Scandal (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #10)

Prologue

Dalla

Ireland smells like rain even when it isn't raining.

That's the first thing I notice when I step off the plane—the wet, green scent of it, and the way the air sits heavier here than it does in Florida.

Cooler. Softer.

Like the whole country is wrapped in mist even under a pale spring sun.

"You're doing the thing," Rev says beside me, her hand finding mine as we descend the stairs onto the tarmac.

"What thing?"

"The deep breath thing. The 'I'm about to spiral' thing."

I squeeze her fingers and release them. "I'm not spiraling."

"Yet."

Doran's hand settles on the small of Rev's back as he guides her toward the waiting SUV, and I watch my sister lean into him without thinking about it.

Automatic, like her body knows exactly where it belongs.

For years they've been married, and she still looks at him like he hung the moon.

He still looks at her like she's the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

It's disgusting, beautiful, and sometimes it makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to think about too much.

"Dalla." Doran's voice pulls me back.

He's holding the car door open, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to stand on the tarmac all day, or...?"

"Just taking in the scenery."

"It's a runway."

"It's an Irish runway." I gesture at the gray sky, the green hills rolling in the distance beyond the airport's perimeter fence. "Look at that light. You can't get that light anywhere else. It's why all the best knitwear comes from here—they understand texture because they live in it."

"You're such a designer."

"I'm your designer. Who do you think picked out that sweater you're wearing?"

Rev glances down at the cream cashmere wrapped around her shoulders. "Fair point."

"It brings out your eyes."

Rev rolls hers—brown to my blue, the one thing we don't share. "Sure it does."

"Fine, it brings out your bone structure. Which is my bone structure. So really, I'm complimenting myself."

"You're impossible."

She snorts and grabs my hand, tugging me toward the car. "Get in, weirdo. You can be poetic about Irish light after we've had food and a nap."

I slide into the back seat beside her, and the driver pulls away before I've even finished buckling my seatbelt.

That's how things work in Doran's world.

Everything moves when he says move.

Everyone waits when he says wait.

It should probably unsettle me more than it does.

The power. The control.

The way men in suits appear out of nowhere to open doors and carry bags and speak in low voices about things I'm not supposed to hear.

But I grew up in the Raiders of Valhalla MC.

Daughter of the president.

I know what power looks like. I know how it moves.

This is just a different flavor of the same thing.

"How are you feeling about tomorrow?" Rev asks, her shoulder bumping mine as the SUV takes a curve.

Tomorrow. Seeing Greer.

My stomach does a slow roll.

"Fine."

"Liar."

"Optimistically terrified?"

Rev laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest.

We don't look identical—she's softer, settled into her life in ways that show in the curve of her cheeks, the ease of her posture.

I'm sharper and lighter.

Still hungry for something I haven't quite caught yet.

But our laughs are the same. They always have been.

"She's going to love them," Rev says, and there's no question in her voice.

No room for doubt.

That's my sister.

Once she decides something is true, the universe has no choice but to agree.

"She hasn't loved anything in months. Keiran showed her his fall collection concepts last week, and she said—and I quote—'I've seen more originality in airport gift shops.'"

"Keiran's a hack."

"Keiran went to Parsons."

"And you dropped out of med school to follow your gut." Rev's hand finds mine again. "Your gut is smarter than Keiran's entire education."

I want to believe her.

Gods, I want to believe her.

But Greer Mackenzie doesn't hand out approval like party favors.

She's built an empire on impossible standards, and I've watched her reduce designers with twice my experience to tears with a single raised eyebrow.

Tomorrow, I'm showing her my personal collection.

Not work I've done for the brand.

Not safe interpretations of her vision.

Mine.

Pieces I've been sketching in the margins of my notebooks for years, designs that feel like they're made of my own bones and blood.

If she hates them, I don't know what I'll do.

If she loves them...

I don't know what I'll do then either.

The Mackenzie estate unfolds like something out of a film.

We turn off the main road onto a private drive, and suddenly there are stone walls draped in ivy, rolling green fields dotted with horses, and barns that look like they cost more than most people's houses.

Everything is manicured but not fussy.

Elegant but lived-in.

The kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself because it's so deeply, obviously there.

"The horses are rescues," Doran says, following my gaze out the window. "My uncle, aunts, grandfather, and mother's project. They find them at auctions, usually days away from—" He stops, clears his throat. "They give them a second chance."

There's something in his voice.

Something soft that doesn't match the sharp lines of his jaw, the cold authority he wears like armor.

I file it away, another piece of the puzzle that is my brother-in-law.

A chestnut mare lifts her head as we pass, watching the SUV with liquid dark eyes.

Her coat gleams copper in the afternoon light.

Beside her, a gray gelding grazes peacefully, his tail flicking at flies that probably don't even exist in this cool Irish air.

"How many?" I ask.

"Seventeen, last I counted. Mum has a whole staff dedicated to their care. Veterinarians, trainers, stable hands." Doran's mouth curves slightly. "She says they understand loyalty better than people."

"Smart woman."

"The smartest I know."

The house itself sits at the end of the drive, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping.

It's newer construction—I can tell by the clean lines, the precision of the stonework—but it's been designed to feel timeless.

Pale limestone walls.

Tall windows that catch the afternoon light.

A slate roof that gleams wet even though it hasn't rained in hours.

Formal gardens frame the entrance, but beyond them, the lawns roll wild toward the pastures, blurring the line between cultivated and untamed.

It's a house that knows exactly what it is.

Confident. Unapologetic. Very Greer.

"Home sweet home," Rev murmurs, and I catch the slight tension in her voice.

This world still doesn't fit her quite right.

She loves Doran—gods, she loves him—but she's still a Raiders of Valhalla girl at heart.

Still more comfortable in jeans and leather than designer dresses and diamond earrings.

I wonder sometimes if she misses it.

The club.

The life we left behind when she followed Doran into his world.

But then he helps her out of the car, his hand lingering on her waist, and she smiles up at him like he's the only thing that matters.

Maybe home isn't a place.

Maybe it's a person.

Maybe that's the scariest thought I've had all day.

We make our way inside and surprisingly, Greer meets us in the foyer, and even after five years, she still takes my breath away.

It's not that she's beautiful—though she is, in that ageless, effortless way that makes you forget to count the years.

It's the way she holds herself.

The way her eyes see everything.

The way she commands a room without raising her voice or lifting a finger.

Aleksandr stands beside her, a wall of quiet menace wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit.

His silver hair is swept back from his face, and his pale eyes track our movements with the kind of attention that makes you very aware of your own heartbeat.

I've met him a dozen times.

He still makes my palms sweat.

Everything about him screams danger—not the loud, obvious kind, but the patient, calculating variety.

The kind that waits.

Watches.

Strikes only when victory is certain.

He and Greer are a matched set.

Ice and iron. Beauty and blade.

I wonder sometimes what it looked like when they were dating.

If it was even dating at all, or just two predators recognizing each other across a crowded room.

"Doran." Greer pulls her son into an embrace, holding him for a beat longer than expected.

When she releases him, her hands frame his face, studying him. "You look tired."

"I'm fine, Mum."

"You're working too hard."

"I learned from the best."

Something flickers in her expression—pride, maybe, or worry.

With Greer, it's hard to tell.

She turns to Rev next, and her whole demeanor softens. "Revna. You're glowing."

"It's just the jet lag," Rev says, but she's smiling as Greer pulls her into a hug.

Then those sharp eyes land on me.

"Dalla."

"Mrs. Mackenzie."

"We've discussed this."

"Greer." The name still feels strange in my mouth.

Too familiar for someone I worship from afar.

She studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

I'm twenty-six years old.

I run my own projects.

I've presented at fashion weeks in four different countries.

Greer Mackenzie still makes me feel like a nervous intern.

"You brought your portfolio?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Good. We'll look at it tomorrow morning. Nine sharp."

Not a request. A summons.

"I'll be there."

She nods once, then turns to Aleksandr.

Something passes between them—a silent conversation in a language only they speak—and then he's guiding us deeper into the house, talking about dinner plans and guest rooms and schedules for the week.

I follow in a daze, my heart already racing toward tomorrow.

Dinner is an elaborate affair served in a dining room that could seat thirty, though tonight it's just the five of us at one end of the long table.

Crystal and china.

Candles flickering in silver holders.

Wine that probably costs more than most people’s rent.