Because every time she posts these things, I see the girl she used to be—confident, fierce, full of life—and I want to hunt down Njal and Bjorn and make them pay for breaking her.
Because somewhere in the last year, watching her fall apart stopped being painful and started being personal.
Because I'm in love with Fenrir's daughter, and she doesn't see me as anything but her parents' friend's kid.
Safe.
Harmless.
Gunnar, who grew up in the clubhouse, same as her.
Gunnar, who's always around but never really there.
"I'm fine," I lie.
My phone buzzes a third time.
Twelve-thirty.
I shouldn't look.
I look.
It’s a video this time.
Ingrid dancing, some civilian's hand on her waist, pulling her close.
She's laughing, but it's wrong, too high, too sharp.
The kind of laugh that means she's past drunk and heading toward blackout.
Caption: "Living my best life "
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving.
"Where you going?" Ulf calls.
"Out."
"It's past midnight."
"Thanks for the time update."
"Gunnar—"
But I'm already gone, grabbing my cut from the back of my chair, my keys from my pocket.
The night air hits me like a wall when I step outside—humid, thick, the kind of Florida heat that doesn't quit even after sunset.
My Street Bob sits where I left it, matte black and patient.
I throw my leg over, feel the familiar weight settle, and kick it to life.
The engine rumbles, deep and steady.
Twenty minutes to downtown Tallahassee.
Twenty minutes to get to her before something bad happens.
