Page 3 of Scornful

Probably something else about the Patriot.

Ever since that bastard tried to kidnap Tindra last month, the club's been on high alert.

My dad's face is so much like my brothers'—the same blade of a nose, same stern jaw, same piercing eyes.

Some days I can still see my mother in them—in the way their eyes crease when they smile.

"They've been like that all night," Geirolf comments, following my gaze. "Somethin’s goin’ on."

"It's gotta be the Patriot. After what happened with Tindra and Flora..." My voice falters.

Geirolf's jaw tightens at the mention of Flora.

Her funeral is still fresh in everyone's mind.

Rio standing hollow-eyed beside the casket, their two-year-old daughter Florencia in his arms, too young to understand that mama wasn't coming back.

Meanwhile, Dasha was holding Cali, the newborn baby that somehow survived when Flora didn’t.

Flora wasn’t around us for a long time, but nothing can fill the hole left in her absence.

Geirolf looks right into my eyes as I take another sip of my beer. "You shouldn't worry about club shit, you know."

"Hard not to, when it keeps impacting people I care about." I keep my eyes trained on his. "I'm not a kid, Geirolf."

"Trust me," he says, his eyes dropping for a fraction of a second to look me up and down—staring at my body—snapping back to my face, "I'm well aware of that."

Heat flares low in my belly at the look, and I quickly push it down.

I can’t feel the way he makes me feel.

He's off-limits, completely and utterly, no matter how those ice-blue eyes make me feel.

No matter how his rare smiles seem directed at me more often lately.

Then again, I’ve been on and off with a man who doesn’t treat me right, a man who isn’t much of a man in the first place.

It’s a toxic cycle I can’t seem to break.

Geirolf changes the subject. "How's work at the spa?"

I latch onto the lifeline. "Good. Busy. Fern's thinking of expanding, adding a few more treatment rooms."

"Your hands that magical, huh?" There's a glint in his eye that makes me think there's an innuendo buried in there somewhere, but I choose to ignore it.

"I'll have you know I'm the most requested massage therapist there," I say with all the sass in the world. "People book weeks in advance for these hands."

"I believe it." His voice drops a notch, and something in the air between us shifts.

Across the room, my father's gaze lands on us, his eyes narrowing slightly at how close Geirolf is to me.

Geirolf notices too and casually takes a step back, creating a more appropriate distance between us, causing the moment to shatter like glass.

"Astrid!" Ingrid's voice cuts through the tension as my baby sister bounces over, her red hair swinging like a curtain of silk.

At sixteen, she's all legs and attitude, sage green eyes bright with mischief. "Dad says I can borrow your black boots for the concert tomorrow if you say it's okay."

"The ones with the silver studs?" I ask, still feeling Geirolf's presence like a physical weight beside me.

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