Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gunnar
The house smells like home.
It's strange how fast that happened—how a space that was empty two weeks ago now feels like the place I'm supposed to be.
Ingrid's touches are everywhere.
The throw pillows she picked out.
The plants on the windowsill.
The photos of us she's already hung on the walls.
Our life, taking shape around us.
Mom's sitting on the new couch—the sectional Ingrid wanted, the one that fits ten people—surrounded by the housewarming gifts she brought.
Dish towels.
A casserole dish.
A framed print that says "Home Is Where the Heart Is" in cursive script.
"Your father wanted to come," she says, unwrapping another gift. "But he’s been doing some digging into the traffickers for Runes and didn’t want to lose his mojo."
"It's fine. Tell him thanks for everything."
"You can tell him yourself at Sunday dinner." She smiles. "Ingrid's coming, right? Your father's been dying to grill her about wedding plans."
"She'll be there. She's just finishing up at work."
I check my phone.
It’s almost six.
She should've texted by now.
We have a system—she texts when she's locking up, texts again when she's in her car, texts a third time when she's five minutes away.
It's probably overkill.
But after everything that's happened—the trafficking investigation, my stabbing, the threats against the club—overkill feels necessary.
"Stop checking your phone," Mom says. "She's fine."
"She usually texts by now."
"She's probably just running late. Last client went long. You know how it is."
"Yeah. Probably."
But something feels off.
Something I can't name.
A tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with my healing wound.
I type out a text:
Hey, you okay? Thought you'd be done by now.
Send it.
Wait.
No response.
"Gunnar." Mom's watching me. "You're spiraling. She's fine."
"I know. I just—"
Her phone rings.
She glances at the screen, frowns slightly, answers.
"Hey… yeah?" Her expression shifts. "What? When? How bad?"
My blood goes cold.
"Mom?"
She holds up a hand, listening intently.
Her face goes pale.
Then paler.
"I'm on my way. Call Gwen. Call Reynolds. We need everyone."
She hangs up.
Starts moving immediately, grabbing her purse, her keys.
"Mom. What's wrong? Who's hurt?"
She hesitates.
Doesn't want to tell me.
That hesitation is worse than anything she could say.
"Mom. Who?"
"It's Ingrid." Her voice breaks on the name. "Someone attacked her at the spa. Fenrir found her. She's—she's hurt bad, Gunnar."
The world stops.
Just—stops.
Everything goes silent except for the roaring in my ears.
Ingrid.
Attacked.
Hurt bad.
"Give me your keys."
"Gunnar, your wound—you shouldn't be driving—"
"Give me. Your keys."
She doesn't argue.
Just hands them over.
We're out the door in seconds.
I drive like a man possessed.
Running red lights.
Taking corners too fast.
My wound screams with every sharp turn, every sudden stop.
I don't care.
I don't fucking care.
"What did they say?" I demand. "Who called? What happened?"
"Fenrir. He found her at the spa. The lights were still on, he thought it was strange, went to check—" Mom's voice is shaky. "She was on the floor. Beaten. Cut. Almost unconscious."
Beaten.
Cut.
The words don't make sense.
Don't compute.
Ingrid, who was smiling at me this morning.
Ingrid, who kissed me goodbye and said she'd text when she left work.
Ingrid, who's supposed to be safe.
"Who did it?"
"I don't know. Fenrir didn't have details. Just that she's alive and we need to get there now."
Alive.
She's alive.
Hold onto that.
She's alive.
I press harder on the accelerator.
The spa comes into view.
Fenrir's truck is parked out front.
Gwen's car is just pulling up as I screech to a stop.
I'm out of the car before the engine's fully off.
Running.
My side is on fire but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
Have to get to her.
The spa door is open.
Inside, the lights are on.
Everything looks normal.
Peaceful.
Then I see the blood.
A trail of it, smeared across the floor.
Leading toward the back.
Toward the rooms.
"Ingrid!"
I follow the blood.
Each step feels like a mile.
Each heartbeat feels like an eternity.
The massage room door is open.
Fenrir's kneeling beside her, blocking the view.
His face—I've never seen our VP look like that.
Broken.
Terrified.
Murderous.
All at once.
"Move," I say.
He steps aside.
And I see her.
She's on the floor.
Curled into herself.
So much blood.
Her face is swollen, bruised—one eye already purple and closing.
Her arm is cut—a long gash from elbow to wrist, still seeping, even though her father is applying pressure with a towel.
Her breathing is shallow.
Labored.
Wrong.
For one horrible second, I think she's dead.
Then she whimpers.
A small sound.
Broken.
But alive.
She's alive.
I'm on the floor beside her in an instant, knees hitting the tile hard.
"Ingrid. Baby. I'm here. I'm here."
Her eyes flutter, but they don't open.
"Don't move her." Gwen's there now, pushing past me, medical bag in hand. "We don't know what's injured. Let me assess."
I don't want to move.
Don't want to let go of her hand.
But I force myself back.
Give Gwen room to work.
Watch helplessly as she checks vitals, examines injuries, calls out findings.
"Broken ribs—at least two, maybe three. Facial contusions, possible fracture to the orbital bone. Deep laceration on the left arm—not arterial, but needs sutures. Signs of abdominal trauma—we need imaging. Could be internal bleeding."
Internal bleeding.
The words hit like a punch.
"Reynolds is on his way," Mom says. She's beside me now, professional mode engaged despite the fear in her eyes. "What do you need?"
"More pressure on that arm wound. And someone call ahead—if there's internal bleeding, she needs a CT. We can't handle that here."
"Hospital means police," Fenrir says. His voice is flat. Controlled. Barely. "Questions we can't answer."
"Hospital means saving her life if her organs are bleeding out," Gwen snaps. "We can deal with the police later."
"Reynolds has contacts," Mom says. "People who don't ask questions. Let him make some calls."
I don't care about police.
Don't care about questions.
Don't care about anything except the woman bleeding on the floor.
"What happened?" I manage. "Who did this?"
Fenrir's jaw tightens.
"She was conscious when I found her. Just for a minute." He pauses. "It was a message, Gunnar. For you. For the club. About the trafficking."
The trafficking.
Of course.
Those bastards.
Those fucking bastards.
"A man posing as a client," Fenrir continues. "Attacked her after Fern left. Beat her. Cut her. Told her to tell us to back off. 'This is the last warning.'"
Last warning.
They came after my fiancée to send me a message.
Hurt the woman I love because I tried to save children from monsters.
The rage that fills me is unlike anything I've ever felt.
Cold.
Calculated.
Lethal.
"He took her ring."
The words snap me back.
"What?"
"Her engagement ring." Fenrir's voice breaks slightly. "He took it. She kept saying—when she was conscious—she was sorry about the ring. Sorry she lost it."
The ring I picked out with her mother.
The ring that belonged to a woman who wore it for fifty years.
The ring I slid onto her finger when I asked her to be my wife.
They took it.
"I'm going to kill him." The words come out quiet. Calm. Absolutely certain. "I'm going to find him and I'm going to kill him."
"Get in line," Fenrir says.
Dr. Reynolds arrives in twelve minutes, but it feels like twelve hours.
He takes over from Gwen, and does a more thorough assessment.
His face is grim when he finishes.
"The ribs are definitely broken. The arm needs sutures, but that's manageable. It's the abdominal trauma I'm worried about. She took significant blows to the torso. Without imaging, I can't rule out internal bleeding."
"Then we get imaging," I say.
"A CT scan means a hospital. A hospital means—"
"I don't care what it means. If she needs it, she gets it."
Reynolds nods slowly.
"I have a contact at St. Mary's. Radiologist who owes me a favor. I can get her in as a Jane Doe—cash payment, no questions asked, no police notification. But it'll cost."
"Money's not an issue," Fenrir says. "Whatever it takes."
"I'll make the call."
He steps away, phone already to his ear.
I kneel beside Ingrid again.
Take her uninjured hand in mine.
Her fingers are cold.
Too cold.
"I'm here," I tell her, even though she can't hear me. "I'm right here. You're going to be okay. I promise. I promise you're going to be okay."
Her eyelids flutter.
For a second, I think she's waking up.
But she doesn't open her eyes.
Just whimpers again.
That small, broken sound that destroys me.
"We're in," Reynolds announces, returning. "They'll take her now. Back entrance, private room. Cash up front, no records."
"Let's move."
The hospital is a blur.
White walls.
Fluorescent lights.
Hushed voices and the beep of machines.
They take her for the CT scan.
I have to wait outside.
Those fifteen minutes are the longest of my life.
I pace.
Can't sit still.
Can't think about anything except her.
Mom sits in a plastic chair, watching me with worried eyes.
"You need to sit down," she says. "You're going to tear something."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're running on adrenaline and you had a knife wound a few weeks ago."
"I said I'm fine."
She doesn't push, just watches me with those concerned eyes of hers.
Finally—finally—the radiologist emerges.
"Good news," he says immediately. "No internal bleeding. Some significant bruising to the liver and kidneys, but nothing that requires surgery. She's lucky."
Lucky.
She's beaten and bloody and traumatized and he calls it lucky.
But he's right.
It could've been worse.
It could've been so much worse.
"We've sutured the arm wound and bandaged the ribs. She's stable enough to move." He glances at Reynolds. "I assume you want to take her somewhere private?"