Page 6 of Scornful

Geirolf

Present Day…

The stench of stale beer and fresh weed wafts in the air of Bubba's.

This place has been my sanctuary for the past decade—sometimes the only place where the noise in my head quiets down enough for me to think straight.

Tonight, though, there's a different kind of tension pulsing through the room.

I lean back in my chair, nursing a lukewarm beer as I survey the faces around me.

My brothers. My family.

All of them wearing the same grim expression that's been etched into our features since Flora's funeral eight months ago.

"This Patriot situation is getting out of hand," Tor growls, his ice blue eyes blazing with rage. "We need to hit back harder."

Kraken nods, running a hand through his beard. "Agreed. That bullet was meant for one of us. Flora was just in the wrong place at the wrong fuckin’ time."

A heavy silence falls over our table at the mention of her name.

I can still see Rio's face as he cradled her body, screaming for someone to save her and their unborn child.

The doctors managed to save little Cali, but Flora died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

He was lucky Cali somehow survived, honestly.

"How's Rio holding up?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Magnus shakes his head, his massive frame seeming to deflate. "Not good, brother. He's barely functioning. If it weren't for Dasha helping with the girls, I don't know what he'd do."

I take another swig of my beer, letting the bitter liquid wash down my throat.

Two innocent children without a mother because of the Patriot.

The thought makes my blood boil.

"The prospects keeping an eye on Rio?" I ask.

Tor nods. "Yeah. Dad's made sure he's never alone for too long. But he's in a bad place. Can't blame him."

Another silence falls, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

The weight of what happened at Tindra's birthday party hangs over the club like a storm cloud.

We're all waiting for the next crack of lightning, the next victim, and we're all wondering if it could have been prevented.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache that comes from too many hours on my bike.

The cut feels particularly heavy tonight, like it's weighing me down with the responsibilities being a full patch represents.

"I need some air," I announce, pushing away from the table.

No one tries to stop me. They understand. We all have our own ways of coping with the shit our life throws at us.

Outside, the night air is cool against my skin, a relief compared to how fucking stuffy it is inside.

The parking lot is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the cracked asphalt like grasping fingers.

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