Prologue #2
"Actually, I don't," she says with a laugh. "I never had to deal with any of that. Tor checks in, but not so intensely."
Around eleven, I excuse myself to use the bathroom, needing a moment alone.
In the mirror, I check that my sleeves still cover the bruises, practice my smile until it looks almost real.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger—hollow eyes, forced smile, long sleeves in a warm kitchen.
This is who I am now—a woman who hides damage under fabric and fakeness.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's different:
Leaving Mom's now. That little shit Bjorn better watch himself. No security at the hospital during his appointments. Would be a shame if something happened.
My blood freezes.
He's threatening my brother.
My sixteen-year-old brother who's already lost so much.
I grip the sink, knuckles white, trying to breathe through the panic.
Another text:
Unless you want to find out what else I know, you better remember where your loyalty is.
Then:
Tuesday. 2 PM. Physical therapy room. Third floor. I have friends who work there.
And, before another minute has passed:
Amazing how vulnerable people are when they're learning to walk again.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to calm the panic attack building in my chest.
He wouldn't actually hurt Bjorn.
Would he? But I know the answer.
Dylan's connections are real.
The dangerous people he "knows" would do anything for the right price.
And hurting my already injured brother would destroy me—which is exactly what Dylan wants.
Complete control through fear.
Back in the kitchen, I try to focus on cooking, but my hands shake as I stir the filling.
Astrid notices, because of course she does.
"You sure you're okay?" she asks quietly, touching my shoulder gently.
I flinch before I can stop myself, and her eyes widen slightly. "Just worried about dinner turning out right," I lie, moving away from her touch. "I want everything to be perfect."
"Honey, nothing's ever perfect," Fern says from across the kitchen. "That's what makes it family."
The next couple of hours crawl by.
I help serve drinks, set tables, arrange centerpieces made from autumn leaves and small pumpkins the kids painted.
Anything to keep busy and keep my phone silent.
But I feel it vibrating in my pocket—Dylan getting impatient, getting angry.
Each buzz is like a countdown to disaster.
Through the window, I watch for his car, dread building with each passing minute.
The wait is almost worse than his presence—at least when he's here, I know what I'm dealing with.
The anticipation makes my skin crawl.
Just after two o'clock, his car pulls up outside.
I watch him check his appearance in the mirror, adjusting his hair, practicing his smile.
The performance is about to begin again.
My hands start trembling, and I clasp them together to hide it.
He enters carrying a bouquet of flowers—grocery store carnations dyed unnatural colors, but everyone coos over the gesture.
Such a thoughtful boyfriend.
So sweet to bring flowers on Thanksgiving.
"For the hostesses," he says, handing them to Fern with that practiced charm. "Thanks for including me today. I know it's family only, so I really appreciate the invitation."
"Of course," Fern says warmly. "You're always welcome. Any friend of Everly's is family."
Friend.
I notice how she’s specific in her choice of words, and the flicker of anger in his eyes.
I catch Starla watching us from across the room.
She sees through the act, I think.
Maybe they all do but are too polite to say anything.
Or maybe I'm just being paranoid—another gift from Dylan, never knowing who to trust.
"Babe, can I talk to you for a second?" Dylan's hand finds my elbow, grip just tight enough to be a warning. "Outside? I left something in the car."
My stomach drops, but I nod, following him out.
The cold air hits my flushed cheeks as he leads me around the corner, out of sight from the windows.
My boots crunch on gravel, each step taking me further from safety.
"Three hours," he hisses the second we're alone. "Three fucking hours you ignored my texts."
"I was cooking. My hands were covered in flour?—"
The slap comes fast, sharp enough to snap my head to the side.
Not hard enough to leave a mark—Dylan's too smart for that.
He knows exactly how much force to use, has perfected the art of invisible abuse.
"Don't lie to me," he snarls. "I saw you through the window on my way back. Laughing with those bitches, acting like you don't have a boyfriend waiting for you."
"They're not?—"
"Shut up." He crowds me against the brick wall, cold seeping through my jacket. "You're mine, Everly. Don't forget that. Now we're going back inside, and you're going to smile and act normal. But first..."
His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist right where the old bruises throb. "Your brother's appointment is Tuesday at two. Physical therapy, then prosthetic fitting. No guards. The staff there are very helpful when you know how to ask. Remember that when you're tempted to open your mouth."
"Please—"
"Shh." He strokes my cheek where he just slapped it, gentle now.
The switch makes me feel crazy, unbalanced. "I love you, baby. I just worry when you spend so much time here. These people are dangerous. They'll get you killed just like they got Flora killed."
The irony would be laughable if I wasn't so scared.
These "dangerous" people have never laid a hand on me.
It's the clean-cut boyfriend with the good job who leaves marks.
"Now smile," he orders. "We're going back inside. And Everly? Next time I text, you answer within five minutes. Or we'll have a very different conversation."
I force my face into something resembling happiness as we return to the warmth.
No one seems to notice anything wrong, too busy with dinner preparations to pay attention to me.
Dylan's arm around my shoulders probably looks affectionate, not controlling.
The feast is beautiful when it's finally ready.
Three golden turkeys surrounded by every side dish imaginable, Aziza's perfect pies waiting on the counter.
The formal dining room tables have been pushed together and covered with mismatched tablecloths, creating one long family table.
Candles flicker between dishes, casting warm light over faces I've come to love.
Everyone gathers around, finding seats, children squirming with excitement.
Dylan sits beside me, his hand immediately finding my thigh under the table.
To anyone watching, we look like a perfect couple.
They can't see how his fingers dig in whenever someone asks me a question, a reminder to be careful with my words.
"This looks amazing," someone says, and murmurs of agreement ripple around the table.
"Everly helped with all the pies," Aziza announces warmly. "She's got the touch."
"Just followed your instructions," I deflect, uncomfortable with praise.
"Don't be so modest, babe," Dylan says, his hand tightening on my leg. "You're always selling yourself short."
Just as Runes stands to speak, motorcycles rumble outside.
The men are back from their run.
My heart races—what if they found something?
What if this war ends tonight?
Geirolf enters with Fenrir, Emil, and Oskar, all looking exhausted but alive.
The energy in the room shifts with their presence—warriors returning home.
Runes gives his Thanksgiving speech about family and fighting together.
His weathered face shows every battle, every loss, but his voice is strong: "We've lost people we love. We've faced threats to our children, our homes. But look around this room. We're still here. Still fighting, still a family to be reckoned with."
When it comes time to share gratitude, I mumble something about being thankful for family and recovery, the words hollow in my mouth.
How can I be grateful when I'm trapped in this nightmare?
Dylan speaks up next. "I'm grateful for my beautiful girlfriend and for being welcomed into this family." His hand squeezes my thigh hard enough to bruise. "Even during difficult times. It means a lot to be included."
The meal continues, conversations flowing around me while I pick at my food.
Dylan makes small talk, gathering information with seemingly innocent questions.
How long will the lockdown last?
How are the businesses doing?
Is the club financially stable?
Each question is carefully crafted, probing for weaknesses.
I notice Runes paying close attention to every single question Dylan poses.
"Must be tough with everything closed," Dylan says to Dag, acting all sympathetic. "I know some people who might be able to help with cash flow if needed."
"We take care of our own," Dag responds curtly, and I feel Dylan tense beside me.
After dinner, as people start to scatter, Dylan leans close. "I should go. But we need to discuss some things. About us. About your loyalty."
"Can't it wait?—"
"Tomorrow," he says firmly. "My place. Noon. Wear the red dress."
I know what that means.
Know the price of keeping Bjorn safe.
The red dress is his favorite—the one he bought me, the one that makes me feel like a possession to be displayed.
"I have to work?—"
"Call out sick." His smile never wavers, but his eyes are cold. "Unless you want to test me. Unless you want to find out if I'm serious about Tuesday."
He stands, making a show of thanking everyone, shaking hands, playing the perfect guest.
At the door, he turns back to me. "Walk me to my car?"
It's not a request.
I follow him outside, where Astrid is on the porch getting air.
The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that remind me of blood.
"Everything okay?" she asks, looking between us.
"Perfect," Dylan says, but his grip on my arm tightens. "Just saying goodbye. Can't stay for dessert—work tomorrow."
We walk to his car in silence.
Once there, hidden from view, his mask drops completely.
"You embarrassed me today," he says quietly. "Barely talked to me, acted like I wasn't even there. Made me look like an idiot in front of those criminals."
"I didn't?—"