Chapter 9 #2
Runes is in his office when we find him, and I’m starting to realize this man is an early bird.
He looks like he hasn't slept—dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk next to a stack of papers covered in his cramped handwriting.
The man carries the weight of this club on his shoulders, and right now that weight looks crushing.
When he sees us in his doorway, his expression shifts from exhaustion to alertness in an instant.
The tired father disappears, replaced by the MC president.
The man who's kept this club alive over forty years of wars, threats, and enemies.
"What's wrong?"
I tell him everything.
The coffee cup.
Dalla sneaking out.
The woman at the café—Sol.
Every detail Dalla can remember about the encounter.
I watch his face as I speak, looking for any sign of recognition, any hint that he knows more than he's letting on.
By the time I finish, Runes' face is carved from granite.
His hands are flat on the desk, knuckles white with tension.
"Describe her again," he says to Dalla. "Height, build, any distinguishing features. Everything you can remember, no matter how small."
"Average height, maybe five-six or five-seven.
Slim build, athletic. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail—it was long, past her shoulders when it was down, I think.
" Dalla closes her eyes, concentrating, trying to pull every detail from her memory.
"Dark eyes. Angular face, high cheekbones.
She had this way of tilting her head when she looked at me, like a bird studying something interesting. "
"What else?"
"She had a small scar near her left eyebrow.
I almost didn't notice it, but when she tilted her head a certain way, the light caught it.
It was thin, old. Like she'd had it since childhood.
" Dalla opens her eyes. "And her hands. When she shook my hand, I noticed her fingers were calloused.
Like someone who works with them—or fights with them. "
Runes goes very still.
Something in his expression shifts—recognition, maybe, or the ghost of a memory he'd rather forget.
"What?" I ask. "Do you know her?"
"Maybe." He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a worn folder, the edges soft with age.
He flips through papers—old reports, faded photographs, handwritten notes—until he finds what he's looking for.
A photograph, old and grainy, of a woman with dark hair and sharp features.
She's younger in the photo, maybe early thirties or late twenties, but the resemblance to the woman Dalla described is unmistakable.
"Is this her?" He slides the photo across the desk.
Dalla leans forward to look.
Her breath catches.
"That's... that's not her. But it could be her mother. Or her sister. The resemblance is—" She looks up at Runes, confusion and dawning fear in her eyes. "Who is this?"
"Her name was Freya." Runes' voice is flat. Emotionless.
The voice of a man who's buried his feelings so deep they can't touch him anymore.
"She ran a trafficking operation out of this area over thirty years ago.
Brought girls in from overseas and stole girls from around the States, moved them through the States, sold them to the highest bidder.
She was part of the trafficking situation your brother was part of, the fucked up breeding shit.
She was smart, ruthless, and completely without conscience. "
"Was?"
"She's dead now."
Dalla waits for him to continue.
When he doesn't, she asks the question I can see forming on her lips.
"How do you know so much about her?"
Runes meets his daughter's eyes. "Because I’m the one who killed her."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
Dalla stares at her father, shock written across her face.
I can see her trying to reconcile the man she knows—the protective father, the club president, the man who braids his daughter's hair and threatens her boyfriends—with someone capable of killing a woman.
"She was destroying lives, Dalla. Young girls, some of them barely teenagers.
We tried to stop her through other means, but she was too well-connected, too careful.
So, I did what had to be done, and I got vengeance for your brother and the others in her ring.
" His jaw tightens. "I slit her throat with her own knife, and I'd do it again. She kidnapped Fenrir’s kids, and the bitch deserved what she got.
Fucking with my family, and then fucking with his. "
"Did she have family?"
"A daughter. We never found her after Freya died. She would have been young—five, maybe six years old. We assumed she went into the system, got lost in foster care somewhere. Grew up, moved on, never knew what her mother really was." His hands curl into fists. "Apparently, we were wrong."
"Solveig," I say quietly. "Sol is short for Solveig."
Runes nods. "Freya's daughter. All grown up and looking for revenge."
"But why now?" Dalla asks. "It's been thirty years. Why come after us now?"
"Because now she has the resources." I'm thinking out loud, pieces clicking into place like a puzzle I've been trying to solve for weeks.
"She's been rebuilding her mother's network.
The trafficking operation you thought Eddie was running—she was behind it the whole time.
He was just a front, a figurehead taking the heat while she worked in the shadows. "
"And when we killed Eddie..."
"You didn't stop her. You just inconvenienced her." I turn to Runes. "She's been watching your compound for weeks. The camera I found, the sedan—it was all her. Gathering intel. Learning your patterns. Looking for weaknesses."
"Looking for me," Dalla says quietly, her hand pressed against her stomach again. "She wasn't watching the compound. She was watching for an opportunity to get to me."
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
Last night, when Dalla snuck out alone, she walked directly into Solveig's trap.
The only reason she came back is because Solveig wasn't ready yet.
She was still scouting, still planning, still waiting for the perfect moment.
But now she's made contact.
Now she knows she can get to Dalla outside the compound walls.
Now she has a face-to-face read on her target.
The clock is ticking.
"We need to increase security," I say. "Double the patrols. No one goes anywhere alone, especially Dalla. And we need to find out where Solveig is operating from—her base, her resources, her network. Everything."
Runes nods. "I'll talk to Tor. He’ll be the one who knows the most on how she operated, how she thought.
It was... complicated." Something dark passes through his eyes, a history I don't fully understand.
"But he might be able to give us some insight into how the daughter thinks. Where she might be hiding."
"There's something else." I hesitate, but this needs to be said. "The Krajncs. The Slovenian family in Dublin. My father called yesterday—they've been quiet, but he thinks they're planning something. We might be dealing with threats on two fronts."
"Gods." Runes rubs a hand over his face. "It never fucking ends."
"Da says he's handling it. The Mackenzies have resources in Dublin. But he warned me to stay sharp here." I glance at Dalla, who's gone quiet, her hand pressed to her stomach. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." She doesn't look fine. She looks pale and slightly green around the edges. "Just tired. And nauseous."
"When did you last eat?"
"I don't remember. Yesterday, maybe?" She shakes her head. "It's just stress. I'll be fine."
I'm not convinced, but this isn't the time to push it.
We have bigger problems.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Da's number.
"I need to take this."
I step out into the hallway, answering on the second ring. "Da. What's happening?"
"It's done." His voice is rough, tired. "The Krajncs made their move last night. We were ready for them."
"How bad?"
"Bad enough. We lost two men. They lost twelve." A pause. "Their leadership is gone, RJ. The family is finished. They won't be bothering anyone again."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by grief for the men we lost.
Two Brotherhood soldiers, dead because of a feud that had nothing to do with them.
"I'm sorry about our lads."
"So am I. But it's over. That side of things, at least." Da's voice sharpens. "How are things there? You sound tense."
"We've identified the local threat. A woman named Solveig—daughter of someone the club dealt with over thirty years ago. She's been running the trafficking operation, and she's got her sights set on Dalla."
"Revenge?"
"Looks like it. Her mother was killed by the MC president. Now she wants to return the favor."
Da is quiet for a moment. "You need backup? I can send men."
"Not yet. We're still figuring out where she's operating from. But I might take you up on that once we have a target."
"Whatever you need. Just say the word." He pauses. "And RJ? Don't let your feelings cloud your judgment. I know you care about this girl—"
"I love her, Da."
The words come out before I can stop them.
I've said them to Dalla, but never to anyone else.
Never out loud to my father, the man who raised me to be a soldier first and everything else second.
"I know you do," Da says quietly. "That's what worries me. Love makes men stupid. Makes them take risks they shouldn't take, miss things they should see."
"I'm not going to miss anything."
"See that you don't. Because if you lose her because you were too busy feeling instead of thinking, you'll never forgive yourself." His voice softens, just slightly. "Trust me. I know."
He hangs up before I can ask what he means by that.
I stare at my phone for a moment, processing.
The Krajncs are done.
One threat eliminated.
But the other—Solveig, with her mother's knife and her decades of hatred—is still out there.
Closer than ever.
When I walk back into Runes' office, Dalla is sitting in a chair with her head between her knees, breathing slowly.
Runes is watching her with concern.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She straightens up, forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Just got dizzy for a second. I'm fine."
She's not fine. I can see it in the pallor of her skin, the slight tremor in her hands.
Something is wrong—more than stress, more than fear.
But she's stubborn, and right now we have more pressing concerns.
"That was my father," I say to Runes. "The Krajncs have been dealt with. Their leadership is gone. We lost two men, but the threat from Dublin was eliminated."
Runes nods slowly. "One less thing to worry about."
"Now we can focus everything on Solveig."
"Agreed." He stands, and despite his exhaustion, there's steel in his spine. "I'll call kirkja. Get the club together. We end this."
Dalla stands too, and I'm at her side instantly when she sways slightly.
"I'm taking you back to the basement," I say. "You need to rest."
"I need to know what's happening—"
"You need to rest." My voice leaves no room for argument. "You're pale, you're nauseous, you can barely stand. Whatever's going on with you, you're not going to be any help if you collapse."
She wants to argue.
I can see it in her eyes.
But for once, she doesn't.
"Fine," she says quietly. "But you tell me everything. No more secrets."
"No more secrets," I agree.
I guide her out of Runes' office and down to the basement, my arm around her waist, supporting her weight.
She leans into me, and I can feel the exhaustion radiating off her like heat from a fire.
The basement is cool and quiet after the tension of Runes' office.
I settle her onto the bed, pulling the covers up around her, and she lets me fuss over her without arguing with me—which tells me more than anything else how wrong she feels.
"I'm going to get you some water," I say. "And crackers, if I can find them. You need to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. You're eating." I press a kiss to her forehead. "Stay here. Rest. I'll be right back."
She catches my hand before I can pull away. "RJ."
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry." Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "For sneaking out. For not telling you. For all of it. I was stupid and reckless and I put us both at risk."
"You did." I squeeze her hand. "But you're here. You're safe. That's what matters."
"I love you."
The words hit me the same way they did the first time—like a sucker punch to the chest, stealing my breath.
I don't know if I'll ever get used to hearing her say that. I hope I never do.
"I love you too." I lean down and kiss her, soft and lingering. "Now rest. We'll figure this out together."
I leave her in the bedroom and head upstairs in search of food.
The clubhouse is starting to wake up—I can hear movement in the bar, the distant sound of someone making coffee in the kitchen.
Normal sounds. Normal morning routines.
But nothing feels normal anymore.
I find crackers in the kitchen pantry and grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
One of the prospects—Hakon, I think—gives me a nod as I pass, but he's smart enough not to ask questions.
Whatever he sees in my face must tell him this isn't the time.
When I get back to the basement, Dalla is already asleep.
She's curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, the other resting on her stomach.
Even in sleep, she looks pale.
Tired.
Like she's fighting something her body doesn't have the resources to handle.
Something is wrong. Something beyond the stress and fear and sleepless nights.
I don't know what it is yet.
But I'm going to find out.
I set the crackers and water on the nightstand and lower myself into the chair beside the bed.
I should sleep too—I've had maybe four hours in the last two days, and I'm going to need my strength for whatever's coming.
But I can't make myself close my eyes.
Can't make myself look away from her.
Solveig is out there.
Watching. Waiting. Planning her revenge.
And the woman I love is her target.
I reach out and take Dalla's hand, feeling her fingers curl around mine even in sleep.
Whatever it takes. Whoever I have to kill. Whatever lines I have to cross.
I will not let them take her from me.
I will not fail.
Not this time.