Page 2 of Scornful

They still are, even now that they're full patch members themselves, even though I've told them a thousand times I don't need them hovering.

The truth about Mom's murder changed something in all of us.

For me, it was the reality that the club wasn't just about brotherhood and family barbecues and men who called me "princess" while slipping me candy.

It was about a world where violence wasn't just possible but necessary, where enemies lurk in shadows, where protection came at a price paid in blood.

The carefree child I might have been died with that knowledge, replaced by someone more cautious, more aware of the darkness that exists.

I take a long pull from my beer, letting the icy liquid slide down my throat as I lean against the bar at the clubhouse.

Music throbs through the space, the bass vibrating in my chest.

Around me, the typical Friday night party is in full swing—brothers in their cuts drinking and laughing, old ladies clustering around tables, prospects running around keeping drinks filled.

It’s basically the damn heartbeat of the club.

"You're thinking too loud."

The deep voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to find Geirolf standing next to me at the bar.

He's one of the few brothers who doesn't make me feel like I'm still nine years old with pigtails.

He's always treated me like I had a brain between my ears, not like some dorky club kid.

Either way, his presence doesn't aggravate me the way some of the others do when I'm in this mood.

I counter, raising an eyebrow. "Says who?"

"Says the way you're stranglin’ that beer bottle." His ice-blue eyes drop to my hand, where my knuckles have gone white around the neck of the bottle. "Want to talk about it, or would you prefer I find someone else to annoy?"

That pulls a reluctant smile from me. "I might actually prefer the annoyance, thanks."

He nods and leans against the bar beside me, his muscular arm just inches from mine.

Heat radiates from him like a furnace, then again it always does.

Out of all the brothers at the club… Geirolf is the one I could never stop staring at, but I’m in a… I don’t even know what to call it.

Laken and me, everything about us is complicated, and I still have a lot of love for him even though I shouldn’t.

Laken has hurt me in more ways than I could ever possibly count, and at the moment we’re not together, but that could change next week.

Geirolf on the other hand—he’s kind of like Channing Tatum—you can admire him from afar but you can’t touch.

"Fine by me," he says, voice rumbling low enough that only I can hear him over the music. "Annoying beautiful women is my specialty."

I snort, covering the flush that wants to creep up my neck. "Very smooth, Gandolf. Does that usually work for you?"

I don’t know when it started happening, but at some point I gave him Gandolf as a nickname, mainly because it gets under his skin.

He shrugs one broad shoulder, the movement pulling his black t-shirt tight across his chest. "I'll let you know when I try it on a woman, not a demon."

I roll my eyes, but the heaviness that's been sitting on my chest all day eases a little.

My gaze drifts across the room to where my father stands with Runes, their heads bent in conversation.

Fenrir's face is serious, jaw tight with whatever news they're discussing.

---