Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Helle
The truck lurches over a pothole and Dad groans—a sound that's more animal than human.
"Sorry, sorry," Aren calls back. "Almost there."
I'm kneeling in the truck bed, one hand on Dad's shoulder to keep him from rolling, the other clutching the side rail to keep myself steady.
Elfe is on his other side, her hand wrapped around his remaining one, whispering things I can't hear over the engine and wind.
Dad's eyes are closed, face gray beneath the bruises and swelling.
The bandages on his left arm are already soaking through—bright red bleeding into white gauze.
He's alive.
That's all that matters.
He's alive and we're bringing him home and maybe—maybe—I can start to breathe again.
The compound gates appear ahead, already open, members standing ready.
As soon as we pull through, Runes is running toward the truck, Fenrir right behind him.
"Get him inside! Now!"
The truck barely stops before hands are reaching for Dad—careful, coordinated, like they've done this before.
Probably have. This life doesn't come without casualties.
Two women appear with a stretcher—Gwen and Vail.
EMTs, trained for exactly this kind of shit that can't go to a hospital.
"We've got him," Gwen says, her voice calm and professional even as her eyes widen at the extent of his injuries. "Vail, start an IV line. Normal saline, wide open. Someone get me a BP cuff."
They work with efficient precision, moving Dad from the truck bed to the stretcher without jostling him too much.
He groans anyway, eyelids fluttering but not opening.
"Helle, Elfe—out of the way," Vail orders, not unkindly. "Let us work."
I stumble back, and Elfe catches my arm.
We stand there watching as they wheel Dad toward the clubhouse, Gwen calling out vitals and observations that mean nothing to me but everything to them.
Mom appears from nowhere, or maybe she was always there and I just didn't see her.
She looks wrecked—eyes swollen from crying, face pale, hands shaking.
"Ivar—"
"He's alive," Elfe says quickly, moving to her side. "Mom, he's alive. They're taking care of him."
"His hand—" Mom's voice breaks.
"I know, but he's alive. That's the most important thing."
Mom nods, but she's crying again, silent tears that she doesn't bother wiping away.
I want to go to her, to hold her, to say something that makes this better.
But I'm the reason he lost his hand in the first place.
I'm the reason he was taken, tortured, mutilated.
So I stand there useless while Elfe comforts our mother, and I wonder if I'll ever stop destroying everything I touch.
Inside the clubhouse, it’s pure chaos.
Members are everywhere, weapons being cleaned and stowed, voices raised in discussion about what happened, what comes next.
Someone's on the phone with someone else—probably spreading word that my father’s back, that Los Coyotes took casualties.
That we survived.
I catch pieces of conversation as I follow my family upstairs.
"—eight dead, every single one of them—"
"—Ivar's daughter, the blonde one, she was there—"
"—heard she confessed to something, but nobody's saying what—"
I keep my head down and keep moving.
Gwen and Vail have set up in one of the spare rooms on the second floor—the one the club uses for exactly this.
Medical emergencies that can't see daylight.
There's already equipment here: an IV pole, monitoring equipment, cabinets full of supplies that aren't exactly legal to own outside a hospital.
Dad's on the bed, shirt cut away, revealing the full extent of the damage.
Burns on his chest and abdomen—cigarette marks, methodical and precise.
Cuts on his arms, some shallow, some deep enough to scar.
Bruising everywhere, purple and black and yellow, mapping out weeks of torture.
And his left arm, ending in blood-soaked bandages where his hand used to be.
Mom makes a sound—half sob, half scream—and Elfe has to physically hold her up.
"He needs more than we can give him," Gwen says, looking at Runes. "The amputation site needs proper surgical closure. He needs antibiotics we don't have. Blood work to check for infection, organ damage—"
"Get what you need," Runes interrupts. "Money's not an issue."
"It's not about money. It's about expertise." Gwen's face is grim. "He needs a doctor. A real one."
"Then we get him a real one." Runes pulls out his phone, steps into the hallway.
I can hear him making calls—quick, clipped conversations.
Offering money. A lot of money for someone to come here, no questions asked, and fix what Los Coyotes broke.
Twenty minutes later, a man arrives.
He's maybe sixty, with silver hair and the kind of calm competence that comes from decades of practice.
He's carrying a medical bag that looks like it's seen better days, but his hands are steady when he starts examining Dad.
"I'm Dr. Castellano," he says to no one in particular. "I wasn't here. I didn't see anything. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Runes says from the doorway.
"Good." The doctor looks at Gwen and Vail. "You two did good work. The IV line is clean, vitals are stable enough. But he's going to need surgery on that amputation site. It's infected—I can smell it from here. And these burns need debriding."
"Can you do it here?" Runes asks.
"I can do a lot here. But if he crashes, if he needs blood or advanced life support—"
"He won't crash," Runes says flatly. "Do what you can."
Dr. Castellano nods. "Then everyone out except my assistants. I need room to work."
Mom doesn't want to leave—I can see it in the way she reaches for Dad, her hand hovering over his chest like she can heal him through being close to him.
"Starla," Dr. Castellano says gently. "I'll take care of him. But I need you to let me work."
"Come on, Mom." Elfe guides her toward the door. "We'll be right outside."
I follow them into the hallway, and the door closes behind us with a soft click.
We wait.
That's all we can do, sit in the hallway outside Dad's room and wait while Dr. Castellano works.
Elfe and Mom sit on a bench someone dragged up from downstairs.
I can't sit, can't stay still.
So, I pace—three steps one way, three steps back, wearing a path in the carpet.
My body aches.
Bruises forming on my ribs where I dove behind cover.
My knuckles are split from punching someone—can't even remember who.
Everything hurts, but it's distant.
All background noise compared to the fear churning in my gut.
What if he doesn't make it?
What if the infection's too far gone?
What if I saved him from Los Coyotes just to watch him die from complications?
"Helle." Elfe's voice cuts through my spiral. "Sit down. You're making me dizzy."
"I can't."
"You need to. You're going to collapse."
"I'm fine."
"You're covered in blood and you haven't slept in two days. You're not fine."
I stop pacing. Look down at myself. She's right—there's dried blood on my jeans, under my fingernails, probably in my hair.
I showered at some point, didn't I?
No. That was before.
Before the safehouse. Before the shooting. Before everything.
"Come here." Elfe pats the bench beside her.
I sit.
Not because I want to, but because my legs are shaking and I'm not sure how much longer they'll hold me.
Mom is silent beside us, staring at the closed door like she can will it open through force of concentration.
"He's going to be okay," Elfe says quietly. "He's survived worse."
"Has he?" I hear myself ask. "What's worse than being tortured for weeks? Than having your hand cut off and sent to your family?"
Elfe doesn't have an answer for that.
We sit in silence.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
Time feels meaningless when you're waiting to find out if your father lives or dies.
Finally, the door opens.
Dr. Castellano emerges, pulling off bloody gloves.
His face is neutral—professional—but there's exhaustion in his eyes.
"He's stable," he says, and Mom sobs with relief. "The amputation site is cleaned and properly closed now. I've debrided the burns, stitched the deeper lacerations, started him on IV antibiotics and fluids. He's sedated for the pain."
"Will he—" Mom can't finish.
"Will he live? Yes. If the infection responds to treatment and there are no complications, he should recover." Dr. Castellano's voice gentles. "But recovery will take time. Weeks, maybe months. The physical trauma is extensive. And the psychological trauma—" He pauses. "That will take longer."
"Can we see him?" Elfe asks.
"Give us ten minutes to finish cleaning up. Then yes. But he needs rest. Minimal stimulation. Quiet voices."
"We understand," Mom says. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Thank Runes. He's the one paying my retirement fund." Dr. Castellano manages a small smile. "I'll check on him in a few hours. If anything changes—fever, increased pain, confusion—call me immediately."
He gives instructions to Gwen and Vail, leaves prescriptions and care protocols, and then he's gone.
Disappeared into the night like he was never here, because he wasn't.
None of this happened.
That's how this life works.
Ten minutes later, we're allowed in.
The room smells like antiseptic and copper.
Medical equipment beeps softly—heart monitor, IV pump, things I recognize from TV but have never seen up close.
Dad looks smaller in the bed.
Diminished, like the torture took more than just his hand—it took some essential piece of him.
But he's breathing.
Chest rising and falling steadily.
Mom goes to him immediately, takes his remaining hand in both of hers, presses her forehead against his knuckles.
"I've got you," she whispers. "You're home. You're safe. I've got you."
Elfe stands on the other side, one hand on Dad's shoulder, the other on Mom's back. Holding both of them up.
I stay by the door.
I don't belong in this circle. This family moment.
I'm the reason he's here in the first place.
"Helle." Elfe looks at me. "Come here."
"I'm fine where I am."
"Helle. Please."
There's something in her voice—not a request, a need—so I move forward.