Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Helle
I wake up to Bravos watching me.
Not in a creepy way—more like he's memorizing my face in case he doesn't get another chance.
The thought makes my chest tight.
"Morning," I whisper.
"Morning." His voice is rough from sleep. Or maybe from not sleeping. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like shit. You?"
"Same."
We lie there in the narrow bunk, tangled together, pretending for just a few more minutes that today isn't the day everything changes.
Then engines rumble in the distance.
His whole body tenses.
"They're here," he says.
By the time we're dressed and outside, the compound is already filling with bikes.
The Raiders of Valhalla arrive first—a formation of seven bikes rolling through the gate with Runes at the lead.
I recognize most of them: Kraken with his massive build and scarred knuckles, Fenrir looking calm and controlled, Rio, Dag, Oskar, Emil, and Rati bringing up the rear.
I'm standing on the clubhouse porch when Runes kills his engine and pulls off his helmet.
Our eyes meet across the parking lot.
He nods once. "Helle."
"Runes."
Not warm, but respectful—acknowledging that I'm here, that I belong here now under a different patch's protection.
It's strange seeing him like this.
Not as the President of my father's club, not as the man who helped raise me, but as a leader preparing for war on someone else's territory.
Twenty minutes later, the Reapers Rejects roll in.
Damon leads them—nine bikes total.
Dixon, Cobra, Mouser, Widow, and a few others whose names I don't catch.
They look rougher than the Raiders, harder around the edges, like they've seen more violence and liked it less.
Three clubs.
At least twenty men combined.
One target.
The weight of it settles over the compound like a physical thing.
They disappear into the clubhouse for the war council.
I'm not invited.
Not patched, not leadership, not welcome in that room where they'll finalize plans that could get them all killed.
So, I stay in the main area with a few other people—prospects mostly, doing busy work to stay out of the way.
And then the voices start.
Raised. Angry. Coming from behind the closed door of the meeting room.
I can't make out words, but I recognize the tones.
Phantom's voice—hard, unyielding.
Runes responding—equally stubborn.
"—not taking orders from you—"
"—never said you had to, but if you think—"
The voices lower, someone mediating, probably Damon.
But the tension bleeds through the walls anyway.
A prospect named Miller catches my eye, shakes his head. "Those two have hated each other for twenty years. Surprised they're in the same room without killing each other."
"What happened between them?"
"No idea. Before my time. But whatever it was, it stuck."
The voices rise again briefly, then fall to something resembling professional discussion.
They'll work it out. They have to.
But I understand now how fragile this alliance really is.
A girl about my age appears in the doorway carrying two coffees.
Blonde, athletic build, wearing jeans and boots and a rodeo championship buckle on her belt.
She's got Phantom's eyes.
"You must be Helle," she says, handing me one of the coffees. "I'm Dakota. Phantom's other daughter. The fun one, according to Grace."
I take the coffee gratefully. "Nice to meet you."
"Dad mentioned Bravos finally grew a pair and claimed someone. Took him long enough—he's been dancing around commitment for years." She drops into the chair beside me. "How long have you known him?"
"Less than two weeks."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Damn. That's fast."
"Yeah. It is."
"But you're sure? About this?" She's not judging, just curious. "Because claiming someone right before a major run is—well, it's a lot."
"I'm sure." And I am. Terrified, but sure.
Dakota nods slowly. "Good. Because he needs someone. Been alone too long. Made him weird."
Despite everything, I laugh.
"Fair warning though—it doesn't get easier. Watching them prepare, watching them ride out, waiting to see who comes back." Her voice is matter-of-fact, like she's describing the weather. "But they're good at what they do. Bravos especially. He's careful. Smart. He'll come back."
"You sound certain."
"I am. Because he's got something to come back to now. That changes a man."
Two women emerge from the kitchen carrying trays of sandwiches.
The first one—brunette, maybe late twenties, curves poured into tight jeans—catches my eye and smiles. "You're Bravos's ol' lady, right? I'm Lucky."
"Helle."
"Nice to meet you. This is Marlboro." She nods toward the other woman—redhead, younger, quieter.
Marlboro gives a small wave, sets the trays down on the table.
They're clubwhores.
I can tell from the way they move through the space—comfortable but not claiming it, helpful but not entitled.
Part of the club but not protected by it the way an ol' lady is.
"Must be nice," Lucky says, not bitter, just observational. "Getting the commitment. The claim."
"It's terrifying," I admit.
"Yeah, but you've got security. You know?" She starts organizing the sandwiches. "We're just here until we're not. No promises. No protection beyond what they feel like giving."
Marlboro nods but doesn't say anything.
I don't know how to respond to that, so I help them set up food instead.
Phantom finds me two hours later when the meeting finally breaks.
Men file out looking grim and focused.
Bravos catches my eye, gives a small nod—I'm okay, we're okay—then disappears with Shadow to check weapons inventory.
"Walk with me," Phantom says.
It's not a request.
We head away from the clubhouse chaos, toward one of the paddocks on the north side of the property.
Horses graze in the distance, peaceful and beautiful at the same time.
"Bravos tells me you're staying," Phantom says. "After tomorrow."
"That's the plan."
"Good. He needs that. Stability. Something to come back to."
We stop at a small cabin I didn't notice before—set back from the paddock, half-hidden by trees.
Two bedrooms, by the look of it.
Porch wrapping around the front.
Needs work—paint peeling, windows dusty—but solid bones.
"It's yours," Phantom says. "Yours and his."
I blink. "What?"
"The cabin. No one's using it. Been empty for three years since the last guy moved out. Figured you two could use the space." He leans against the porch railing, arms crossed. "Bunk's fine for now, but you're not going to want to stay there long-term."
"I couldn't—"
"You can and you are." He's not asking. "Look, I know my Nomad. Known him for years. And I'll bet anything he stays on the road for six months, maybe a year tops, then decides he wants this place as his home base. Might as well set it up now."
I walk up the porch steps, peer through the dusty window.
Small kitchen. Living area with a fireplace.
Hardwood floors that need refinishing.
But I can see it—morning coffee on this porch, Bravos coming home from a run, building something real.
"It needs work," I say.
"Everything worth having does."
I turn to look at him. "Thank you. Really. I appreciate it."
"Don't thank me yet." His expression is serious. "Let's get through tomorrow first. Then you can start building whatever you're going to build here."
The compound shifts as afternoon turns to evening.
The nervous energy of preparation gives way to something quieter.
More focused.
Men check weapons one last time, call family, write letters they hope no one will have to read.
I feel useless.
I want to help but don't know how.
Dakota finds me standing in the middle of the chaos looking lost.
"Come on," she says, grabbing my arm. "You're helping me with dinner. Keeps your hands busy. Trust me."
So I chop vegetables while she browns meat for chili.
We work in silence, the kitchen warm and normal while outside men prepare for war.
"How do you do this?" I ask finally. "Watch them go out, not knowing—"
"You breathe. You trust. You find things to keep yourself busy." She stirs the pot. "And you remember that this is who they are. Warriors. Protectors. It's not about us wanting them to go—it's about supporting them when they do."
"That's very zen."
"That's very therapeutic. Grace and I have a good counselor."
I laugh despite myself.
Bravos finds me after dinner.
The sun is setting, painting everything gold and purple.
Most of the men have scattered—last-minute preparations, final calls home, trying to sleep even though no one will.
"Come with me," he says, taking my hand.
We walk to the cabin and sit on the porch steps watching the horses in the paddock.
"Phantom gave us this," I say.
"I know. He told me." Bravos pulls me against his side. "What do you think?"
"I think it's perfect. I think we could be happy here."
"Yeah. We could."
We sit in silence as the sun sinks lower.
"I can see us here," I say finally. "After tomorrow. After all this is over. Mornings on this porch. You coming home from runs. Me working at that garage. Building something real."
"Kids maybe," he says quietly. "Someday. If you want."
My chest tightens. "Yeah. Someday."
"Growing old together. Yelling at each other about whose turn it is to feed the horses we'll probably end up getting because you'll insist we need them."
I laugh, tears burning my eyes. "That sounds perfect."
"Yeah. It does."
The future feels tangible. Real. Something we could actually have if tomorrow goes right.
If he comes back.
When he comes back.
He has to come back.
We go back to his bunk as darkness falls.
Tomorrow he rides at 4 AM. Which means we have tonight. Just tonight. Then everything changes.
We lie in the narrow bed, tangled together, neither of us sleeping until hours pass and we’re too exhausted to stay awake.
I wake at 3:30 AM.
Bravos is still asleep beside me, face peaceful in the darkness.
His alarm will go off in thirty minutes.
Then he rides to war.
But right now, at this moment, he's here. He's safe. He's mine.
I memorize his face—the line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the scar above his left eyebrow I never asked about.
Store it away for tomorrow when I'll be here waiting, praying, hoping he comes back to me.
The alarm hasn't gone off yet.
We still have thirty minutes.
I hold onto that.
Hold onto him.
And wait for the moment he leaves, praying he’ll come back to me.