Page 31 of Scornful

Emil's voice cuts through my thoughts as we ride side by side down the dusty back road that leads to one of the club's storage facilities.

The early October morning is crisp, the kind that stings your lungs if you breathe too deep.

I barely slept last night, my mind replaying every moment with Astrid at the spa.

Her skin under my hands. The sounds she made. The way she looked at me like I was something worth wanting.

"Just focused," I reply, keeping my eyes on the road ahead.

Emil snorts. "Bullshit. You've been in your head all morning. What's going on?"

Guilt twists in my gut.

I've known Emil for fifteen years.

He's not just a brother in the club, he's one of the few people I truly trust, and here I am, keeping secrets from him—secrets about his sister, no less.

"Got a lot on my mind with this Patriot shit," I say, which isn't entirely a lie.

The threat is real enough.

Emil nods, accepting this. "Fucking psychopath. First Tindra, then Flora. Who's next, you know?"

I grip the handlebars tighter at the thought.

Astrid's face flashes in my mind.

The idea of her caught in the crossfire makes my blood run cold.

We pull into the property, an old warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

From the outside, it looks abandoned.

Inside, it houses a portion of the club's weapons and some of our less-than-legal inventory.

Emil punches in the security code while I scan the tree line, an old habit from my time in foster care—it teaches you to always watch your back.

Nothing moves except the autumn leaves dancing in the wind.

"Runes wants us to check the inventory, make sure nothing's been touched," Emil says as we walk inside. "He's getting paranoid that the Patriot might have someone tailin’ us, or feedin’ information to him."

My shoulders tense. "He thinks it’s one of the brothers...?"

"Not the patches. Maybe a prospect. Maybe one of the hang arounds." Emil flips on the lights, illuminating rows of metal shelving stacked with crates. "Trust is in short supply these days."

We work through the warehouse, checking seals, counting boxes, making sure everything matches the club's records.

It's tedious shit, but necessary.

I try to sound casual as we reach the weapons cache. "How's your sister doing?"

Emil's hands freeze on the crate he's opening. "Which one?"

"Astrid." Her name feels different in my mouth now that I know how she tastes.

He shrugs, resuming counting the ammunition. "Seems okay. Different, though, the past few days."

"Different how?" I keep my eyes on the AK-47 I'm checking, refusing to let anything show on my face.

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