Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Geirolf
Present Day…
The stench of stale beer and fresh weed wafts in the air of Bubba's.
This place has been my sanctuary for the past decade—sometimes the only place where the noise in my head quiets down enough for me to think straight.
Tonight, though, there's a different kind of tension pulsing through the room.
I lean back in my chair, nursing a lukewarm beer as I survey the faces around me.
My brothers. My family.
All of them wearing the same grim expression that's been etched into our features since Flora's funeral eight months ago.
"This Patriot situation is getting out of hand," Tor growls, his ice blue eyes blazing with rage. "We need to hit back harder."
Kraken nods, running a hand through his beard. "Agreed. That bullet was meant for one of us. Flora was just in the wrong place at the wrong fuckin’ time."
A heavy silence falls over our table at the mention of her name.
I can still see Rio's face as he cradled her body, screaming for someone to save her and their unborn child.
The doctors managed to save little Cali, but Flora died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.
He was lucky Cali somehow survived, honestly.
"How's Rio holding up?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Magnus shakes his head, his massive frame seeming to deflate. "Not good, brother. He's barely functioning. If it weren't for Dasha helping with the girls, I don't know what he'd do."
I take another swig of my beer, letting the bitter liquid wash down my throat.
Two innocent children without a mother because of the Patriot.
The thought makes my blood boil.
"The prospects keeping an eye on Rio?" I ask.
Tor nods. "Yeah. Dad's made sure he's never alone for too long. But he's in a bad place. Can't blame him."
Another silence falls, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
The weight of what happened at Tindra's birthday party hangs over the club like a storm cloud.
We're all waiting for the next crack of lightning, the next victim, and we're all wondering if it could have been prevented.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache that comes from too many hours on my bike.
The cut feels particularly heavy tonight, like it's weighing me down with the responsibilities being a full patch represents.
"I need some air," I announce, pushing away from the table.
No one tries to stop me. They understand. We all have our own ways of coping with the shit our life throws at us.
Outside, the night air is cool against my skin, a relief compared to how fucking stuffy it is inside.
The parking lot is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the cracked asphalt like grasping fingers.
I lean against the wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from my cut.
I take a deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling slowly.
My hand moves unconsciously to my chest, fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo beneath my shirt—a large, intricately detailed skull that covers much of my right pec and extends down my arm, intertwined with dark floral elements.
It's a reminder of my own brushes with death, of the sacrifices I've made for the club.
Each line tells a story, each shadow a memory.
I shrug off my cut, hanging it carefully on a nearby bike handle.
The night air feels good against my arms as I pull my t-shirt over my head, leaving me bare-chested in the parking lot.
I don't give a shit if anyone sees. Let them look. Let them see what this life does to a man.
The scars criss-crossing my torso and back are a roadmap of violence I’ve endured—knife wounds, bullet holes, reminders of the shit I’d gladly go through again.
But it's the tattoo that draws the eye, the skull with its empty gaze seeming to stare accusingly at the world.
Death and rebirth. Pain and survival. That's what it represents.
That's what my life has been for longer than I can remember.
I roll my neck, feeling the satisfying pop of tension releasing.
Fifteen years I've been with this club.
Fifteen years of blood, loyalty, and brotherhood.
I've never wanted a position of power—no officer patch for me, but I've earned something more valuable: respect.
Every brother in the Raiders of Valhalla knows I'd die for them without hesitation, and they'd do the same for me.
It's as simple and as complicated as that.
Movement at the far end of the parking lot catches my eye.
A woman, her light brown hair gleaming under the streetlamp, walking briskly toward one of the cars.
Fenrir's daughter—Astrid.
I've always kept my distance from her, partly out of respect for her father, partly because she’s just my type and I know better.
I can’t put my finger on it, but there's something about Astrid that's always drawn my eye.
She's nothing like the horas who hang around hoping to catch a brother's attention.
She’s not even like any other woman I usually see, or a random woman at a bar. She’s something else entirely.
She works at Fern's spa, keeps to herself, doesn't play the usual games.
I pull my shirt back on but leave the cut off, enjoying the coolness against my overheated skin.
I'm about to turn away, to give her the privacy she deserves, when a man steps out of the shadows, blocking her path.
My body tenses instinctively, years of training and instinct kicking in.
I step closer, eyes narrowing as I assess the situation.
The guy is tall, lanky, with the kind of face you forget as soon as you look away.
But there's something in his posture that sets off alarm bells in my head.
The way he looms over Astrid, the aggressive thrust of his chin.
"What the fuck is your problem?" I hear him snarl, his voice carrying across the quiet parking lot. "You think you can just ignore my calls?"
Ah, it’s Laken, her piece of shit ex.
Astrid takes a step back, her body language defensive. "Laken, I told you. We're done. You need to leave me alone."
Astrid's ex-boyfriend, the one she'd broken up with a while back.
"We're done when I say we're done," Laken spits, grabbing Astrid's arm. "You think you're too good for me now? Huh? Running back to daddy's club? You're nothing but a fat slut."
Something snaps inside me at his words.
Before I even realize I'm moving, I'm halfway across the parking lot.
"You want to rethink puttin’ your hands on her," I growl, my voice low and dangerous.
Laken's head whips around, his eyes widening as he takes me in.
I know what he sees—six feet of muscle and viciousness, covered in tattoos.
"This ain't your business," he says, but I can hear the fear in his voice. He tries to compensate by puffing out his chest, tightening his grip on Astrid. "This is between me and my girlfriend."
"Ex-girlfriend," Astrid corrects, her voice tight with anger. "Let go of me, Laken."
He ignores her, his eyes locked on mine in some pathetic attempt at a dominance display.
Kid has no idea what real dominance looks like.
I take another step closer, invading his space now. "I'm going to say this once," I tell him, my voice deceptively calm. "Take your hand off her, get in your car, and drive away. And if I ever see you near her again, they'll be findin’ pieces of you scattered across three counties."
Laken's face pales, but there's still a stubborn set to his jaw.
His fingers dig deeper into Astrid's arm, making her wince.
That's all it takes.
My fist connects with his jaw before he can even register I've moved.
The impact sends a satisfying shock up my arm as he stumbles backward, releasing Astrid.
She steps away quickly, her eyes wide as she watches what happens next.
Laken regains his balance, his hand coming up to touch his jaw in disbelief. Then, with a roar of outrage, he comes charging at me.
Amateur move.
I sidestep easily, grabbing his outstretched arm and using his own momentum to slam him face-first into the side of a parked car.
The sound of his nose breaking is audible even over his howl of pain.
"I tried to be nice." I keep him pinned against the car with one hand while the other grasps the back of his neck. "But you just had to be difficult, didn't you?"
I increase the pressure, making him whimper. "Here's what's going to happen, Laken. You're going to accept that Astrid doesn't want anything to do with your sorry ass. You're going to stay the fuck away from her, from this club, from anything and anyone connected to her. Because if you don't..." I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper, "I'll show you exactly why my name means wolf spear. You understand me?"
He nods frantically, blood streaming from his broken nose.
I release him with a disgusted shove, watching as he stumbles toward his car, casting one last terrified glance over his shoulder before peeling out of the parking lot.
Only then do I turn to Astrid.
She's standing perfectly still, her light sage green eyes wide as she stares at me.
For a moment, I worry I've frightened her with what I’ve just done.
But then I see something else in her gaze—relief, gratitude, and something warmer that makes my pulse quicken.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice gentle.
She nods, rubbing her arm where Laken had grabbed her. "Yeah. Thank you, Geirolf. I... I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been here."
I step closer, careful to move slowly.
She's been through enough tonight without me adding to her fear.
"Let me see," I say, gesturing to her arm.
Hesitantly, she extends it toward me.
I take it carefully, examining the red marks already blooming into bruises on her pale skin.
My jaw clenches at the sight, rage coming right back to the surface.
"Should have broken more than his nose," I mutter.
To my surprise, Astrid laughs—a soft, husky sound that does strange things to my insides. "Pretty sure you've scared him enough for one night," she says. "I don't think he'll be bothering me again anytime soon."
I look down at her, really look at her, perhaps for the first time.
She's beautiful in a way I never fully appreciated before.
Her light brown hair with golden specks catches the dim light of the parking lot, framing a face that's both delicate and strong.
Those sage green eyes of hers have a fire behind them—the kind that tells you she's been through hell but came out swinging.
And her body... Curvy in all the right places, the kind of softness a man could lose himself in.
Minn .
I push the thought away immediately.
She's Fenrir's daughter, for fuck's sake.
The VP's little girl.
Even thinking about her that way could get my ass handed to me, or worse.
But as I release her arm, our fingers brush, and the jolt of electricity that passes between us tells me I'm not the only one feeling something here.
"I should get you inside," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Get some ice on those bruises."
She nods, but doesn't move immediately. "Thank you," she says again, her voice soft. "Not just for... that. But for not asking questions. For just helping."
I understand what she means.
"No thanks needed," I tell her. "I just wanted to help you, princess."
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie, for the hidden agenda.
Finding none, her expression softens into something that makes my chest tighten.
"Still," she insists, "I owe you one."
I shake my head, about to tell her she owes me nothing, when the sound of a motorcycle engine cuts through the night.
We both turn to see Emil, Astrid's brother, pulling into the parking lot.
He kills the engine, giving us a curious look as he approaches.
His eyes dart from Astrid's bruised arm to my bare chest, then back to his sister's face, his expression going dark.
"What the fuck happened?" he demands, protective big brother mode engaged.
Astrid sighs. "Laken happened. He was waiting for me in the parking lot."
Emil's face contorts with rage. "That piece of shit. Where is he? I'll fucking kill him."
"Geirolf already took care of it," Astrid says quickly. "Laken won't be bothering me again."
Emil turns to me, an unreadable expression on his face. "Thanks, brother," he says after a moment, extending his hand. "I owe you for looking out for my sister."
I clasp his hand firmly. "No need. Just did what any brother would do."
But even as I say the words, I know they're not entirely true.
The way I feel right now—the protectiveness, the possessiveness—has nothing to do with being a brother.
Emil nods, then turns to Astrid, his arm sliding around her shoulders. "Come on, sis. Let's get you inside."
I watch as he leads her toward the entrance of Bubba's, her petite frame tucked against his side.
Before they reach the door, Astrid glances back at me over her shoulder, those sage green eyes finding mine in the darkness.
Something passes between us, and I’m not going to deny it.
I retrieve my cut from the bike handle, slipping it back on as I watch them disappear inside.
But as I take one last drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my boot, I can't deny that something has shifted tonight.
Seeing Astrid—really seeing her—has awakened something within me that I'm not sure I can control.
And that is a whole different kind of dangerous.