Page 44 of Misery
She's shaking harder now that she's moving away from the bodies.
Adrenaline crash hitting. I've seen it before in soldiers—holding it together during the crisis, falling apart after.
The moment we're outside, she doubles over. Hands on her knees. Gasping.
"Hey." I move in front of her, blocking the view from the other brothers. "Breathe."
"I can't—they were—someonedid that for me." Her voice cracks. "Cut a person open and carved that saying like it was romantic."
"Look at me." I crouch down, forcing her to meet my eyes. "This isn't your fault."
"Isn't it? If I wasn't—if Los Coyotes didn't want me?—"
"Then they'd want someone else. This is what they do, Elfe. Create chaos. Fear." My hands find her shoulders, steadying. "Someone's fighting back. We don't know why yet, but we'll find out."
She straightens slowly. Her face is pale in the warehouse lighting. "What if it's someone worse? What if whoever's doing this wants something from me too?"
That's the question, isn't it? But I can't tell her my suspicions. Not yet. Not until I'm sure.
"Then they'll have to go through me," I say simply. "Just like everyone else."
Something shifts in her expression. She studies my face like she's seeing something new. "You mean that."
"Every word."
Magnus appears in the doorway. "Problem. Ivar's on his way. Someone called him."
Fuck. The last thing we need is her hot-headed father.
"Get on the bike," I tell Elfe. "We're leaving before he gets here and makes this worse."
CHAPTER FIVE
Elfe
The loft feels too quiet when we get back.
Emil and Saga are in the living room with the dogs, but their conversation stops when we walk in.
The silence is heavy, weighted with questions they're not asking.
Saga's eyes search my face, cataloging damage she can't see but knows is there.
Emil watches Oskar, some kind of silent brother communication happening that I can't decipher.
"Everything okay?" Saga asks carefully. Her voice has that forced casual tone people use when things are very much not okay.
"Fine." The lie tastes like copper. Like blood. Like the smell that filled that warehouse. "Just tired."
Oskar's hand ghosts over my lower back.
Not quite touching but there. Present.
The almost-contact makes my skin hypersensitive, aware of every inch of space between us. "She needs some rest. It’s been a long day."
"It's barely nine," Emil observes. His tone is mild but his eyes are sharp, taking in details—my shaking hands, Oskar's protective positioning, the way I'm holding myself like I might shatter.
"Feels like even later." I move toward the hallway, each step deliberate and careful like the floor might give way. "I'm going to shower then go to bed."
