Page 17 of Scornful

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.

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