Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Geirolf
The wrench slips from my oil-slicked fingers for the third time in an hour, clattering against the concrete floor of the club's garage with a metallic ring that echoes across the space.
"Motherfucker," I growl, rolling my shoulders as pain lances through my upper back.
I've been hunched under Kraken's Dyna for nearly six hours straight, rebuilding the engine that seized up on him last week.
"Man, you look like shit."
I don't bother looking up at Dasha as she leans against the workbench, arms crossed over her chest.
Dasha works at Babes & Beans with Meghan, and overall is a good chick. She wasn’t around the club too much, and then she started showing up a little more.
Honestly, she’s stepped up with the old ladies to make sure Rio has support since he’s now a single father.
"Thanks for the assessment," I grunt, straightening up slowly and wincing as my back protests the movement. "You here for a reason, or just to point out the obvious?"
Dasha's dark eyes narrow slightly, assessing me with that penetrating stare that makes me shift slightly. "Just dropped off Cali with Rio. Figured I'd check on you since you missed lunch."
I roll my neck, feeling the vertebrae pop in a way that gives me a moment of relief before the stiffness returns.
I've been pushing myself hard these past few days, taking on extra work at the garage, volunteering for additional security shifts.
Anything to keep my mind off a certain light brown-haired woman with sage green eyes that I can't seem to forget.
Astrid.
Just thinking her name makes something twist in my chest—something I have no business feeling for the VP's daughter.
"Been busy," I say, gesturing to the engine I've been rebuilding. "Kraken needs his bike by tomorrow."
Dasha watches me for a moment longer before reaching into the small cooler we keep in the garage, pulling out a bottle of water and tossing it my way.
I catch it with one hand, grateful for the cold liquid against my parched throat.
"You need to take a break before you seize up worse than that engine," she says, nodding toward my stiff shoulders. "There's an opening at Fern's spa this afternoon. Meghan had to cancel her appointment. Had a call out at the coffee shop, and I had the kids so I couldn’t run in."
I nearly choke on the water. "The spa? I don't do that shit."
Dasha rolls her eyes. "Of course not. Big bad biker is too tough for a massage." She mimics flexing muscles, and I crack a small smile. "Rio goes regularly since his back injury. Says it's the only thing that keeps him functioning some days."
The thought of Fern's spa—of who works there—sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with my aching muscles.
I haven't seen Astrid since that night in the parking lot, three days ago.
Honestly, I haven't trusted myself to.
The idea of seeing her means acknowledging the way she makes a certain part of me twitch, and that’s the last thing I need.
What I really need is space from her while I sort my shit out.
"I'm fine," I insist, turning back to the engine.
"Sure you are. That's why you're moving like you've got a steel rod for a spine." Dasha pushes off from the workbench. "Appointment's at three if you change your mind. I already texted Charm and let her know you’ll be at the appointment."
Before I can say another word, she's sauntering toward the door, throwing one last comment over her shoulder: "And take a fucking shower first. You stink."
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the engine parts scattered across the workbench, my mind suddenly going wild with things I shouldn’t be thinking—Astrid's hands on my skin.
Her closeness, the chance to see her again in a context where no one would question it.
"Fuck," I mutter, wiping my hands on a shop rag and checking the time.
1:30 PM. Just enough time to finish this part of the rebuild, clean up, and make it to the appointment Dasha set up.
This is a bad idea, maybe even the worst, and yet I'm already planning how to wrap up here in time.
The spa is unique—with gray and earth-toned stone. It’s kind of like earthy meets rustic, and there’s even some industrial type of items around the exterior.
Fern, Runes' wife and the club's matriarch, opened it years ago with Charm as a legitimate business, but it also helps launder some club money.
It’s crazy how much of a profit they make, popular with the wealthy women from the surrounding towns who have no idea their ‘safe space’ is tied to a biker club.
I sit in my truck for a full five minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, debating whether to go in or drive away.
This is reckless.
Seeing Astrid again when I can't get her out of my head?
When I've been dreaming about her every night since I saw her?
But my back screams in agony at even the slightest movement, and the thought of riding on a run like this makes the decision for me.
I need to be in tip top shape for the club.
That's all this is—maintenance, like oiling a chain or changing spark plugs.
I repeat this to myself as I walk through the front door, the soft chime announcing my presence.
Charm stands behind the reception desk, her red hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
She glances up, surprise flashing across her face before she shifts her expression back to something professional.
"Geirolf. Dasha said you might be taking Meghan’s appointment." Her eyes hold a question she doesn't voice, but I can read it clear enough: What are you doing here?
"Got a fucked-up back," I say by way of explanation, rolling my shoulders to demonstrate. "Been under an engine all day."
She nods and glances down at her appointment book. "We have you scheduled with..." She pauses, something flashing behind her eyes. "With Astrid."
My pulse jumps, but I keep my face neutral. "That good?"
"Of course," Charm says smoothly, though something in her tone suggests she's not entirely convinced by my casual act. "She's our most requested therapist. You're in good hands."
Good hands .
Christ.
"Have a seat." Charm gestures to a small waiting area with comfortable-looking chairs. "Astrid will be with you shortly. Would you like some water or tea while you wait?"
"Water's fine," I say, lowering myself into one of the chairs, trying not to wince as pain shoots up my back once more.
The waiting area smells like lavender and something else I can't put my nose on—clean, soothing.
Something you'd never associate with Bubba's or the clubhouse.
I feel out of place here in my worn jeans, dark t-shirt and cut, like a wolf that's wandered into a china shop.
I can think about it for maybe ten seconds, and there she is standing in the doorway.
Astrid wears simple black pants and a fitted top with the spa's logo.
Her light brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun, a few golden-streaked strands framing her face.
She looks... professional, poised, completely different from how I'm used to seeing her at the club.
She freezes for a split second when she sees me, those sage green eyes widening just enough that I know she's surprised to see me.
But she recovers quickly—impressively so.
"Geirolf," she says, her voice betraying only the slightest tremor. "I'll be working with you today. Please come with me."
I rise from the chair, acutely aware of Charm watching my every move around her daughter.
As I follow Astrid down a hallway lined with treatment rooms, I notice the gentle sway of her hips, the way the uniform hugs every bit of her luscious curves.
Stop it , I order myself. This isn't why you're here.
She leads me to a room at the end of the hall, opening the door to reveal a dimly lit space with a massage table in the center.
Soft music plays from hidden speakers, something with no words, just gentle sounds that already start to ease the tension I'm carrying.
Astrid closes the door behind us."First time?"
"Is it that obvious?" I ask, my voice sounding rougher than I want it to.
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Most of our clients don't look like they're walking into a lion's den."
That pulls a chuckle from me, some of the awkwardness between us dissipating. "Guess I'm more comfortable with Harleys than... whatever all this is." I gesture vaguely to the oils, candles, and other equipment arranged neatly around the room.
"It's just a massage," she says, trying to ease me. "Nothing to be afraid of."
"I'm not afraid," I counter, the words coming out more defensively than I'd like.
She raises an eyebrow. "Then take off your shirt and lie face down on the table. I'll step out while you get comfortable. There's a sheet you can drape over your lower half."
Before I can respond, she's gone, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the massage table like it might bite me.
This was a mistake. I should leave.
But my back chooses that moment to send another spasm of pain down my spine, reminding me why I'm here.
With a sigh, I pull my cut off, and then my t-shirt over my head, toeing off my boots and socks.
After a moment, I decide to keep my jeans on. This is a legitimate massage, not... whatever else my mind keeps trying to make it.
I lie face down on the table as instructed, adjusting the face rest so I'm not smothering myself, and drape the sheet over my lower back.
A soft knock comes at the door.
Astrid calls. "Ready?"
"Yeah," I respond, my voice muffled against the face rest.
I hear her enter, the door closing quietly behind her.
There's a pause—a moment where I swear I can feel her eyes on my exposed back, taking in the tattoos and scars that mark my skin.
"You've got a lot of old injuries," she says finally, her voice professional but something’s underneath the surface.
"Hazards of the life," I respond.
"Hmm." I hear her moving around the room, the sound of a bottle opening, liquid being poured. "I'm going to use a medium pressure to start with, focus on your upper back and shoulders since that seems to be where you're holding most of your tension. Let me know if anything is too much or not enough."
"Got it."
There's another pause, and then her hands are on me.
Fuck.
Her touch is firm but gentle, warm palms sliding across my oil-slicked skin like she’s been doing this her entire life.
She starts at my shoulders, working her thumbs into knots I didn't even know I had, drawing a barely suppressed groan from me.
"Too much?" she asks, her voice close to my ear.
"No," I manage. "It's... good."
"Your muscles are like concrete," she says, working her way down to my shoulder blades. "How long have you been this tense?"
Since I saw you in that parking lot, since I can't stop thinking about you.
"A while," I say instead.
She makes a mumbling sound and continues working, her skilled fingers finding every point of tension in my upper back and methodically dismantling it.
Despite my initial apprehension, I find myself relaxing under her touch, my breathing deepening as some of the pain begins to recede.
"This scar," she says, her fingers tracing a long line that runs from my right shoulder blade to the middle of my back. "This was deep."
"Knife," I say simply. "Territory war about ten years ago."
Her hands pause for just a moment before continuing. "And this one?" She touches a circular scar just above my left kidney.
"Bullet. Guy had bad aim."
"You've been shot?" There's no missing the concern in her voice now, professional distance slipping just a bit.
"Occupational hazard," I say, trying to keep it light.
Her fingers move to another scar, this one smaller but jagged, near my right shoulder. "And this?"
"Bar fight. Broken bottle. Guy didn't like that I was talking to his girl."
"Were you?" There's something different in her tone now, something almost... playful?
"Nah," I say, a smile tugging at my lips though she can't see it. "She was talking to me. There's a difference."
That earns me a small laugh, the sound sending a warmth through me.
Her hands move lower, working the muscles along my spine, and I have to bite back another groan.
Her touch is doing things to me—things that go beyond the therapeutic benefits of massage.
"This tattoo is incredible," she says, her fingers brushing lightly over the skull design that covers much of my right side. "The detailed work is amazing."
I try to focus on the conversation and not the electricity her touch is generating. "Took almost thirty hours, spread over a couple months."
"It represents death, obviously," she says, tracing the outline of the skull. "But the flowers intertwined with it... that's about rebirth, isn't it? Life and death together."
Something shifts in my chest at her understanding.
Most people just see the skull and think it's about being a badass, or loving death. They miss the duality.
"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "Exactly that."
Her hands have moved to my lower back now, strong fingers working muscles I didn't even realize were tight.
Each press of her thumbs sends waves of both relief and tension through my body—a contradictory sensation I can't quite reconcile.
"Turn over," she says after working my lower back for several minutes. "I need to work on your shoulders from the front."
I freeze. Turn over? With the way my body is responding to her touch?
"Problem?" she asks, and I swear there's a hint of challenge in her voice, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.
"No," I say after a moment, hoping my voice sounds normal. "No problem."
I shift carefully, keeping the sheet strategically placed as I roll onto my back.
When I settle, I find Astrid looking down at me, those sage green eyes darker than usual.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else falls away.
There's no pretending this is just a professional massage, no denying the heat between us.
"The skull continues on your chest," she says, her voice so soft it's almost a whisper.
Her eyes trace the tattoo that spreads across my right pec, her expression unreadable.
"Yeah," I say, not trusting myself with more words.
She steps to the head of the table, beginning to work on my shoulders from above.
This position puts her directly above me, and when she leans forward to apply pressure, her body hovers way too close to my face.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on the relief her hands are bringing to my muscles rather than the scent of her—vanilla and something citrusy—or the occasional brush of her body against mine.
It's torture.
Exquisite, unbearable torture.
Her hands move to my chest, working my pec muscles with firm, circular motions.
When her fingers brush over a nipple, I can't hold back the sharp intake of breath.
Her hands pause.
"Sorry," she murmurs, but there's something in her tone that suggests she isn't sorry at all.
"It’s fine," I manage, keeping my eyes closed. If I look at her now, I won't be responsible for what happens next.
She continues working, her touch becoming less clinical and more... explorative.
Her hands memorize the contours of my chest, the ridges of scars, the lines of muscle.
When she reaches my abdomen, her fingers trace the defined muscles there with what I think could be appreciation.
"You're in excellent shape," she says, her voice professional again, though there's an undercurrent that betrays her.
"Club keeps me active," I reply, finally risking opening my eyes.
She's looking down at me, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
Our eyes lock again, and this time, there's no pretending.
"Astrid," I say, her name like a prayer on my lips.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispers, but her hands don't stop their exploration of my torso.
"The worst," I agree, reaching up to catch one of her wrists gently. "We should stop."
Neither of us moves.
Her pulse races beneath my fingertips, matching the thunder of my own heart.
"My dad would kill you," she says, but she doesn't pull away.
"Probably," I agree, my thumb tracing small circles on the inside of her wrist.
"I'm not supposed to... clients aren't..." she tries, but the words fade as I sit up slowly, keeping my hold on her wrist.
Now we're face to face, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her sage green eyes, count every freckle dusting her nose.
"Tell me to go," I say, my voice a low rumble. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk out that door right now."
She swallows hard, her eyes never leaving mine. "I can't do that," she whispers.
It's all the permission I need.
My hand releases her wrist to slide around the back of her neck, pulling her toward me as I close the distance between us.
Our lips meet in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly turns into something more urgent, more demanding.
She tastes like spearmint and possibility, her lips soft yet insistent against mine.
A small sound escapes her throat—something between a sigh and a moan—and it nearly undoes me.
My free hand finds her waist, urging her closer until she's standing between my legs as I sit on the edge of the massage table.
Her hands, those incredible hands that have been taking me apart piece by piece, slide up my chest to my shoulders, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
The kiss deepens, as I force my tongue into her mouth.
As our tongues meet, her body arches toward mine, curves pressing against my hardness in a way that makes me growl low in my throat.
It's Astrid who breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes, her breath coming in quick pants that match my own.
"We really shouldn't," she says, though her hands haven't left my shoulders, her body still pressed against mine.
"I know," I agree, my thumb tracing her lower lip, still damp from our kiss. "But I've been thinking about this since the parking lot. Since before that, if I'm being honest."
Her eyes widen slightly at the admission. "You have?"
"You're all I can think about," I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Your eyes, your smile, the way you stand up to your brothers... everything about you, Astrid."
She looks stunned, like no one's ever spoken to her this way before.
And maybe they haven't.
The thought of Laken and his cruel words flashes through my mind, making my jaw clench.
"I thought..." she starts, then stops, looking uncertain. "I didn't think someone like you would look twice at someone like me."
My brow furrows. "What the hell does that mean?"
She gestures vaguely at herself. "I'm not exactly the type of woman you usually see club guys with. I'm not?—"
"Perfect?" I interrupt, anger flaring at whoever put these thoughts in her head. "Because that's what I see when I look at you, Astrid. Fucking perfection."
The blush that spreads across her cheeks is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, matched only by the shy smile that follows it.
A knock at the door shatters the moment.
"Astrid?" Charm’s voice comes through the wood. "Your next client is here early. How much longer will you be?"
Astrid jumps back from me like she's been burned, her eyes wide with panic. "Just finishing up!" she calls, her voice impressively steady. "Five minutes!"
"No rush," Charm responds, and I swear I can hear the smile in her voice. "I'll let them know you're running a bit behind."
Footsteps retreat from the door, and Astrid covers her face with her hands. "Oh my God," she whispers. "Mom almost…goodness gracious."
I can't help the chuckle that escapes me, earning a glare from between her fingers. "It's not funny," she hisses. "If this gets back to my dad?—"
"It won't," I say, reaching for my shirt and pulling it over my head, then slide on my cut. "Your mom didn’t see anything. There’s nothing to tell."
Astrid doesn't look convinced, but she drops her hands, straightening her uniform and trying to regain her professional composure.
It's adorable, watching her try to pretend nothing happened when her lips are still swollen from my kiss, her cheeks flushed with desire.
"This can't happen again," she says, but I don’t believe a word she’s saying.
I stand, towering over her small frame, and resist the urge to pull her back into my arms. "Tell me that when you don't have another client waiting," I say, my voice low. "Tell me that when we're not at your workplace. Tell me that when you've had time to think about what you really want, not what your family expects."
She stares up at me. "It's not that simple."
"Nothing worth having ever is," I counter, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear. The simple touch makes her shiver. "But I think this —whatever this is between us—might be worth the risk."
Another knock at the door, more insistent this time.
"I have to go," she says, but doesn't move.
"I know." I step back, giving her the space she needs. "But we're not finished, Astrid. Not even close."
She swallows hard, and for a moment I think she's going to argue.
Instead, she nods once. "How's your back?"
"Miraculously better," I say with a wink. "You've got magic hands."
The blush returns, and I file away the image for later, for the lonely hours when I'm lying in bed thinking about what could have been today if we hadn't been interrupted.
I follow her to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob.
"One more thing," I say, turning to face her. "Your ex was wrong about you. About your body, about everything. You're fuckin’ perfect exactly as you are, Astrid. Don't let anyone tell you differently."
The surprise that crosses her face, followed by a flash of vulnerability that breaks my heart, tells me she needed to hear someone say this to her.
Someone—Laken—made her feel less than, made her doubt herself.
The urge to find him and finish what I started in that parking lot rushes through me.
But that's not what she needs from me right now.
"I'll see you around, princess," I say, using the nickname that only I seem to call her.
As I walk out of the spa, nodding a casual goodbye to Charm who eyes me with curiosity, I can't help but feel like something has changed between Astrid and I.
The line I swore I'd never cross with a club brother's daughter has been obliterated, and I don't regret it for a second.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I'm climbing into my truck.
A text from Tor:
Kirkja tonight. 8 PM. Important info on the Patriot situation.
Reality comes crashing back—the club, the danger, the reasons why getting involved with Astrid is such a monumentally bad idea.
None of which changes the fact that I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the press of her curves against my body, still see the way she looked at me like I was something worth wanting.
I fire up the engine of my truck, already planning how to see her again.
Because one thing is certain: now that I've had a taste of Astrid, there's no going back.
I’ll have her no matter what the consequences are.