Chapter 9 #2
"We pulled back," Ulf says. "Couldn't do anything else. You were bleeding out, the traffickers had already left with the kids, and we were outgunned. Fenrir made the call to retreat."
"The kids—"
"Gone. For now." Hakon's jaw tightens. "But we're not giving up. The club's been working intel while you were out. We know they're heading to Atlanta. We know who's running the operation. We just need to figure out where they're keeping the kids now."
"I want in. When you move on them again—"
"You'll be in a hospital bed," Ulf interrupts. "Or close to it. You're not going anywhere for weeks."
"Weeks?"
"Doctor Reynolds said six to eight weeks before you're cleared for anything physical. And that's if everything heals right."
Six to eight weeks.
Two months of sitting on the sidelines while those kids suffer.
"That's not acceptable."
"It's your reality," Hakon says. "And before you start arguing—you almost died. You don't get to rush this. The club will handle the trafficking ring. Your job is to heal."
I want to argue.
Want to tell them I'll be fine, that I can push through.
But I know they're right.
I can barely sit up without my side screaming.
I'm in no shape to do anything except recover.
"Fine," I grind out. "But I want updates. Everything you learn, I want to know."
"Done." Hakon stands. "Now rest. We'll check on you later."
They leave.
The room feels too quiet without them.
I stare at the ceiling, trying not to think about the kids.
Trying not to imagine what they're going through right now while I'm lying here useless.
Trying not to let the guilt swallow me whole.
The door opens again.
This time it's Ingrid, carrying a glass of water.
"Thought you might be thirsty."
"Thanks." I take the water, drink half of it in one go. "Where'd you disappear to?"
"Gave you space for your visitors. Figured you didn't need me hovering."
"I always need you hovering."
She smiles, settling back into her chair.
"Liar."
"Never. Not about you."
We sit in silence for a moment, just existing together.
It's nice.
Peaceful.
The kind of moment I want more of.
A lifetime of.
"Ingrid."
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said earlier. About talking. About the future."
She tenses slightly.
"Okay."
"I almost died."
"I know. I was there."
"And the whole time—the parts I remember, anyway—all I could think about was you. About how I hadn't told you enough times that I love you. About all the things I wanted that I might never get to have."
"Gunnar—"
"Let me finish." I reach for her hand, pull her closer. "I'm done waiting. Done being careful. Done letting fear or timing or anything else get in the way of what I want."
"What do you want?"
"You. All of you. Every day. For the rest of my life." I meet her eyes. "I want you to be my old lady, Ingrid. Officially. I want everyone to know you're mine and I'm yours. I want to build a life with you—a real life, not just stolen moments and uncertainty."
Her eyes are swimming with tears.
"Are you sure? I'm a mess, Gunnar. I'm damaged and scared and I don't know if I—"
"I'm sure. I've been sure for years. The only question is whether you're sure too."
She's quiet for a long moment.
So long that I start to wonder if I've made a mistake.
If I've pushed too hard, too fast.
If she's not ready.
Then she says, "Yes."
One word.
Barely a whisper.
But it changes everything.
"Yes?"
"Yes." She laughs, tears spilling over. "Yes, I want to be your ol’ lady. Yes, I want to build a life with you. Yes to all of it."
I pull her toward me—carefully, mindful of my injuries—and kiss her.
It hurts.
My side protests every movement.
But I don't care.
Because she said yes.
She's mine.
Officially.
Finally.
"We should probably start looking for a place," I say when we break apart. "I'm guessing you don't want to live in the clubhouse."
She laughs again, wiping her tears. "What gave it away?"
"Call it a hunch." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Something with a yard, maybe. Room to grow."
"Room to grow?"
"I mean—" I pause, suddenly aware of what I implied. "Not that we have to—I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." She's smiling. "And yeah. Room to grow sounds good."
We sit there for a while, holding hands, talking about hypothetical houses and neighborhoods and all the mundane details of a future that suddenly feels real.
Possible.
Within reach.
It's the best I've felt in days.
Maybe in years.
Then my stomach growls.
Loud.
Embarrassingly loud.
Ingrid laughs.
"When did you last eat?"
"Before the raid, I think? They had me on IV fluids, but—"
"You need real food. I'll go make you something." She stands. "What sounds good?"
"Anything. Everything. I'm starving."
"I'll see what's in the kitchen."
She kisses my forehead and slips out the door.
I watch her go, still not quite believing this is real.
That she said yes.
That we're doing this.
A few minutes later, the door opens again.
But it's not Ingrid.
It's her father.
He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
This should be interesting.
"Sir," I say.
"Don't 'sir' me. We're past that." He moves into the room, closes the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got stabbed."
"Funny. Your mother said you'd say that." He pulls up a chair, sits. "She also said you're healing well. That you'll make a full recovery."
"That's the plan."
"Good. We need you back on your feet." He pauses. "But that's not why I'm here."
"I know."
"You asked my daughter to be your ol’ lady."
It's not a question.
"How did you—"
"I saw her face when she left this room. I've known Ingrid her whole life. I know what that expression means." His eyes bore into mine. "You asked her, and she said yes."
"She did."
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
I don't look away.
Don't flinch.
Whatever he has to say, I'll take it.
"She's been hurt," Fenrir says finally. "By men in this club. Men I should've protected her from better than I did."
"I know."
"Njal and Bjorn—they treated her like garbage. Made her think she wasn't worth anything. It took years for me to understand how deep that damage went. How much she was hiding from us." His voice tightens. "I failed her. As a father. I didn't see what was happening until it was too late."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter now. What matters is what happens next. What happens with you."
"I love her," I say simply. "I've loved her for years. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving she's worth keeping. Worth fighting for. Worth everything."
"Pretty words."
"They're not just words. I almost died a few days ago.
The only thing I could think about was getting back to her.
Making sure she knew how much she mattered.
" I hold his gaze. "I know my word doesn't mean much right now.
I know I have to prove it. But I will. Every day. For as long as she'll have me."
Fenrir studies me for a long moment.
I can't read his expression.
Can't tell if I've passed whatever test this is or failed spectacularly.
Then he nods.
"Your parents raised a good man. Stubborn as hell, reckless sometimes, but good." He stands. "You have my blessing. Not that you needed it—Ingrid's a grown woman, makes her own choices. But for what it's worth, I'm glad she chose you."
Relief floods through me.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You fuck this up, and VP or not, father or not, I will end you. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." He moves toward the door, pauses with his hand on the handle. "The club's working on the trafficking situation. We'll get those kids back. But your job right now is to heal. Be there for my daughter. Give her something good to hold onto while we handle the ugly business."
"I will."
He nods once more, then leaves.
I sink back against the pillows, exhausted but lighter somehow.
Her father's blessing.
Her yes.
A future that's finally taking shape.
Now I just have to heal.
And hope we can save those kids before it's too late.
The door opens again.
Ingrid, this time carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and some bread.
"Chicken noodle," she announces. "It was that or leftover lasagna, and I figured soup would be easier on your stomach."
"Perfect."
She settles onto the edge of the bed, sets the tray on my lap.
"Your dad was here," I tell her.
She freezes. "What did he say?"
"He gave us his blessing."
"He did?"
"Also threatened to end me if I fuck this up."
She laughs, tension draining from her shoulders. "That sounds like Dad."
"I told him I love you. That I'd spend the rest of my life proving you're worth it."
Her eyes soften. "You don't have to prove anything to me."
"Yeah, I do. Every day. Forever." I take her hand. "That's what love is. Showing up. Proving it. Over and over."
She leans in, kisses me softly. "Eat your soup before it gets cold."
"Yes, ma'am."
She stays while I eat, stealing pieces of bread, telling me about the little things I missed while I was unconscious—club gossip, her sister's visit, the prospect who accidentally set a small fire in the kitchen.
Normal things.
Mundane things.
The kind of things that make up a life.
Our life.
Together.
When I finish eating, she takes the tray, sets it aside.
Then, carefully, she climbs onto the bed beside me.
Fits herself against my uninjured side.
Rests her head on my shoulder.
"Is this okay?" she asks. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You could never hurt me."
"Liar."
"Never. Not about you."
She snuggles closer, and I wrap my arm around her.
Hold her tight.
Breathe her in.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too."
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
"I'll try not to."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I have." I press a kiss to her hair. "But I'll always fight to come back to you. That I can promise."
She's quiet for a moment. "I'll hold you to that."
"I'm counting on it."
We lie there together, tangled up in each other, listening to the beep of the monitors and the distant sounds of the clubhouse.
And for the first time since I woke up, I feel at peace.