Chapter 7 #2
"I'll protect her from whatever comes. Irish, local, doesn't matter."
"Even if it means going against your orders?"
The question hangs between us.
My orders are to protect Dalla from the Krajncs, the threat out of Dublin.
If the real danger is here, in Florida, from enemies of the Raiders of Valhalla...
"My orders are to keep her safe," I say carefully. "The source of the threat doesn't change that."
Runes nods slowly. "Good answer."
He stands, extending his hand.
I shake it, and his grip is firm—not a test this time. An acknowledgment. "Welcome to the family, Brotherhood. Try not to get my daughter killed."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Friday dinner is a revelation.
Their family home is separate from the clubhouse—a sprawling ranch house away from compound, where they have the VP and his wife as a neighbor, surrounded by oak trees draped in Spanish moss.
It's warm and lived-in, full of family photos and comfortable furniture and the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen.
Fern greets us at the door with hugs for both of us—Dalla first, then me, which catches me off guard.
No one's hugged me since... I can't remember when.
"Come in, come in," she says, ushering us inside. "Everyone's in the living room. Tor and Meghan just got here with Tindra."
Dalla's hand finds mine, squeezing briefly before she pulls away to greet her family.
Tor is impossible to miss.
He's a big man—tall and broad, with the same dark hair as Runes but softer features, kinder eyes.
He's in his mid-forties, I'd guess, and when he sees Dalla, his whole face lights up.
"There's my baby sister." He pulls her into a bear hug, lifting her off her feet. "Heard you've been causing trouble."
"I don't cause trouble. Trouble finds me."
"Uh huh." He sets her down and turns his attention to me, his expression shifting to one of amusement. "And you must be the security detail."
"RJ Malone. Brotherhood."
"Tor." He shakes my hand, still grinning. "So, you're the one who's been 'protecting' my sister."
"Tor," Dalla warns.
"What? I'm just saying. That's some very... thorough protection. Round the clock, from what I hear."
"Oh my god."
"The walls in that clubhouse are thin, Dalla. Very thin."
Dalla's face is bright red.
I feel my own cheeks heating, which hasn't happened since I was a teenager.
"Leave them alone," a woman says, appearing at Tor's side. She's beautiful—blonde hair, warm eyes, the kind of face that suggests she's spent decades putting up with exactly this kind of bullshit. "I'm Meghan. Please ignore my husband. He thinks he's funny."
"I am funny."
"You're really not." She takes my hand, her grip warm and firm. "It's nice to meet you, RJ. Anyone who makes Dalla smile like she has been is welcome in this family."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Meghan. Please."
A younger woman bounces into view—and that's the only word for it.
Bounces.
She's in her early twenties, with her father’s dark hair but lighter eyes, and she's possibly the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
Not in the polished way that Greer Mackenzie is beautiful, but in a natural, almost ethereal way that makes you want to stare.
"Oh. My. God." She's looking at me with undisguised interest. "Auntie Dalla. You didn't tell me your bodyguard was hot."
"Tindra," Meghan sighs.
"What? I'm just stating facts. Look at him. He's like a broody Irish romance novel come to life." She circles me like I'm a sculpture in a museum. "The jaw. The eyes. The whole 'I'll kill anyone who touches her' vibe. Auntie Dalla, how do you get any work done?"
"I manage," Dalla says dryly.
"I wouldn't. I'd just stare at him all day." Tindra finally stops circling and sticks out her hand. "Tindra. I'm the cool niece."
"Nice to meet you."
"You too, Hot Bodyguard." She winks, then bounces over to Dalla, linking their arms together. "Okay, you have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. How did this happen? When did it happen? Is he as intense in bed as he looks? Because—"
"Kitchen," Meghan interrupts firmly. "Now. Both of you. You can gossip while you help me with the salad."
She herds the younger women away, leaving me standing in the living room with Tor and the distant sound of Runes and Fern talking.
"She's something, isn't she?" Tor says, nodding toward where Tindra disappeared. "My daughter. Twenty-four years old and still hasn't figured out that filter between brain and mouth."
"She seems... spirited."
Tor laughs. "That's one word for it. The last time Greer came out here she got one look at her and keeps trying to sign her to some modeling contract. Tindra keeps saying she'd rather 'do literally anything else.' I think she's holding out for competitive eating."
I don't know if he's joking or not.
"Sit," Tor says, gesturing to the couch. "Dinner won't be ready for another twenty minutes, and I want to talk to you."
I sit, suddenly wary.
This is Dalla's older brother.
In some ways, his opinion matters more than Runes'.
But instead of an interrogation, Tor just settles into the armchair across from me and grins.
"Relax. I'm not going to threaten you."
"You're not?"
"Nah. Dad already did that, I'm sure. And honestly?" He shrugs. "I think it's hilarious. My baby sister, falling for her bodyguard. It's like something out of a movie."
"I'm glad our relationship amuses you."
"Oh, it does. Immensely." His grin fades slightly, becoming something more serious. "But I can also see how you look at her. Like she's the center of your universe. Like you'd burn down the world if someone tried to take her from you."
"I would."
"I know." He nods. "That's why I'm not worried. Dalla's never had someone look at her like that. She deserves it." A pause. "Just don't hurt her, yeah? Because if you do, I won't threaten you. I'll just kill you."
"Fair enough."
"Good." His grin returns. "Now, let me tell you about the time Dalla accidentally set the clubhouse kitchen on fire trying to make toast. She was twelve, and—"
"Tor!" Dalla's voice carries from the kitchen. "Whatever you're telling him, stop!"
"I'm telling him nothing! Just family history!"
"That's what I'm afraid of!"
Tor winks at me. "This is going to be fun."
Dinner is chaos in the best possible way.
Seven people around a table built for six, passing dishes back and forth, talking over each other, laughing at jokes I don't fully understand.
Apparently, Arik, Dalla’s adopted older brother should be here, but he’s out with his latest conquest.
Fern keeps piling food on my plate despite me telling her I’m full.
Runes watches me with that assessing gaze, but there's less hostility in it now—more curiosity.
Tor tells embarrassing stories about Dalla's childhood while she threatens to reveal equally embarrassing stories about him.
Meghan and Fern try to keep the peace.
Tindra provides commentary on everything like she's narrating a reality show.
"And then—" Tor is practically crying with laughter— "she tried to put out the fire with orange juice. Orange juice, RJ. Because it was the closest liquid."
"I was twelve!" Dalla protests. "And it was a small fire!"
"The toaster melted. Completely melted. We had to buy a new one."
"Okay, but remember when you—"
"All right, that's enough," Fern interrupts, shooting Tor a look that only mothers can manage. "No more embarrassing stories. We have a guest."
"He's not a guest, Mom. He's Dalla's—"
"Bodyguard," Fern finishes firmly. "Who is also our guest. And who doesn't need to hear about every embarrassing thing you children did growing up."
"But Mom—"
"Tor, you're forty-four years old. Act like it."
Meghan snorts into her wine glass.
Tor shoots her a betrayed look. "You're supposed to be on my side."
"I'm on the side of not having to hear the toaster story for the hundredth time."
"So," Tindra says, leaning forward with her chin in her hands, eyes bright with mischief, "RJ. Tell us about yourself. What's it like being a professional bodyguard? Is it like in the movies? Do you have to throw yourself in front of bullets and stuff?"
"Tindra," Meghan sighs.
"What? I'm curious! This is the most interesting dinner guest we've had in years."
"I'm not that interesting," I say.
"You're Irish. You're hot. You're sleeping with my Auntie Dalla." She ticks off on her fingers. "That's already more interesting than Uncle Fenrir's fishing stories."
"Tindra!" This time it's both Meghan and Fern in unison.
Dalla is hiding her face in her hands. "I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die of embarrassment."
"You're not going to die." Tindra waves a hand dismissively. "You're going to answer my questions. How did this happen? Like, did he save you from bad guys and then you just looked at each other and boom, romance? Because that's how it happens in books."
"That's... not entirely inaccurate," Dalla admits.
Tindra squeals. Actually squeals. "I knew it! I knew it was going to be like that. This is the most romantic thing that's ever happened in this family."
"Your parents knew each other for most of their lives but connected in a hospital. Both of them half-dead," Runes says dryly.
"I’m pretty sure I asked your mom out when we were both hooked up to IVs." Tor adds. "Very romantic."
Meghan laughs. “It was romantic. He shared his Jell-O with me. The good kind. Red.”
"The bar is in hell," Tindra mutters.
"Tindra!"
"What? I'm just saying, Dalla's story is better. Hot Irish bodyguard saves her from assassins and then falls madly in love with her? That's a movie. That's like, five movies."
"Can we please talk about literally anything else?" Dalla begs. “And no one said anything about love, it’s been way too soon for that 4-letter L word.”
I smirk, amused at how uncomfortable her family is making her.
"Fine." Tindra sits back, crossing her arms. "But I'm getting the full story later. In private. With wine."
"No wine," Meghan says. "You have work tomorrow."
"I'm twenty-four. I can make my own decisions."
"And yet you still live at home."
"Because rent is expensive!"
The bickering continues, familiar and comfortable, and I realize this is what family sounds like.
Not the silence of my childhood, not the careful, measured conversations between soldiers.
This is chaos and love and people who drive each other crazy but would die for each other without thinking about it.
It's loud and messy and overwhelming.
It's wonderful.
I've never had this.
The Brotherhood isn't a family—it's an organization.
Da raised me alone, trained me to be useful, prepared me for a life of service.
There were no siblings to tease me, no parents to embarrass me with childhood stories, no extended family to gather around a dinner table.
I didn't know what I was missing.
Now I do.
Under the table, Dalla's hand finds my knee.
She squeezes once, and when I look at her, she's smiling—soft and private, just for me.
Later, after dinner is done and dishes are cleaned and goodbyes are said, we head back to the clubhouse and get out of the car.
The compound is quiet, most of the members either at the bar or already asleep.
The sky is clear, stars scattered across the blackness, and the air is warm and thick with the smell of pine and swamp.
"That was nice," Dalla says, her arm linked through mine. "I'm glad you got to meet everyone."
"Your family is..."
"Insane?"
"I was going to say wonderful."
She laughs. "Same thing, really."
We walk in silence for a moment.
My mind keeps drifting back to the camera in the woods, the conversation with Runes, the threats we still don't understand.
But I push it away.
Right now, in this moment, I want to just be here with her.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"For sharing them with me. Your family." I struggle to find the words. "I've never had that. A family that gathers for dinner and tells embarrassing stories and argues about nothing. It was... nice."
She stops walking, turning to face me. In the starlight, her eyes are impossibly blue.
"You have it now," she says simply. "If you want it."
My chest tightens. "Dalla..."
"I mean it. My family already loves you. Tindra wants to adopt you. My mom keeps asking when you're going to call her by her first name. Even my dad—" She laughs. "Okay, my dad is still terrifying. But he respects you. I can tell."
"And you?"
The question comes out before I can stop it.
She goes still, her breath catching. "What about me?"
"Do you...like what we have going on?" I can't finish the sentence. Can't put into words what I'm asking, what I'm terrified to hear the answer to.
She reaches up and cups my face in her hands. "I can see myself falling in love with you if you’re not careful, RJ."
The world stops.
"I know it might be fast for me to say that, but I’m being honest," she continues, words tumbling out. "I know we've only known each other a couple weeks. But I've never felt like this about anyone. And I don't want to pretend I don't, just because it's scary or complicated or—"
I kiss her.
I kiss her until she stops talking, until she melts against me, until there's nothing in the universe except the two of us standing under the stars.
When I pull back, she's breathless.
"I feel the same," I say. "I think I have since Dublin. Since you looked at me in that garden and refused to be afraid."
She laughs, tears glittering in her eyes. "We're ridiculous."
"Completely."
"This is going to be complicated."
"I know."
"I don't care."
"Neither do I."
She kisses me again, and for a moment, everything is perfect.
Later—much later—I lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling.
Dalla is asleep beside me, her breathing soft and even, her body warm against mine.
The basement is quiet. The compound is quiet. Everything is peaceful.
But my mind won't stop racing.
The satellite camera.
The trafficking operation.
The Krajncs in Dublin.
Two separate threats, or one?
Is the sedan connected to Ireland, or to the local enemies of the Raiders?
There's no way to know. Not yet.
What I do know is that someone is watching this compound.
Planning something, and Dalla is right in the middle of it.
I pull her closer, feeling her murmur and settle against me.
Whatever's coming, I'll be ready.
I have to be.
Because losing her isn't an option.