There are cuts on her stomach, visible through her torn shirt—shallow wounds that have soaked the fabric with blood.
And at her throat, pressed against the soft skin just below her jaw, is an ornate knife.
Solveig stands behind her, using Dalla as a shield.
Her dark eyes are bright with triumph, her lips curved in a smile that makes my blood run cold.
"Ah," she says. "The cavalry arrives. Right on schedule."
Two guards flank her, their rifles trained on the doorway.
I could take one of them, maybe both, but not before Solveig cuts Dalla's throat.
Not before she takes everything from me.
"Let her go." My voice comes out steady, but inside I'm screaming.
Inside, every instinct is howling at me to put a bullet between this woman's eyes and damn the consequences.
"I don't think so." Solveig presses the knife harder, and Dalla whimpers as a thin line of blood appears on her neck. Fresh blood, joining the dried trails already staining her skin. "Put down your weapons. All of you."
Runes steps through the door behind me, his rifle raised.
When he sees Dalla—his daughter, bleeding and bound—something breaks in his expression.
For just a moment, the MC president disappears, and all that's left is a father watching his child suffer.
"Solveig," he says, and his voice is raw. "This is between us. Let her go."
"Between us?" She laughs, and it's an ugly sound. "No, Runes. This stopped being between us the moment you slit my mother's throat and left me to find her body. This became about everyone you love. Everything you care about." The knife traces a line down Dalla's jaw. "Starting with your precious princess here."
"I'll give you whatever you want. Money. Territory. My life. Just let her go."
"I don't want your money. I don't want your territory." Solveig's eyes burn with thirty years of hatred. "I want you to watch her die. I want you to know that everything you built, everything you love, ends today. And then I want you to live with that for the rest of your miserable life."
More club members file into the room behind us, spreading out along the walls.
The guards shift nervously, outnumbered and outgunned.
But Solveig doesn't seem concerned.
She has the only leverage that matters.
"Quite the army you've assembled," Solveig says, looking around at the men filling her living room. "All for one girl. She must be very special."
"She's my daughter," Runes growls. "She's worth more than your entire miserable existence."
"Touching. Really." Solveig's voice drips with mockery. "The devoted father, riding to the rescue. Tell me, Runes—were you this devoted to your club thirty years ago? When you murdered my mother and left a six-year-old girl to find her body?"
"Your mother was a monster."
"My mother was all I had!" The mask slips, just for a moment.
Raw pain flashes across Solveig's face before the ice returns. "And you took her from me. You didn't think about what would happen to me. You didn't care."
"I didn't know about you."
"Would it have mattered if you did?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You would have killed her anyway. Because that's what men like you do. You destroy things. You break them. And then you walk away and pretend you're the hero."
