Page 59 of Scornful

"Eventually. But there was plenty of pushback at first. I wasn’t ever in this sort of life. I had a regular job as a nanny, a college degree. Hell, I think even some of the brothers thought I'd try to change him, make him soft." She laughs at the memory. "As if anyone could make Fenrir soft."

"How'd you win them over?"

"I didn't try to. I just loved him, supported the club, and let time prove them wrong." Her expression grows serious. "The question is, are you willing to wait? To weather this storm until Fenrir sees what I already know?"

"Which is?"

"That you'd die for her. That you'd never hurt her. That maybe, just maybe, you're exactly what she needs."

Before I can respond, Tor appears in the doorway. "Geirolf. They need you in the basement. Now."

The basement, where Laken is.

Charm touches my arm as I pass. "Remember what I said. He'll come around."

I nod, but my mind's already shifting to whatever's waiting for me downstairs.

The basement access is through a hidden door in the storage room.

I descend the concrete steps, the temperature dropping with each level.

At the bottom, I find Runes, Fenrir, Emil, and Oskar surrounding Laken, who sits in a metal chair.

He looks like shit—face swollen, dried blood crusting his nose, one eye completely shut.

His hands are zip-tied to the chair arms, and I notice several fingernails are already missing.

"About fuckin’ time," Fenrir says without looking at me.

The hatred in his voice is thick enough to choke on.

"I was upstairs workin’ on a bike," I deadpan, taking my position in the circle.

Emil snorts in disgust but doesn't comment.

Oskar just watches me with those calculating eyes, always the wild card of the siblings.

"Our friend here's been reluctant to share," Runes says, his voice deceptively calm. "Thought maybe a fresh perspective might help."

I study Laken, noting the way he flinches when I move closer.

Good. He should be scared.

"What do we want to know?"

"The Patriot's plans," Fenrir says. "Shipment routes, safe houses, anything useful."

"I told you," Laken wheezes through split lips. "I don't know details. He doesn't trust anyone with the full picture."

"Bullshit." Emil steps forward, pliers in hand. "You were feeding him information for months. You knowsomething."

Laken's eyes go wide as Emil grabs his left hand. "Wait! Please! I?—"

The scream that follows echoes off the concrete walls as Emil grips a fingernail with the pliers and slowly pulls.

I've heard worse sounds in my life, but there's something about the high-pitched agony of it that sets teeth on edge.

The nail comes free with a wet pop, blood immediately welling up.

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