and worn.
Bike parts scattered across the dresser like he was in the middle of fixing something and got distracted.
Evidence of his life, his existence, his presence in this space.
What happens to a room when the person who lived in it doesn't come back?
Stop.
I can't think like that.
I won't.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
Maybe I should text him.
Just something simple.
Something to let him know I'm thinking about him.
But what if he's in the middle of something dangerous?
What if his phone goes off at the wrong moment and gives away his position?
What if I'm the reason something goes wrong?
Stop.
I'm spiraling.
I know I'm spiraling.
But I can't seem to stop.
I pick up his t-shirt from the chair, bring it to my face.
Breathe in his scent.
It helps.
A little.
Maybe I should go downstairs.
Find someone to wait with.
Sitting here alone is driving me insane.
But I can't make myself move.
Can't leave this room that smells like him.
Like if I stay here, surrounded by his things, I can somehow keep him safe.
Magical thinking.
Stupid.
But I do it anyway.
I sink onto the edge of his bed, still clutching his shirt.
Try to remember the last thing he said to me.
I love you.
Three words I've been terrified of my whole adult life.
Three words that other men used like weapons, like lies, like bait to reel me in before they threw me away.
But when Gunnar said them, they sounded different.
They sounded like the truth.
Like a promise.
Like something I could actually believe.
And I just stood there.
Let him walk out the door without saying it back.
What kind of coward does that?
What kind of broken, damaged person can't even tell the man she loves that she loves him?
Me.
That's who.
Because even after everything—after his patience and his kindness and his unwavering presence—I'm still the girl who's too scared to reach for something good.
Still the girl who expects to be hurt.
Still the girl who can't believe she deserves to be loved.
Tears burn my eyes.
I blink them back.
Crying won't help anything.
Won't bring him home safe.
Won't undo the words I didn't say.
I'm staring at my phone when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
Fast.
Urgent.
My heart stops the second the door opens.
Mom stands there, her face pale, her eyes too bright.
She's still in the clothes she was wearing earlier—nice slacks, silk blouse.
But her hair is disheveled now, like she ran her hands through it too many times.
And her expression.
God, her expression.
"Mom?" My voice sounds wrong. Thin. Scared. "What—"
"Baby." She crosses to me, takes my hands in hers. They're cold. Trembling slightly. "There's been an incident."
The world tilts.
Everything goes fuzzy at the edges.
"Gunnar?"
"He's hurt. They're bringing him back now."
Hurt.
Not dead.
Hurt.
The distinction should comfort me but it doesn't.
"How bad?"
Mom's face tells me everything her words don't.
The tight lines around her mouth.
The way she won't quite meet my eyes.
The tears she's barely holding back.
"They're not sure yet. He was stabbed. The knife is still in him—they left it to keep him stable. They didn't want to risk pulling it out without knowing exactly where it hit."
Stabbed.
Knife still in him.
The room spins and I think I'm going to be sick.
"I need to—" I pull away, head for the door. "I need to be down there when he—"
"Ingrid, wait." Mom catches my arm, pulls me back. "You need to prepare yourself. There's going to be a lot of blood. A lot of chaos. It's going to be scary."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. But I need you to hear me." She grips my shoulders, forces me to look at her. "Whatever you see down there, whatever state he's in—you need to hold yourself together. For him. He's going to need you strong. Can you do that?"
I don't know.
I honestly don't know.
But I nod anyway.
"I can try."
"That's my girl." She cups my face, brushes a tear from my cheek that I didn't even realize had fallen. "Whatever happens, we'll get through it together. Okay? You're not alone in this."
"Okay."
Together we head downstairs.
The main room is already filling with people.
Word travels fast in the club—someone's hurt, everyone shows up.
It's always been that way.
When one of us bleeds, we all bleed.
I see Astrid in the corner with Geirolf, her face tight with worry.
She catches my eye, starts to move toward me, but I shake my head.
I can't talk right now.
Can't do the reassurance thing.
Can barely breathe.
Magnolia and Kraken are by the bar, speaking in low voices.
Other members, other old ladies, all of them gathered and waiting.
The air is thick with tension.
With fear.
With the unspoken knowledge that tonight could change everything.
I scan the room for Vail—Gunnar's mom—and spot her through the half-open door of the medical room.
She's already in there, prepping supplies, her movements quick and efficient.
Professional.
She's an EMT.
She's trained for this.
She's probably worked on hundreds of trauma patients, seen things that would make most people vomit.
But this isn't a stranger on a highway.
This isn't some random call on a random night.
This is her son.
Her only son.
How does she do it?
How does she stay calm knowing her child is bleeding out somewhere, being rushed back to her so she can try to save his life?
I don't know if I could do it.
I don't know if I'm strong enough.
"Ingrid." Astrid appears beside me, ignoring my earlier head shake. She pulls me into a hug, tight and fierce. "I'm here. Whatever you need."
"I can't—" My voice breaks. "I can't lose him. Not now. Not when I finally—"
"You won't. Gunnar's strong. He's a fighter. He'll make it through this."
"But what if—"
"No what ifs." She pulls back, grips my shoulders. "Not yet. We wait. We hope. We trust. That's all we can do."
Easy words.
Impossible to believe.
But I nod anyway.
Because what else is there?
The minutes crawl by.
Each one an eternity.
I stand near the medical room door, watching Vail work through the gap.
Watching Aesir—the club medic—check equipment and lay out tools.
Scalpels.
Gauze.
Sutures.
Things I recognize.
Things I don't.
They're preparing for something bad.
I can see it in their faces.
In the way they move with controlled urgency.
In the supplies they're pulling out—things that shouldn't be necessary for a minor injury.
Someone presses a cup of coffee into my hands.
I don't drink it.
Just hold it, feeling the warmth seep into my cold fingers.
Something to anchor me.
Something to focus on besides the fear eating me alive.
"Doctor Reynolds is on his way," Aesir calls out. "Twenty minutes."
Doctor Reynolds.
The club's doctor.
The one they call when things are too serious for field medicine.
The one who's patched up bullet wounds and stab wounds and injuries that should've been fatal.
If they're calling him, this is bad.
This is really bad.
Mom appears beside me, takes the untouched coffee from my hands and sets it aside.
"He's going to be okay," she says softly.
"You don't know that."
"No. I don't." She wraps an arm around my shoulders. "But I know Gunnar. And I know he has every reason in the world to fight his way back."
Every reason.
Me.
I'm supposed to be his reason.
But I couldn't even tell him I love him.
Then I hear it.
Vehicles pulling into the compound.
Tires on gravel.
Doors slamming.
Shouting.
"They're here!" someone yells.
The room explodes into motion.
People rush toward the door.
Vail and Aesir grabbing their supplies.
Me frozen in place, unable to move, unable to breathe.
"Ingrid." Mom's hand on my arm. "Come on."
She pulls me forward, through the crowd, toward the entrance.
And then I see him.
Dad and Hakon are carrying him between them, his arms draped over their shoulders, his feet dragging on the ground.
He's pale.
So pale.
Like all the blood has drained out of him.
And it has, I realize.
It's everywhere—soaking his shirt, his jeans, smeared across Dad’s hands, dripping onto the floor in a trail behind them.
So much blood.
How can one person have so much blood?
And the knife.
Oh god, the knife.
It's still there, buried in his left side, wrapped in what looks like someone's jacket to stabilize it.
The fabric is soaked through.
Dark and wet and terrible.
"Move!" Dad shouts. "Get him inside! Now!"
They push through the crowd, half-carrying, half-dragging Gunnar toward the medical room.
His head lolls to the side.
His eyes are closed.
He's not moving.
Not responding.
Not doing anything except bleeding.
"Gunnar." His name tears out of me, raw and desperate. "Gunnar!"
He doesn't respond.
Doesn't even twitch.