Chapter 3 #2
"Without hesitation."
"Yes."
"And you'd do it again. For her."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I'd do worse."
Something shifts in his expression.
Not quite respect—not yet—but acknowledgment.
Recognition of what I am.
"You're cocky for a boy your age."
"I'm effective for a man of any age."
The silence stretches.
The whole room is watching now—prospects, patched members, everyone.
This is a pissing match, and we both know it.
Father protecting daughter. Soldier refusing to back down.
Then Runes laughs.
It's not a warm sound, exactly, but it's not hostile either.
Something in between. A predator recognizing another predator.
"You've got balls, I'll give you that." He releases my hand.
"All right, Brotherhood boy. You can stay.
But you follow my rules on my territory.
You don't touch my daughter without her permission.
And if you fuck up—if anything happens to her because you weren't good enough—I'll gut you myself and feed you to the gators. We clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good." He turns away, then pauses. "She’ll be in the basement. We're doing renovations down there—turning it into guest quarters for when other clubs visit. It's not finished, but it's private. You'll be down there too. Across the hall."
Across the hall.
Close enough to protect her.
Close enough to hear her.
Close enough to drive myself absolutely mad.
"Understood."
Runes walks away to greet his daughter properly, pulling her into a hug that softens every hard line in his body.
I watch them together—father and daughter, MC president and fashion designer, two people who clearly love each other even if their lives have taken them in different directions.
He holds her for a long moment, murmuring something in her ear that makes her nod, her face pressed against his chest.
When he finally releases her, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "Scared the shit out of me, baby girl," he says roughly. "When Doran called—"
"I know, Dad. I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Not your fault some bastards decided to make a point." His jaw tightens. "We'll handle it. One way or another."
A woman appears beside them.
Fern, I assume—Dalla's mother.
She's beautiful in a way that explains where Dalla got her looks, same features, minus the scarring that covers up part of her face from a fire many years ago, and a warmth in her expression that's pure maternal relief.
She's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, no makeup.
This is a woman who's spent decades in the MC life, who's seen things that would break most people, and who's still standing.
Still soft where it matters.
"My baby," she says, pulling Dalla from Runes' arms into her own. "My baby girl. When they called—when they told us what happened—"
"I'm okay, Mom." Dalla's voice is thick. "I'm okay. I'm here."
"You're never leaving again. I don't care what Greer Mackenzie says. You're staying right here where I can see you."
"Mom—"
"I mean it, Dalla." Fern pulls back, her hands framing her daughter's face. "I know you love your job. I know you need your independence. But you're my child, and someone tried to kill you, and I need you close. At least for a while. Can you give me that?"
Dalla's expression softens. "Yeah, Mom. I can give you that."
Fern hugs her again, tighter this time, and I see Runes watching them with something raw and protective in his eyes.
This is what he fights for.
What he'd kill for.
What he'd die for.
Family.
I look away and give them privacy.
And try not to think about what it would feel like to have someone worry about me like that.
My mother left when I was three.
Da raised me alone, poured everything into making me a weapon instead of a son.
I don't know what it's like to have someone's face light up when I walk into a room.
Don't know what it's like to be held like I'm precious, like I'm loved, like I matter more than the job I can do.
Dalla has that.
Has people who would burn the world down for her.
And damn me, I want to be one of them.
The basement is exactly as Runes described: unfinished but private.
A narrow staircase leads down from a door near the back of the clubhouse, and supposedly they’re working on drilling below so there’s access from within the clubhouse.
The space below has been partially renovated—fresh drywall on some walls, exposed studs on others.
Construction materials are stacked in corners: lumber, drywall sheets, buckets of joint compound.
The bones of six bedrooms are framed out, along with what looks like three shared bathrooms, but only two rooms are actually complete.
And by "complete," I mean they have doors, drywall, and functioning electricity. Barely.
"The plan is to use this for visiting members from other charters," Dalla repeats her father’s words as she leads me down the hall. "Or guests from allied clubs. Dad's been working on it for months, but you know how construction goes. Always takes longer than expected."
I nod, cataloging the space.
One exit—the staircase we came down.
Small windows near the ceiling in each room, too narrow for a grown man to fit through but enough to let in some natural light.
The walls are thin—I can already tell sound will carry.
"This one's yours." Dalla pushes open the first door to reveal a small bedroom with a window well near the ceiling, a dresser, and a bed that looks like it's been here since the Cold War.
I eye the mattress.
It's sagging in the middle, the springs visible through the worn fabric.
The frame beneath it is metal, rusted in places.
My back already aches just looking at it—the old bullet wounds never healed quite right, and a bad mattress turns discomfort into agony within hours.
"Charming," I say.
"The Ritz was booked." She's almost smiling. "Sorry about the mattress. It's been down here forever. Dad keeps saying he'll replace it, but..."
"It's fine."
"You don't have to be tough, you know. I can ask him to—"
"I said it's fine." The words come out harder than I intend. I see her blink, recalibrate. "I've slept on worse. Much worse. This is a palace compared to some of the places I've been."
She studies me for a moment, like she's trying to read the stories written in my scars. Then she lets it go.
"Mine's across the hall. Bathroom's between us—we'll have to share until they finish the others."
Share a bathroom.
Brilliant.
Just what I need—her toothbrush next to mine, her shampoo in the shower, the sound of water running while I try not to imagine what's happening on the other side of the door.
"There's a small common area down here too." She leads me further down the hall to a space with a worn couch, a mini fridge, and a TV that looks like it predates my birth. "It's not much, but it's quiet. The main clubhouse can get loud at night."
"This is fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
She rolls her eyes, but there's something fond in the gesture.
Like she's already getting used to my stubbornness.
Like she's already deciding how to work around it.
That should worry me more than it does.
She turns to face me, and suddenly we're alone for the first time since the plane.
No prospects watching.
No parents hovering.
Just the two of us in this half-finished basement, surrounded by construction dust and the ghosts of conversations we haven't had yet.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For what you did in Dublin. For what you said to my father. For... all of it."
"It's my job."
"You keep saying that." She steps closer. "But I don't think it is. Not anymore."
My jaw tightens. "Dalla—"
"You told me we'd finish our conversation. When I was safe. When you figured out who tried to take me." Her chin lifts. "I'm safe now. Aren't I?"
She's close enough that I can smell her perfume.
Close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
Close enough that one step forward would put her in my arms.
I don't take that step.
"You should get some rest," I manage. "It's been a long day."
Disappointment flickers across her face, but she doesn't push. Just nods once and turns toward her room.
"Goodnight, RJ."
"Goodnight, Dalla."
She disappears through her door, and I'm left standing in the hallway, fists clenched at my sides, every nerve in my body screaming at me to follow her.
I don't.
Instead, I go to my own room, close the door, and sink onto the world's worst mattress.
The springs dig into my back immediately—right into the scar tissue from old bullet wounds that never healed quite right.
Fecking perfect.
I stare at the ceiling and think about her.
About the way she looked at me just now, like she was waiting for me to be brave enough to take what we both want.
About how she fits into this world so easily—MC princess, fashion designer, daughter of a man who threatened to feed me to alligators.
About how I'm supposed to protect her when I can't even protect myself from the way she makes me feel.
Sleep doesn't come.
I lie awake for hours, listening to the sounds of the clubhouse above—muffled music, laughter, the rumble of motorcycles coming and going.
The construction dust tickles my nose.
The mattress tries to swallow me whole.
Around three in the morning, I give up and start doing push-ups on the concrete floor.
Better than lying there thinking about her.
Better than imagining what might have happened if I'd been brave enough to close that distance.
Better than admitting that I'm already in too deep to save myself.
I'm up before dawn, running the perimeter of the compound.
Six acres, give or take.
Fenced on all sides, cameras at regular intervals, motion sensors in the tree line.
The Raiders take security seriously—I'll give them that.
But there are gaps.
Blind spots.
Places where someone patient enough could slip through.
I make mental notes. I’ll talk to Runes later, see if he'll listen to a Brotherhood boy's suggestions.
Probably not, but I have to try.
The Florida morning is already warm, the air thick with humidity and the smell of swamp.
I miss Ireland.
I miss the cold, the wet, the gray skies that match my mood.
This place is too bright.
Too alive.
Too full of colors and sounds and sensations that don't match the darkness inside me.
I finish my run and head back toward the clubhouse, sweat soaking through my shirt.
That's when I see it.
A car. Dark sedan. Parked on the road just outside the main gate, engine idling.
Could be nothing. Could be someone lost, checking their phone, waiting for a friend.
Could be something else entirely.
I stop and watch.
The car sits there for another thirty seconds, then pulls away slowly.
Deliberately. Like whoever's driving wanted me to see them.
My gut tightens.
The Krajncs are Slovenian.
Their operation is in Belfast, across the Atlantic.
They shouldn't have resources here, shouldn't have people watching the Raiders of Valhalla’s clubhouse.
So, who the fuck was that?
I file it away. Don't mention it to anyone—not yet. Could be paranoia. Could be nothing.
But my instincts have kept me alive this long, and right now they're screaming that something is very, very wrong.
Dalla emerges from the basement around nine, still soft with sleep, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.
She's wearing cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder, and she looks so fucking beautiful it hurts to breathe.
Her feet are bare, her face free of makeup, and there's a pillow crease still visible on her cheek.
This is what she looks like first thing in the morning.
This is what some lucky bastard will get to see every day for the rest of his life.
The thought makes my chest ache.
"Morning," she mumbles, making a beeline for the coffee pot.
"Morning."
I'm at the bar, nursing my own cup, watching the prospects set up for the day.
Bodul is wiping down glasses, Njal is stocking bottles, arranging them, and the fifth prospect—I've learned his name is Aren—is sweeping the floors, headphones in, lost in his own world.
The rhythm of the clubhouse is different from the Brotherhood house in Dublin, but there's something familiar about it too.
Men with a purpose.
A family built on loyalty and blood.
The Norse imagery on the walls—the ravens, the wolves, the runic symbols—reminds me that this club has built its identity around something larger than themselves.
Vikings. Warriors.
The promise of Valhalla for those who die with honor.
Different gods than the ones I was raised with.
Same devotion.
Dalla pours herself a cup and slides onto the stool beside me.
Her bare knee brushes against my thigh.
I don't move away and neither does she.
"Sleep well?" she asks innocently.
"Like the dead."
"Liar." She sips her coffee, hiding a smile. "I heard you doing push-ups around three this morning. The walls down there are thin."
Shite. Thinner than I thought.
"Couldn't sleep."
"The mattress?"
"Among other things."
Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her cup.
Blue and knowing and far too perceptive for my sanity.
She's figured me out already—or she's starting to.
She knows the mattress is killing my back.
She knows I'm fighting against something I can't name.
"We could trade," she offers. "My mattress is actually comfortable."
"I'm fine."
"RJ—"
"I said I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intend. I see her flinch, see the hurt flash across her face, and I hate myself for it. "I'm sorry. I just... I need to maintain some boundaries here. For both our sakes."
"Boundaries." She sets down her cup. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"It's what it is."
"Right." She stands, and her expression has gone cool. Professional. A wall I don't know how to climb. "Well. I have work to do. Greer's expecting sketches in three weeks, and I've lost two days to international travel and assassination attempts. I'll be in my room if you need me."
"Dalla—"
But she's already walking away, and I let her go.
It's better this way. Safer. For both of us.
But as I watch her disappear down the basement stairs, I can't shake the feeling that I just made a terrible mistake.
That, and the memory of that dark sedan, idling outside the gate.
Watching.
Waiting.
I pull out my phone and send a quick message to
Da:
Arrived safe. Principal settled. Will report tonight.
His response comes within seconds:
Good. Stay sharp. Something feels off here.
I stare at the message. Da's instincts are even better than mine.
If he's feeling something in Dublin, and I'm feeling something here...
Maybe the Krajncs aren't our only problem.
Maybe they never were.
Something's coming.
I can feel it.
And I'm not sure I'm ready for what it is.