Page 39 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

“No,” I resist, digging my heels in despite my weakness. “I need to see?—”

“You don't want to see this,” Hanna says firmly, her grip tightening. “Trust me.”

But I can't look away. Thor has reached Terrance now.

Thor's massive hands wrap around Terrance's throat, lifting him clear off the ground. Terrance's designer shoes kick uselessly at the air as his face turns purple. I should look away. I should let Hanna lead me from this room of horrors. But I can't move, transfixed by the raw fury in Thor's face.

“This is for Charlotte,” Thor growls.

The scarred man—clearly their leader—steps forward. “Thor. Enough.”

Thor doesn't acknowledge him, his focus entirely on Terrance, whose struggles grow weaker by the second. His fingers dig deeper, and I hear the wet crackle of cartilage giving way.

“Thor! Not like this. Not here.”

For a terrible moment, I think Thor won't stop. That he'll crush Terrance's windpipe right here in front of us all. Part of me wants to see it happen. Wants to watch the life drain from the eyes that have haunted my nightmares for years.

But then Thor releases him, letting Terrance crumple to the floor like discarded trash. He gasps and chokes, hands clutching his throat as he struggles for air.

“Get him up,” the leader orders, and two men haul Terrance to his feet. “Take him to the van. Special cargo.”

Thor turns toward me, and I see something in his expression that makes my chest tighten. He's barely holding himself together. Blood drips from his split knuckles, and his breathing is ragged, harsh. He takes a step toward me, then another. The leader puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Easy, brother. She's been through hell. Give her space.”

But I don't want space. I want Thor's arms around me, want his voice in my ear telling me it's over, that I'm safe. I shrug off Hanna's gentle grip and stumble toward him, the vest slipping from my shoulders.

“Thor,” I plea, reaching for him with trembling hands.

He catches me as my legs give out, his arms wrapping around me with desperate gentleness. I can feel him shaking—this massive man who just crushed my ex-husband's throat is trembling like a leaf.

“I'm sorry,” he breathes against my hair. “I'm so fucking sorry, Charlotte. I should have been here. I should have protected you.”

“You came,” I manage. “You found me.”

“Not soon enough. What he did to you?—”

“I'm alive,” I interrupt, pulling back to look at his battered face. “I'm alive because of you.”

His good eye searches mine, and I see the guilt there—heavy, suffocating guilt that threatens to consume him. I press my palm against his cheek, feeling the stubble rough beneath my fingers.

“This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“We need to move,” the leader orders. “Local PD will be here soon, and we've got wounded.”

Thor nods, but when he moves to scoop me up, a sharp hiss escapes through his teeth. I look down and see it—blood seeping through the torn fabric of his jeans, staining the denim dark around his thigh.

“You’re hurt—” I start, panic rising.

“Just the leg,” he grits out, arms still coming around me. “I’ve had worse.”

He lifts me anyway, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing, even as his leg trembles beneath the strain. The motion jostles his wound, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter.

I bury my face against him, clutching his shirt, needing his strength—needing him —more than ever.

“Ratchet?” Thor asks as we move toward the door.

“Alive,” someone calls out. “Barely. Hanna's got him stabilized, but he needs a hospital.”

Relief floods through me. V, too—I can see him now, conscious but leaning heavily against another biker. His shirt is soaked with blood, but he's on his feet.

“Charlotte!” V calls out weakly, managing a pained smile. “Told you I'd see you again.”

I try to smile back, but my face feels frozen, numb.

Thor carries me through the warehouse, past bodies and blood and the wreckage of what was once a hangar. Outside, a wall of motorcycles stretches as far as I can see—dozens of them, engines still ticking hot in the night air. Men loading the wounded into waiting vans.

“The cavalry,” Thor murmurs against my hair.

“Who are they?”

“Friends,” he answers. “I’ll explain later.”

I shiver in the cool night air, suddenly aware of my near nakedness. Thor notices, pulling me closer against his chest.

“Get her something to wear,” he barks at a passing prospect, who immediately shrugs out of his hoodie and hands it over.

Thor helps me into it, his movements achingly gentle despite his own injuries. The fabric swallows me whole, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but it's warm and clean and doesn't smell like Terrance.

“Where are they taking him?” I ask, watching as Terrance is loaded into a van, zip-tied and bloody but still conscious.

Thor's expression darkens. “Somewhere he'll wish he was dead.”

“I want to be there when you kill him.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Not even a little bit. “I'd hand you the knife if that's what you want.”

A strange calm washes over me at his words. Not peace—I'm too broken for peace right now—but something close to it. Certainty. The knowledge that Terrance will never touch me again, never hurt anyone again. And I'll be there to see it happen.