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.
