Page 7 of Scornful

I lean against the wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from my cut.

I take a deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling slowly.

My hand moves unconsciously to my chest, fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo beneath my shirt—a large, intricately detailed skull that covers much of my right pec and extends down my arm, intertwined with dark floral elements.

It's a reminder of my own brushes with death, of the sacrifices I've made for the club.

Each line tells a story, each shadow a memory.

I shrug off my cut, hanging it carefully on a nearby bike handle.

The night air feels good against my arms as I pull my t-shirt over my head, leaving me bare-chested in the parking lot.

I don't give a shit if anyone sees. Let them look. Let them see what this life does to a man.

The scars criss-crossing my torso and back are a roadmap of violence I’ve endured—knife wounds, bullet holes, reminders of the shit I’d gladly go through again.

But it's the tattoo that draws the eye, the skull with its empty gaze seeming to stare accusingly at the world.

Death and rebirth. Pain and survival. That's what it represents.

That's what my life has been for longer than I can remember.

I roll my neck, feeling the satisfying pop of tension releasing.

Fifteen years I've been with this club.

Fifteen years of blood, loyalty, and brotherhood.

I've never wanted a position of power—no officer patch for me, but I've earned something more valuable: respect.

Every brother in the Raiders of Valhalla knows I'd die for them without hesitation, and they'd do the same for me.

It's as simple and as complicated as that.

Movement at the far end of the parking lot catches my eye.

A woman, her light brown hair gleaming under the streetlamp, walking briskly toward one of the cars.

Fenrir's daughter—Astrid.

I've always kept my distance from her, partly out of respect for her father, partly because she’s just my type and I know better.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there's something about Astrid that's always drawn my eye.

She's nothing like thehoraswho hang around hoping to catch a brother's attention.

She’s not even like any other woman I usually see, or a random woman at a bar. She’s something else entirely.

She works at Fern's spa, keeps to herself, doesn't play the usual games.

I pull my shirt back on but leave the cut off, enjoying the coolness against my overheated skin.

I'm about to turn away, to give her the privacy she deserves, when a man steps out of the shadows, blocking her path.

My body tenses instinctively, years of training and instinct kicking in.

I step closer, eyes narrowing as I assess the situation.

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