Mortify (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #3)

Prologue

Everly

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store feel too bright, making my head pound as I push the cart down another aisle.

Dylan walks beside me, his hand possessively on the small of my back, steering me like I'm a child who can't shop alone.

His fingers press through my jacket, finding the tender spots where last week's bruises haven't quite faded.

"Organic turkey? Really?" He picks up the price tag, shaking his head with that disgusted expression I've come to dread. "Forty dollars for a fucking bird? Your biker family must be loaded."

"The club's paying for it," I say quietly, adding the turkey to our cart anyway. "We need three of them. There's over fifty people?—"

His fingers dig into my back, a warning that makes me stop mid-sentence. "Wasting money on organic bullshit when regular would do fine. Typical. These criminals throw around cash while honest people struggle."

I don't respond.

I've learned silence is safer than defending my choices.

We continue through the store, Dylan criticizing every item—the sweet potatoes are too expensive, the brand of butter is wrong, why do we need so much flour?

Each complaint chips away at me, making me smaller, making me doubt every decision.

A woman with her toddler passes us in the baking aisle, and the little girl waves at me.

I smile back, and for just a moment, I remember who I used to be—someone who smiled without calculating the consequences first.

"Stop flirting," Dylan hisses in my ear. "You look desperate."

"She's a baby?—"

"Don't argue with me in public." His voice is pleasant, conversational, but his fingers find that spot on my ribs where he grabbed me three days ago. The bruise throbs under the pressure. "Add the fucking flour so we can go."

I reach for the store brand, but he stops me. "Not that one. Get the expensive one. If they're wasting money anyway, might as well get the best."

The contradiction makes my head spin—criticize me for expensive turkey, demand expensive flour.

It's a game I can never win, rules that change based on his mood.

"Could've been done an hour ago if you'd just bought normal shit," he mutters as we wait in the checkout line.

An elderly woman ahead of us glances back at his tone.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the question there—are you okay?

I force a smile, adjusting my expression to 'everything's fine.'

We're just a normal couple doing holiday shopping.

Nothing to see here.

The cashier, a young guy maybe nineteen, smiles at me as he starts scanning. "Big Thanksgiving planned?"

"Family gathering," I respond, returning his smile automatically.

Dylan's hand tightens on my waist. "Yeah, her family can't cook for shit, so she has to do everything."

He laughs like it's a joke, but I hear the edge underneath.

The cashier's smile falters slightly, sensing the tension.

He focuses on scanning items faster, clearly wanting us gone.

I stare at the credit card machine, avoiding everyone's eyes, wishing I could disappear.

Dylan's phone buzzes as we're loading bags.

He checks it, frowning. "My mom wants me to stop by. After we drop this shit off."

Relief floods through me so intense I almost sag against the cart.

A few hours without him hovering, criticizing, controlling. "That's fine. I'll help get dinner started while you're gone."

"You'll wait for me," he corrects, loading the last bag with unnecessary force. "Don't go getting too comfortable with those criminals. I'll be back."

The drive to the clubhouse is tense.

Dylan drums his fingers on the steering wheel, that nervous energy that usually means he's planning something.

I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets pass, trying to calm the anxiety building in my chest.

November trees stand bare against the gray sky, looking as stripped and exposed as I feel.

"Remember," he says as we pull up to the gate, "keep your ears open. These assholes are struggling with the lockdown. Businesses closed, medical bills piling up. Might be willing to make deals they normally wouldn't."

"I'm not spying on my family."

His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist hard enough to make me gasp.

Right over last week's bruises, the ones that haven't faded to yellow yet.

I can feel my pulse racing under his fingers, trapped like a butterfly he's slowly crushing.

"Your family?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The same family that got your brother's leg blown off? Same ones who let Flora die? Yeah, great fucking family."

"That wasn't?—"

"Shut up." He releases my wrist as one of the prospects, Bodul, approaches to open the gate.

Dylan's face transforms instantly, that fake charm sliding into place like a mask. "Happy Thanksgiving, man! Thanks for letting us through!"

Bodul nods, letting us through without saying a word.

The transformation always amazes me—how quickly Dylan can switch from cruel to charming, fooling everyone.

It's like watching two different people inhabit the same body.

We park and start unloading the groceries.

The November air is cold, cutting through my jacket, but the warmth coming from the clubhouse promises comfort I desperately need.

Through the windows, I can see women already working in the kitchen, kids running around, normalcy in the chaos.

Smoke rises from the chimney, carrying the smell of wood fire and roasting turkey.

"Quite the setup they've got," Dylan observes, scanning the reinforced fencing, the security cameras, the prospects on guard duty. "Like a fucking compound. What are they so scared of?"

"They're protecting their families," I say, hefting another bag.

"From enemies they created." He slams the trunk. "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Your brother's learning that the hard way."

The casual cruelty of mentioning Bjorn makes me fumble with the bags.

Dylan notices, of course he does, and smiles that cold smile that never reaches his eyes.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he says, pulling me close for what looks like an affectionate goodbye.

To anyone watching, it probably seems sweet—a boyfriend kissing his girl before leaving.

They can't see how his fingers dig into my arms through my jacket, can't hear the whispered threat: "Remember what we talked about.

I'll know if you say anything. And remember—Tuesday, 2 PM, physical therapy. No guards."

Astrid appears in the doorway just as he's releasing me. "Hey, you two! Perfect timing. We need all the help we can get."

Dylan turns on the charm instantly. "Just dropping Everly off with the supplies. Gotta visit my mom, but I'll be back later." He pulls me against him again, pressing a kiss to my temple that looks tender but feels like a brand. "Take care of my girl for me."

"That's sweet of you to visit your mom on Thanksgiving," Astrid says, but I catch her looking at me, something uncertain in her eyes. "Thanks for braving the stores today. I know they're crazy."

"No problem," Dylan replies, already heading back to his car. He calls over his shoulder, voice carrying clearly, "Everly, baby, text me if you need anything. Love you!"

"Love you too," I respond automatically, the words tasting like ash.

After he drives away, I stand there holding grocery bags, trying to switch gears.

From Dylan's girlfriend to Everly, EMT and sister and helper.

The mask I wear feels heavier each day, harder to maintain.

"You okay?" Astrid asks softly, studying my face. "You seem... tense."

"Yeah, just tired. Long morning at the store. You know how people get before holidays—fighting over the last can of cranberry sauce." I force a laugh. "Where do you need me?"

She doesn't look entirely convinced but doesn't push. "Kitchen's command central. Fair warning—it's chaotic as hell in there."

The kitchen is exactly what Astrid promised the moment we enter.

The smell of sage and butter fills the air, mixing with the sound of women laughing and chatting. This is what family feels like—warm and loud and accepting.

So different from the cold criticism I just left behind.

Steam rises from pots on the stove, windows fogged with condensation, making the space feel like a cozy cocoon.

"Thank the gods you're here," Charm says, taking bags from my arms.

Her red hair is pulled back in a messy bun, flour already dusting her cheek. "We're already behind schedule. Can you start on the pie filling? Aziza will walk you through her recipes."

I nod, grateful for the distraction.

Keeping busy means less time to think about Dylan, about the bruises under my long sleeves, about how I've become someone I don't even recognize anymore.

Aziza greets me with a warm smile, wearing a beautiful burgundy blouse that complements the holiday. "Ever made pie filling from scratch?"

"Not since I was little, with my mom," I admit.

"Then we'll refresh your memory. Come, I'll show you my secret ingredients."

We work side by side, her gentle instructions soothing my frayed nerves.

She doesn't ask why my hands shake slightly as I measure spices, doesn't comment when I jump at sudden noises.

Just continues talking in her calm voice about proportions and techniques.

The morning passes in a blur as we get everything ready for the day.

I help make pie filling while Aziza and Astrid work on crusts.

Every so often, my phone buzzes with texts from Dylan:

At Mom's. She says hi.

Then five minutes later:

Why haven't you responded?

Don't get too comfortable there.

Remember what I said about keeping your ears open.

That organic turkey better be worth it.

Mom thinks you should have come with me. I told her you chose them over us.

I respond just enough to keep him satisfied, hating myself for the automatic compliance.

Each ding makes my stomach clench, knowing that too long between responses means consequences later.

"Your phone's popular today," Meghan comments, glancing over from where she's chopping vegetables.

"Just Dylan checking in," I say, trying for casual. "You know how it is."