Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Astrid
The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg fills the clubhouse kitchen as I roll out another pie crust.
It's not even seven in the morning, but Thanksgiving waits for no one—especially when you're feeding an entire motorcycle club and their families.
Three weeks we've been in lockdown, and somehow this cramped clubhouse has become home.
"More flour on the granite, honey," Aziza instructs, her expert hands guiding mine. "The dough's still too sticky."
I dust the surface with more flour, grateful for her patience.
The woman's a wizard with baked goods—her bakery's been closed since the lockdown, but she's brought her magic here. "Like this?"
"Perfect. Now roll from the center out, even pressure." She demonstrates with her own dough, creating a perfect circle in seconds. "We'll make a baker of you yet."
I laugh, though my attempt looks more like an amoeba than a circle. "At this rate, we'll be eating pie for Christmas."
"Nothing wrong with that," Mom says from across the kitchen, where she's peeling potatoes with Charm and Fern.
The kitchen's packed with women, all of us working together to create a feast from limited resources.
I woke to an empty bed this morning—again.
Geirolf left before dawn with Dad and my brothers, chasing another lead on the Patriot.
Three weeks of hunting, and they're closer than ever.
I can see it in their eyes when they return each night.
They’re exhausted, but they have a fire in their eyes that doesn’t burn out.
This war might actually end soon.
"How many pies are we making?" I ask Aziza, transferring my lumpy crust to a pie pan.
"Eight. Apple, pumpkin, pecan, and sweet potato, two of each." She eyes my handiwork critically but kindly. "That'll do fine for a first attempt. The filling hides imperfections."
Starla appears with a massive turkey, the third one we're preparing. "Oven's ready for this bird. How long on the pies?"
"Another hour at least," Aziza calculates. "We'll bake them in shifts after the turkeys are done."
The logistics of feeding fifty-plus people from a clubhouse kitchen requires a lot of planning.
Fern's got schedules and rotations down to the minute.
It’s chaotic, but at least it works.
"Astrid, can you check on the kids?" Mom asks. "Make sure they're not destroying the main room."
I escape the kitchen heat, grateful for the break.
The main room's been transformed into a massive dining hall, tables pushed together and covered with mismatched tablecloths.
Kids race between chairs, their laughter echoing off the walls.
The Halloween decorations are finally down, replaced with paper turkeys and pilgrim hats made by little hands.
"Auntie As–d!" Florencia crashes into my legs, Rio's daughter clinging to me like a vine.
At two and a half, she's a tiny tornado of energy, who can’t quite get my name right.
"Hey, sweet girl. You being good?"
She nods over and over again, though the marker stains on her hands suggest otherwise.
I scoop her up, settling her on my hip.
Across the room, Dasha's got baby Cali in her arms, bouncing her gently.
She's been incredible these past months, stepping into a maternal role for Rio's girls without being asked.
"She just ate," Dasha tells me as I approach. "Should sleep through dinner if we're lucky."
"You're amazing with them," I say, meaning it. "Both girls adore you."
A blush creeps up her cheeks. "They're easy to love." Her eyes drift to Rio, who's setting up chairs with Vanir. "Their dad's pretty special too."
I catch the longing in her voice, the way her gaze lingers.
Rio's been oblivious, still mourning Flora, but I don’t miss the fact she has a lot of love toward Rio.
Maybe by next Thanksgiving...
The front door opens, bringing a gust of November air and three people I've been expecting.
Kraken wheels Bjorn in, Magnolia beside them looking exhausted but happy to be here.
Ingrid practically flies across the room.
"You made it!" She drops to her knees beside Bjorn's wheelchair, and I see him light up even with the pain etched on his face.
"Wouldn't miss it," he says, voice stronger than last week. "Doc says I can start standing exercises next week."
Three weeks since the amputation, and he's fighting hard.
The prosthetic fitting is still a month away, but he’s determined to learn how to function normally with his disability.
Ingrid hasn't left his side except when forced, their relationship no longer a secret after everything that's happened.
"How's the pain?" she asks quietly, hand finding his.
"I can manage it, I guess. The phantom stuff's weird, but better." He shifts in the chair, and I catch the wince he tries to hide. "Smells amazing in here."
"Wait till you see dessert," I tell him. "Aziza's outdone herself."
Njal appears from the kitchen, grinning at his twin. "About time you showed up. I saved you a drumstick."
The easy banter between brothers makes my heart swell.
This—family choosing to be happy instead of sulking in trauma and pain—is what the Patriot can't understand.
He thinks targeting our children breaks us.
Instead, it's forged us into something unbreakable.
"Astrid!" Everly's voice carries from the entrance. "Can you help with these bags?"
I head over, freezing slightly when I see who's with her.
Dylan holds three grocery bags, his arm possessively around Everly's waist.
She's wearing long sleeves even though it’s hot as hell in here from all the cooking, and something about her smile seems forced.
I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t quite put my finger on it.
I take the bags from them."Thanks for braving the store today. I thought we had everything here already."
"No problem." Dylan's eyes sweep the room, lingering too long on the exits. "Crazy you're all still locked down here."
"Safety first," I reply, not liking how he's mapping our space. "Kitchen's through there if you want to help."
"I'll just..." Everly starts, but Dylan tightens his grip.
"We'll help together, babe. Right?"
She nods quickly. Too quickly.
As they pass, I catch sight of finger-shaped bruises on her lower arm where her sleeve rides up.
I want to say something, but now isn’t the time, not with Dylan watching her every move.
A few hours later, the feast is ready.
Runes calls everyone to gather, and we arrange ourselves around the cobbled-together tables.
Fifty-three people, from baby Cali to old friends who stop in for a bite to eat.
The turkeys gleam golden-brown, surrounded by every side dish imaginable.
Aziza's pies wait on the counter, picture-perfect even though my crust is subpar.
Just as Runes stands to speak, motorcycles rumble outside.
My heart leaps—they're back.
Geirolf enters with Dad, Emil, and Oskar, looking exhausted but alive.
His eyes find mine immediately, and something passes between us.
News.
They have news.
He drops into the empty chair beside me, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. "Sorry we're late."
"You're here now," I murmur. "That's what matters."
Runes clears his throat, commanding attention. "Brothers, sisters, family—we gather today with grateful hearts. This year tested us. We've lost people we love." His eyes find Rio briefly. "We've faced threats to our children, our homes. But look around this room."
I do, seeing faces marked by hardship but not broken by it.
Magnolia holds Bjorn's hand.
Ingrid leans against her wounded boyfriend.
Dasha bounces Cali while Florencia plays with her napkin.
My parents sit close, battlefield partners after all these years.
Emil and Oskar are on both sides of them, my protectors even now.
"We're still here," Runes continues. "Still fighting. Still family. The Patriot thought he could destroy us by targeting what we love most. Instead, he's shown us exactly how strong we are together."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room.
"So today, we give thanks. Not just for food and shelter, but for each other. For the bonds that make us Raiders. For the love that makes us family." He raises his glass. "To those we've lost and those still with us. To endings and new beginnings. To family."
"To family!" we echo, clinking glasses.
The tradition continues—each person sharing their gratitude.
Some are simple: thankful for good health, for the meal, for another day above ground.
Others run deeper. Rio thanks Dasha for helping with his girls, and I catch her dabbing at tears.
Kraken thanks the club for rallying around Bjorn.
Magnolia thanks Ingrid for loving her son through his darkest moments.
When my turn comes, I stand slowly.
"I'm thankful for acceptance," I begin, finding Geirolf's eyes. "For a love that sees all of me and doesn't flinch. For a family that protects fiercely, even when it's overprotective." That gets chuckles from Dad and my brothers. "For the strength to face whatever comes next, and for hope that this war will end soon, letting us build the future we're fighting for."
Geirolf's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing tight. "I’m thankful for second chances. For a woman who makes me want to be better. For brothers who have my back, and to our future—the club’s, and mine with Astrid."
The meal passes by over time—conversations flow across tables, kids sneak extra rolls, someone starts the annual debate about stuffing versus dressing.
I help serve, making sure everyone's plates stay full, enjoying the domesticality of it all.
Between courses, Geirolf pulls me aside into the hallway. "Need to tell you something."
My pulse quickens. "You found him."
"His compound. Forty miles north, old farm property. Been surveilling it for two days." His eyes are intense. "After the holiday, we move. This is going to end, princess, and so fuckin’ soon."
I should feel relief, but fear twists my gut. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I always am." He backs me against the wall, caging me with his arms. "When this is over, I want to start our life properly. No more lockdowns. No more looking over our shoulders."
"What kind of life?" I ask, though I think I know.
"House. Kids. Normal shit." His voice roughens. "Want to put babies in you, Astrid. Want to watch you grow round with my child."
Heat floods through me at his words, at the need in his eyes. "I want that too," I whisper. "All of it."
He kisses me then, deep and claiming, until someone clears their throat nearby.
We break apart to find Emil smirking at us. "Mom wants to know if you two can keep it in your pants long enough for pie," he says.
I throw a wadded napkin at his head, but I'm laughing.
This is what I'm thankful for—the acceptance I never thought we'd have.
The afternoon stretches lazily.
Football plays on the TV while kids perform a Thanksgiving play that's more chaos than whatever they scripted.
I help with dishes, the kitchen assembly line of wash-dry-put away soothing me in a way.
Through the window, I spot Everly and Dylan by his car, clearly arguing.
Her body language screams that she’s uncomfortable, but he grabs her arm when she tries to walk away.
It’s almost like staring right into a mirror—me with Laken.
"I'll be right back," I tell Mom, already heading for the door.
By the time I reach them, Dylan's smiling again, that false charm that probably fools most people. "Hey, Astrid. I’m just heading out."
"Everything okay?" I direct the question to Everly, who won't meet my eyes.
"Fine. Dylan has to work tomorrow, so..." She shrugs, still not looking at me.
"Actually, babe, I'm thinking you should come with me," Dylan says. "This whole lockdown thing is getting old."
"She's safer here," I interject. "With the Patriot still out there?—"
"Right, the boogeyman everyone's so scared of." His laugh is mocking. "Maybe if your club didn't make so many enemies?—"
"Dylan." Everly's voice is sharp. "Don't."
He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever. Stay here then. But don't call me crying about being stuck in this place."
He drives off without saying goodbye properly, and Everly's shoulders slump.
"Don't," she says before I can speak. "Just... not today, okay?"
I want to push, to show her those bruises aren't love, but I remember being where she is.
You can't force someone to see what they're not ready to see.
"I'm here," I’m trying to be a good friend to her, but eventually, I’m going to end up giving her tough love. "Whenever you're ready."
She nods, hurrying back inside.
I follow slowly, worry gnawing at me.
One crisis at a time, I remind myself.
First the Patriot, then I can deal with Everly dating a known douche-canoe.
I get back inside and notice families have settled into different locations across the room.
Men discuss tomorrow's plans in low voices, women organizing leftovers, kids passed out in turkey comas.
I find myself on the back deck despite the chill, needing air after the crowded day. "Hiding?" Geirolf joins me, draping his arm around my shoulders.
"Thinking." I lean into him. "Next year will be different, won't it?"
"Yeah, it better." He turns me to face him. "The compound we found? It's solid intel. Ortega's coordinating on his end. Between us and the cops, the Patriot's got nowhere to run."
"And after? When he's gone?"
His hands frame my face. "Then we start livin’ instead of just survivin’. Add on to the cabin. Fill it with kids. Make a real life."
"How many kids?" I tease.
"Many as you'll give me." His thumbs stroke my cheeks. "Want a whole pack of little hellions with your eyes and my stubbornness."
"God help us all." I laugh, but the image he paints—our children running through our own home—he makes me want it.
He kisses me softly. "Love you, princess. Whatever comes next, that won't change."
"Love you too. Always."
We stay outside until the cold drives us in, finding most families have retreated to their rooms.
The main room's almost quiet as a mouse, just a few brothers sitting around on the couches.
Finally, exhausted and full, we stumble to our room.
The second the door closes, the day's tension transforms into something else.
Geirolf watches me with dark eyes as I shed my clothes, his gaze tracking every movement.
"Been thinkin’ about you all day," he says, voice rough. "How fuckin’ beautiful you looked in that kitchen washin’ dishes. Domestic shit shouldn't be sexy, but on you..."
I go right up to him, trying not to be too teasing. "Just in the kitchen?"
"Everywhere. Always." He reaches for me, but I drop to my knees before he can, hands working his belt. "Astrid?—"
"Shh." I free him from his jeans, already hard and ready for me. "It’s my turn to give thanks."
His hand tangles in my hair as I take him in my mouth, the groan he tries to muffle music to my ears.
I love this—the power of bringing this strong man to his knees with just my touch.
I work him with lips and tongue, taking him deeper, finding the rhythm that makes his hips buck.
"Fuck, baby," he breathes, fighting for control. "So good. So fuckin’ good."
I hum around him, the vibration making him curse.
His fingers tighten in my hair, not forcing but guiding me, and I take him deeper still.
The sounds he makes urge me on.
"Gonna come," he warns, but I don't pull away.
I want all of him, want to taste his surrender.
When he does, with my name on his lips, I swallow everything, gentling him through the aftershocks.
He hauls me up, kissing me deep, tasting himself on my tongue. "My turn," he growls, walking me backward to the bed. "Gonna make you scream."
"People will hear?—"
"Don't care." He pushes me back, spreading my thighs. "Let them know who you belong to."
I don’t know what it is, but what he just said drives me wild.
His mouth finds me wet and ready, and I bite my lip to keep quiet.
He's relentless, tongue and fingers working together until I'm writhing beneath him.
When he adds a second finger, curling just right, I have to grab a pillow to muffle my cries.
"That's it," he encourages between licks. "Let go for me. Want to feel you come apart."
I do, shuddering and shaking as waves crash over me.
He doesn't stop until I'm begging, oversensitive and desperate.
Only then does he crawl up my body, positioning himself at my entrance.
"Need you," I gasp, wrapping my legs around him.
He slides home in one thrust, both of us groaning at the connection. "I’ll never get tired of this," he says against my neck. "Never get enough of you."
He moves slowly at first, deep rolls of his hips that hit every nerve, but his control falls apart quickly, his pace increasing until the bed frame creaks.
I cling to him, meeting each thrust, chasing the pleasure building again.
"Harder," I demand, nails raking his back.
He complies, pounding into me like a savage.
The headboard bangs against the wall, but I don't care who hears.
Let them know I'm his, that he's mine, that this is ours.
"Close," I pant. "I’m so fuckin’ close."
His hand finds my clit, rubbing circles that push me over the edge.
I come with a muffled scream, him following seconds later.
We collapse together, sweaty and sated.
He's still inside me, neither of us ready to separate.
His hand splays across my stomach, and I know what he's thinking.
"Next Thanksgiving," he murmurs, "maybe you'll be pregnant."
The thought sends warmth through me. "Maybe I already am."
He goes still. "Are you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I've been feeling off lately, but with the stress... "Would that be okay?"
"Okay?" He rolls us so I'm on top, still connected. "That would be perfect."
I kiss him softly. "Then maybe I should take a test."
"Tomorrow," he says. "After all this is over. When the Patriot's gone and we can focus on our future."
If I am, I’ll be over the moon, but if I’m not I’ll know it will happen in time. Geirolf and I have the rest of our lives to start growing our family, but I’d be lying if I said I wanted to wait.