CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gunnar
I've faced down traffickers with guns.
I've taken a knife to the side and kept fighting.
I've stared death in the face and refused to blink.
But standing outside Fenrir's office at the clubhouse, my palms are sweating like I'm a teenager asking a girl to prom.
This is different.
This matters more than anything I've ever done in my entire fucking life.
I take a breath and knock.
"Come in," Fenrir's voice calls.
I push open the door.
Fenrir's behind his desk, paperwork spread in front of him.
Charm's on the small couch against the wall, flipping through what looks like supply orders for the spa.
They both look up when I enter.
"Gunnar." Fenrir sets down his pen. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Everything's fine. I just—" I clear my throat. "I was hoping I could talk to you both. Privately."
Charm's eyebrows rise.
She exchanges a look with Fenrir—one of those married-couple looks that communicates entire conversations in a single glance.
"Of course, honey." She sets aside her papers. "Close the door."
I do.
Then I stand there like an idiot, trying to remember the speech I rehearsed in my head all morning.
"You going to sit?" Fenrir asks.
"No. I think I need to stand for this."
Another exchanged look.
Charm's expression shifts from curious to something softer.
Like she's starting to suspect.
"I love your daughter," I say.
The words come out stronger than I expected.
More certain.
Because they are certain.
