Page 23 of Scornful

As I walk out of the spa, nodding a casual goodbye to Charm who eyes me with curiosity, I can't help but feel like something has changed between Astrid and I.

The line I swore I'd never cross with a club brother's daughter has been obliterated, and I don't regret it for a second.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I'm climbing into my truck.

A text from Tor:

Kirkja tonight. 8 PM. Important info on the Patriot situation.

Reality comes crashing back—the club, the danger, the reasons why getting involved with Astrid is such a monumentally bad idea.

None of which changes the fact that I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the press of her curves against my body, still see the way she looked at me like I was something worth wanting.

I fire up the engine of my truck, already planning how to see her again.

Because one thing is certain: now that I've had a taste of Astrid, there's no going back.

I’ll have her no matter what the consequences are.

CHAPTER FOUR

Astrid

"You look different."

I glance up from the history textbook I'm helping Ingrid with, catching my sister staring at me instead of the chapter on World War II.

"I'm wearing the same thing I always wear," I say, gesturing to my jeans and simple black tank top. "What are you talking about?"

We're sprawled across Ingrid's bed at our parents’ house, surrounded by textbooks and notebooks.

I've been helping her with homework since dinner, trying to keep my mind off what happened at the spa yesterday with Geirolf.

Which was... nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Just a professional massage that got a little out of hand.

A momentary lapse in judgment that can never,everhappen again.

At least that's what I've been telling myself for the past twenty-four hours, even as my phone burns a hole in my pocket with the text I sent him an hour ago.

Ingrid rolls her eyes dramatically, the way only sixteen-year-olds can. "Not your clothes, dummy. Your vibe. You're all... I don't know, glowy or something."

"Glowy?" I snort, flipping a page in her textbook. "That's not a word."

"Is too. And you keep checking your phone every five seconds."

As if on cue, my phone vibrates against my thigh, and I have to physically restrain myself from grabbing it.

Ingrid notices, her sage green eyes—just like mine—narrowing suspiciously.

"See? You're doing it right now!" She sits up, crossing her legs and gives me her full attention. "Who is it? Please tell me you finally kicked Laken's pathetic ass to the curb for good."

"Language," I say automatically, though it's a lost cause.

Between Dad, Oskar, and Emil, Ingrid's vocabulary has been colorful since she could talk. "And Laken's been gone for months."

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