Page 25 of Scornful

I've known him since he was in diapers, for fuck's sake.

"Please tell me you’re at least using protection?"

She nods. "I'm not stupid, Astrid."

It feels odd to ask this, but I need to know. "And he was... good to you?"

A soft smile crosses her face. "Yeah. Really good to me. Not pushy or anything. We've been together for a few months now."

I let out a long breath. "Dad's going to lose his mind."

"Which is why he's not finding out," she says emphatically. "See? Now we both have something to keep quiet about."

I study her face—the set of her jaw so like our father's, the intelligence in her eyes, the confidence she carries that I never had at her age.

"You're growing up too fast," I say softly.

"Says the woman who's making eyes at a full-patch member." She laughs. "So are you going to see him tonight?"

I hesitate, torn between denying everything and trusting my sister with the truth.

"Maybe," I admit finally. "I told him I'd be at the spa late doing inventory."

She nods approvingly. "Good excuse. Dad hates financial stuff—he'd never question that."

"You can't tell a soul, Ingrid. Not your friends, not Bjorn, not anyone. Promise me."

She meets my gaze steadily. "I swear on Mom, Astrid. Not a word to anyone, especially Dad."

"Same goes for you and Bjorn," I say. "I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

"Deal." She holds out her pinky, and even though this is pretty serious, I can't help but smile as we link fingers in the same way we did since she was a little girl.

"Now," I say, pulling the textbook back toward us, "let's actually get some studying done before Dad comes to check on us."

As we return to the history chapter, I can't help but feel excited for the evening to pass.

Every minute that ticks by is a minute I’ll be closer to seeing Geirolf.

A couple of hours later I’m at the spa, reveling in how silent it is.

My hands shake slightly as I count the cash drawer, triple-checking the numbers because I can't seem to focus.

I need to drop this off at the bank in the morning—it’s one of the many tasks I do for Mom and Fern.

But, I’m so distracted… he'll be here soon and then I won’t be able to focus on anything except the two of us.

I've changed out of my work uniform into jeans and a soft green sweater that Mom always says brings out my eyes.

A cold front came through, oddly enough.

My hair is down around my shoulders instead of in its usual work bun.

I even reapplied my makeup after I got here.

Pathetic. I'm pathetic.

This is such a monumentally bad idea, and I know I keep thinking it, but it is. It’s a horrible idea!

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