Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Astrid
The drive to my dad's house is mercifully short, which is good because Emil won't shut the fuck up about what happened with Laken in the parking lot.
"I should have been there," Emil growls, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of one of the club’s trucks. "I'd have ripped that asshole's head clean off his shoulders."
I roll my eyes, watching the familiar scenery fly past the passenger window. "Geirolf handled it. Laken's not going to be a problem anymore."
"Geirolf," Emil repeats, his tone unreadable. "Since when are you and Geirolf so buddy-buddy?"
I shoot my brother a glare. "We're not. He was just in the right place at the right time, that's all."
Emil grunts, clearly unconvinced. "Didn't look like 'that's all' from where I was standin’."
I bite back a sharp retort.
There's no point arguing with Emil when he's in full protective-big-brother mode.
He and Oskar have been that way since Mom died—overbearing, hypervigilant, treating me like I'm made of glass even though I'm twenty-four fucking years old.
"Can we drop it, please? I just want to forget the whole thing even happened."
Emil sighs, the fight draining out of him. "Fine. But Dad's going to want to know why your arm looks like that." He nods toward the bruises forming where Laken grabbed me.
Shit.
I didn’t even think about that.
"I'll handle Dad," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Our dad isn't exactly known for his calm, measured responses when it comes to his kids.
We pull into the driveway of my childhood home, the familiar two-story with its wrap-around porch that I grew up in.
Charm's car is parked out front, and I can see lights on in the kitchen.
My stepmother is probably cooking dinner, unaware of the drama that's about to walk through her front door.
Maybe I can convince her we both need a glass of wine, stat.
Emil kills the engine, his eyes searching my face. "You're sure you're okay?"
I nod, offering him a small smile. "I'm fine, Em. I promise. Laken's a piece of shit, but he's a coward at heart. One real scare and he'll crawl back under whatever rock he came from."
Emil doesn't look entirely convinced, but he lets it go as we head inside.
The house smells like garlic and tomato sauce—lasagna night.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since lunch at the spa.
Charm calls from the kitchen. "That you, Emil?"
"Yeah, Mom. And I've got Astrid with me," Emil responds, shooting me a pointed look that says 'brace yourself'.
Charm appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
At forty-five, she's still beautiful—tall and willowy with hair as red as a fire engine truck and sharp features.
Her eyes light up when she sees me, then immediately narrow as she notices the bruises on my arm.
She rushes across the room. "What happened?"
"It's nothing," I say quickly, pulling my sleeve down. "Just a little misunderstanding. All sorted now."
"Misunderstanding my ass," Emil mutters, earning a quick glare from Mom.
"Language," she chides automatically, but her focus remains on me. "Astrid, who did this to you?"
I sigh, knowing there's no way to avoid this conversation. "It was Laken. He showed up at Bubba's, we had words, he grabbed me. But Geirolf stepped in and took care of it."
Charm's eyes widen slightly at the mention of Geirolf. "Geirolf?"
I nod, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at the memory of Geirolf standing shirtless in the parking lot, the moonlight illuminating that tattoo that covers half his chest.
The man is built like a Norse god, all hard muscles and strength.
"Where's Dad?" I ask, desperate to change the subject.
"In the garage," Charm replies, still eyeing me suspiciously. "Working on his bike."
"I'll go tell him we're here," Emil says, disappearing before I can stop him.
Great.
I’ll bet we have ten minutes tops before my father comes storming in demanding blood.
"Are you hungry?" Charm asks, her tone softening. "Dinner's almost ready."
"Starving," I admit.
She links her arm through mine, leading me to the kitchen. "Then let's get you fed. Oskar's coming too, and Ingrid should be back from volleyball practice any minute."
The kitchen is warm and inviting, the heart of our family home.
It's where we've always gathered—for meals, for celebrations, for comfort when the world feels too hard to bear.
The large oak table is already set for dinner, and the lasagna in the oven smells like heaven.
"So," Charm says casually as she checks on the garlic bread, "Geirolf, huh?"
I groan, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. "It wasn't like that. He was just helping me out."
Charm shoots me a look over her shoulder. "Uh-huh. And I'm sure the fact that he's one of the most attractive men in the club has nothing to do with the blush on your cheeks right now."
"Mom, ssshh!" I go over to her and whisper, "The last thing I need is for Dad to hear you say that shi–"
I immediately stop the second she glares at me.
"You know the rules. Cuss like a sailor at the club, at Bubba’s, but good gods, at least give me the decency of a cuss-free house."
I sigh. "Sorry, I just don’t want Dad hearing that crap, you know? He’s protective as all heck."
She laughs, the sound light and genuine. "That he is, and I'm married, not blind. The man looks like he could have stepped straight out of Vikings ."
I can't help but laugh too, my body finally relaxing since I was in the parking lot.
This is why I've always loved Charm.
She never tried to replace my mother after she died, but she became something just as important—a friend, a confidante, someone who sees me as I am and loves me anyway, but I call her my mom because that’s what she is—my mother, just a bonus one.
"He was pretty incredible," I admit, keeping my voice low even though we're alone. "The way he handled Laken... it was like watching a force of nature. One minute Laken's in my face, the next he's practically pissing himself while Geirolf pins him against a car."
A shiver runs down my spine at the memory of Geirolf's ice-blue eyes, cold and deadly as he dealt with Laken.
Charm sets a glass of red wine in front of me. "That's the look I'm talking about," she says with a grin. "The dreamy-eyed, 'I'm imagining him naked' look."
"I am not!" I spit out, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
"Are not what?" Oskar asks, striding into the kitchen with a wicked grin.
At twenty-seven, my middle brother is Dad's carbon copy—built like a fucking brick wall with a face that could scare the shit out of most men.
But there's always that goddamn smirk tugging at his lips, the one that's gotten him out of trouble since we were kids.
The bastard knows exactly how to charm his way out of anything.
"None of your business," I retort, sticking my tongue out at him.
"Oh, real mature," he says, ruffling my hair as he passes. Then he spots the bruises on my arm and freezes. "What the fuck happened to you?"
Before I can answer, the back door slams open, and my father storms in, Emil hot on his heels.
A force to be reckoned with on his best days.
Right now, with his face twisted in that special kind of rage only a father can muster, he looks like the devil himself—like he's ready to rip someone's spine out through their throat and enjoy every second of it.
"Show me," he demands, his voice oddly calm even though I know he wants to kill Laken.
I hesitate, then show him my arm, showing him finger-shaped bruises.
He stares at them for a long moment, his jaw clenched so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. "That piece of shit laid his hands on you," he says, not a question but a statement, each word precisely enunciated. "And you didn't think to fuckin’ call me?"
"It just happened, Dad," I say, keeping my voice even. "And it's been handled. Geirolf made sure Laken won't be bothering me again."
My father's eyes narrow. "Geirolf?"
"He was there when it happened," I explain, fighting to keep my tone casual. "He stepped in before things could escalate."
"Stepped in how?" Fenrir demands.
I sigh, wishing I could sink through the floor. "He broke Laken's nose and threatened to scatter pieces of him across three counties if he ever came near me again."
To my surprise, a smile flickers across my father's face. "Good man," he says, some of his tension easing. "I'll have to thank him."
"Doesn't mean we can't pay this Laken a visit too," Oskar suggests, the gleam in his eye anything but friendly. "Just to reinforce the message, really get it across."
"No!" I yell at the group of them. "Look, the situation is handled. Laken's a coward. He won't risk crossing Geirolf."
"But—" Emil begins.
"But nothing," I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. "I don't need the three of you riding to my rescue like I'm some damsel in distress. I'm a grown woman, and I can handle my own problems."
Dad opens his mouth to argue, but Mom steps in, placing a calming hand on his arm. "Astrid's right," she says softly. "She's not a child anymore, and the situation seems resolved. Let's respect her wishes."
My father holds her gaze for a long moment, then gives a reluctant nod. "Fine. But if that asshole shows his face around here again, all bets are off."
"Fair enough," I give in, knowing it's the best compromise I'm going to get.
The front door opens, and my sixteen-year-old half-sister Ingrid bounces in, her gym bag slung over her shoulder. "Hey, everyone! What's for dinner? I'm starv—" She stops short, taking in the tense scene before her. "Whoa, who died?"
"No one," Mom says quickly. "Yet. Now go wash up for dinner. Lasagna's almost ready."
Ingrid's eyes dart between us, clearly sensing there's more to the story, but she knows better than to push. "Okay, back in five," she says, disappearing up the stairs.
"I'll set another place for Astrid," Oskar offers, moving to the cabinet for an extra plate.
"Thanks," I murmur, grateful for the break in tension.
Dinner is a surprisingly normal affair after that.
Ingrid yaps about volleyball practice and the upcoming school dance, Oskar and Emil trade talk about some club business that isn’t too serious, while Mom and Dad seem like they’re just as in love as they were when they first got together.
I pick at my lasagna, my mind drifting back to that moment in the parking lot—the heat of Geirolf's body as he stood close to me, the unexpected gentleness of his calloused fingers examining my bruises, the low rumble of his voice.
"Earth to Astrid," Ingrid says, waving a hand in front of my face. "Where'd you go? You've been staring at that garlic bread for like five minutes."
I blink, heat rising to my cheeks. "Sorry, just tired. Long day at the spa, and then some."
"Uh-huh," Ingrid says, keeping her voice low, clearly not buying it. "Geirolf’s that hottie in the club, right?"
I nearly choke on my wine. "What? Gods, Ingrid! You’re a teenager. You can’t say that type of stuff about him."
Ingrid grins wickedly, still keeping her voice low. "I mean, I’m not blind. Plus, I heard you guys talking when I came in. Something about him handling a situation for you?"
"It's nothing," I say quickly, shooting warning glances at my brothers. "Just club stuff, and shouldn’t you be calling Bjorn or one of the other guys hot."
"Geirolf's a good man," Dad says, surprising me.
"He's also hot as hell," Ingrid adds, knowing she’s throwing fuel into the fire.
"Ingrid!" Mom exclaims, but there's amusement dancing in her eyes.
Ingrid is just like her, good lord.
"What? He is. All tall and broody with those ice-blue eyes. Half the girls at my school would sell their souls for a guy like that. The skull tattoo is a bonus."
"He's also way too old for you," Emil points out, his protective instincts shifting targets.
Ingrid rolls her eyes. "Duh. I'm just saying, objectively speaking, the man's a total smoke show." She turns to me, eyes gleaming. "Don't you think so, Astrid?"
All eyes at the table swivel to me, and I want to melt into the floor.
"I haven't really noticed," I lie, taking a large gulp of wine to hide my flaming cheeks.
"Bullshit," Ingrid coughs into her hand, earning a sharp "Language!" from Mom.
"That's enough," Dad grumbles, breaking up the conversation. "Geirolf is a brother, not some high school crush to giggle about. Don’t you have your boy bands to do that about or something?"
The conversation mercifully shifts after that, but I can feel my father's gaze lingering on me throughout the meal.
He doesn't miss much, my dad.
It's what makes him such an effective VP.
After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes while Ingrid is glued to her phone and the men disappear into the den to talk club business.
"You should stay the night," Charm suggests as she hands me a plate to dry. "It's getting late, and I know your dad would feel better having you here after what happened."
I consider it, but the thought of my apartment—my own space, my own rules—is too tempting. "Thanks, but I've got an early shift at the spa tomorrow. Fern's adding new services, and I need to get there early to set up."
Charm nods, understanding in her eyes. "At least let one of your brothers drive you home."
"I've got my car at Bubba’s," I remind her.
"Astrid." Her tone makes me look up. "Humor us just this once?"
I sigh, recognizing defeat when I see it. "Fine. But tell Emil no lectures on the way home."
Charm smiles, squeezing my hand. "Deal."
Later, as Emil drives me back to my small apartment near Fern's and Mom’s spa, he keeps his promise—mostly.
Only one remark about me being more careful, which is practically restrained for him.
"Thanks for the ride," I say as he pulls up outside my building.
"Want me to come up, check the place out?" he offers.
I shake my head. "I'm good. Laken doesn't know I live here. Just moved, remember?"
At least, I hope he doesn't.
Emil looks like he wants to argue but instead pulls me into a bear hug. "Call if you need anything. Doesn't matter what time."
"I will," I promise, squeezing him back.
My apartment feels unusually empty when I let myself in, the silence pressing in from all sides.
I go through my nightly routine on autopilot—shower, moisturize, brush teeth, check the locks twice—all before collapsing onto my bed.
As I lie here, staring at the ceiling, my mind returns again and again to Geirolf.
To the way he moved like a predator, yet was so controlled and lethal at the same time.
To the way his ice-blue eyes seemed to see right through me.
To the unexpected surge of... something ...that had passed between us when our fingers touched.
I know it could never work, not even in another lifetime.
Plus, Dad would lose his mind if he knew I was even thinking about Geirolf that way.
Besides, men like Geirolf don't go for women like me.
They want the horas with their perfect bodies and ‘fun’ personalities, not curvy massage therapists with baggage.
Laken made that perfectly clear during our relationship.
All those little digs about my weight, my clothes, how I could be "so pretty" if I just tried harder.
I roll onto my side, pulling the covers up to my chin.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to normal.
I'll work at the spa, have lunch with Meghan if she's free, maybe catch a movie with Ingrid this weekend.
I won't think about the club, or my overprotective family, or Geirolf's massive hands and intense eyes.
But as sleep finally claims me, it's Geirolf's face that follows me into my dreams, and for once, they're anything but nightmares.