Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ingrid
I wake to the sound of Gunnar's heartbeat.
Steady, strong, and real.
My head is on his chest, my body curled against his side, and for a moment I just lie there.
Breathing.
Existing.
Feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
He's exhausted.
I can tell by the depth of his sleep, the heaviness of his breathing, the way he hasn't moved once since I woke up.
Whatever happened last night—whatever he did while I slept—it took something out of him.
Drained him in a way I haven't seen before.
I don't ask questions, but I don’t think I need to.
Some things are better left in the dark.
All I know is that the man who attacked me has been "handled."
That's enough.
That's everything.
Carefully, I lift my head.
Look at him.
The early morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows across his face.
He looks younger when he sleeps.
The tension is gone from his jaw.
The worry smoothed from his brow.
The hard edges softened into something almost boyish.
Just Gunnar.
My Gunnar.
The man who went to war for me.
I trace a finger along his cheekbone.
Light, barely touching.
He doesn't stir, doesn't even twitch.
He’s out cold.
I slip out of bed as carefully as I can, holding my breath as I ease my weight off the mattress.
My ribs ache with the movement, but it's manageable now.
A dull ache instead of the sharp, stabbing pain, but maybe that’s the pain meds.
Progress.
I'm healing.
Slowly, but I'm healing.
In the bathroom, I avoid the mirror.
I know what I look like.
The bruises fading from purple to sickly yellow-green.
The swelling is getting better, but not completely.
The cut on my arm still bandaged, still tender, still a reminder of what happened.
I don't need to see it.
Don't need that reminder right now.
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a messy ponytail.
Simple tasks.
Normal tasks.
The kind of things I took for granted before.
Before a man with a knife showed me how fragile normal really is.
When I come back out, Gunnar is still asleep, still hasn't moved.
I watch him for another moment, memorizing the peaceful expression on his face.
Then slip out the door.
The clubhouse feels different today.
There's an energy in the air.
A tension.
The kind that comes before something big.
Something dangerous.
I notice it immediately as I descend the stairs.
Men huddled in small groups, their voices low and serious.
Conversations that stop mid-sentence when I approach.
Eyes that dart away, not meeting mine.
Something is happening.
Something tonight.
I know it in my bones even before anyone says a word.
The air itself feels charged, electric with anticipation and dread.
In the kitchen, I find my mom making coffee.
The familiar smell of it fills the room—rich and dark and comforting.
She looks up when I enter, and her face softens. "Baby girl. How are you feeling?"
"Better. Sore, but better."
She crosses to me, cups my face in her hands.
Studies me with those mother's eyes that see everything.
Every bruise.
Every shadow.
Every unspoken fear.
"You look better. The swelling's going down."
"I know."
"Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
"Sit. I'll make you something."
I don't argue.
Honestly, I don't have the energy.
Just settle onto a stool at the counter and watch her move around the kitchen.
She cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking them, then butters toast before she pours orange juice.
The domestic normalcy of it is soothing.
A reminder that life goes on.
That breakfast still gets made.
That mothers still take care of their children.
Even when the world feels like it's falling apart.
"The club's tense," I say.
It's not a question.
Her hands pause for just a second, then she resumes. "Yes."
"Something's happening tonight."
Again, not a question.
"Yes."
"The traffickers?"
She turns to look at me.
Weighing how much to say.
How much I can handle.
How much will help versus how much will hurt.
"Gunnar got information from the man who attacked you. Names. Locations. There's a shipment tonight—kids being moved through a motel near the Georgia line. The club is going to intercept."
Kids. Children.
Being moved like cargo, like merchandise.
My stomach turns. "How many?"
"Six, they think."
Six children.
Six lives hanging in the balance.
Six kids who are counting on men like Gunnar to save them.
"And Gunnar's going."
"Yes. They all are. Fenrir, Runes, Tor, Hakon, Ulf—everyone."
Everyone.
The men I've known my whole life, riding into danger.
The man I love, risking everything again.
Just weeks after nearly dying from a stab wound.
"He almost died last time," I whisper.
"I know."
"What if—"
"Don't." Mom's voice is firm. "Don't go down that road. It doesn't help anything."
"How do you do it?" I look at her—my mother, who's been an ol’ lady for longer than I've been alive. "How do you watch Dad ride out knowing he might not come back?"
She's quiet for a moment, sets the spatula aside and leans against the counter.
Her expression is thoughtful, careful, like she's choosing her words with precision.
"I pray," she says finally. "I trust. And I remind myself that the man I married isn't the kind who sits back while bad things happen. He fights. He protects. That's who he is. That's who he's always been. I fell in love with that, and I can't ask him to be someone else."
"But the fear—"
"The fear never goes away. You just learn to live with it.
Learn to breathe through it. Learn to function even when every part of you wants to fall apart.
" She reaches across the counter, takes my hand.
"It's the price we pay for loving men like them.
Men who stand between the darkness and the innocent.
It's terrifying and it's beautiful and it's the life we chose. "
"I didn't choose this."
"Didn't you?" She smiles gently. "You chose Gunnar. You chose to love him. This is part of him—the protection, the violence, the willingness to risk everything for what's right. You can't separate the man from the mission."
I know she's right and I hate that she's right, but it doesn't make the fear any less real.
Doesn't make the thought of losing him any less devastating.
"Eat," she says, sliding a plate in front of me. "You need your strength. It's going to be a long day."
After breakfast, I wander through the clubhouse.
Restless.
Unable to sit still.
Unable to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.
The tension is everywhere now.
Impossible to ignore.
It hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.
I see Hakon and Ulf in the corner, checking weapons.
Guns disassembled and reassembled. Magazines loaded, counted, loaded again.
Knives sharpened until they gleam.
The tools of their trade.
The instruments of violence that keep the people they love safe.
Dad emerges from the chapel—kirkja, they call it—with Runes.
Both of them grim-faced.
Determined.
The weight of command is heavy on their shoulders.
My father catches my eye and crosses to me. "How are you feeling, baby girl?"
"Scared."
He doesn't sugarcoat it.
Doesn't tell me everything will be fine.
Doesn't offer empty reassurances that we both know would be lies.
Just nods.
"Fear is natural. What matters is what you do with it."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Let it remind you what's worth fighting for." He cups my face—the same gesture Mom used earlier. "We're going to bring those kids home. And then this is over. The network, the threats, all of it. We end it tonight."
"Promise me you'll come back."
"I promise."
"Promise me Gunnar will come back."
He hesitates.
Just for a second, just long enough for my heart to clench.
"I'll protect him with my life."
It's not the same as a promise.
But it's all he can give, and I love him for the honesty.
For not lying to me when a lie would have been so much easier.
"I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, sweetheart. More than you'll ever know."
He pulls me into a hug, careful of my ribs.
Gentle despite the violence he's about to commit.
That's my father.
Tender and terrifying at the same time.
I find Gunnar in our room around noon.
He's awake now, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
Lost in thought.
Lost in whatever darkness lives inside his head.
"Hey," I say softly.
He looks up.
Something shifts in his expression when he sees me.
The tension easing.
The hardness softening.
The shadows receding, just a little.
"Hey."
"How are you feeling?"
"I should be asking you that."
"I asked first."
He manages a small smile.
It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's there.
"Tired. Focused. Ready for this to be over."
I cross to him and stand between his knees.
I let him wrap his arms around my waist and pull me close.
His forehead rests against my stomach, his breath warm through my shirt. "Tonight," he says quietly.
"I know."
"We end it tonight."
"I know."
He lifts his head and looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes.
He’s exhausted, but determined.
So determined.
"I need you to understand something. What we're doing—it's dangerous. There's a chance—"
"Don't."
"Ingrid—"
"Don't tell me there's a chance you won't come back. I can't hear that right now. I can't process that right now."
"But I need you to know—"
"I already know." I cup his face. "I know the risks. I know what you're walking into. I know that last time you came back with a knife wound that almost killed you. I know all of it, Gunnar. And I'm terrified. I'm so fucking terrified I can barely breathe."
"Then let me say—"
"No. You don't get to say goodbye. You don't get to make this feel final." Tears burn my eyes. "You tell me you'll come back. That's what you say. Nothing else."
He's quiet for a long moment.
Searching my face.
Seeing the fear I can't hide.
"I'll come back."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
"Say it again."
"I promise, Ingrid. I will come back to you."