Page 18

Thor

F our days had crawled by since Mandy ran from me in the park, four days that had scraped my insides raw and left nothing but a hollow ache where my heart should be.

I stumbled through my cabin, kicking aside an empty Jack Daniel's bottle, barely registering the clang as it hit three others clustered by the coffee table. The place stank of stale takeout and unwashed clothes—a wreck that perfectly matched the chaos in my head.

Sleep had become a stranger. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face—the hurt, the fear when I'd confronted her. When I'd accused her of betraying me, betraying the club. The memory cut deep, kept me pacing until dawn each morning, forced me back out to search again and again.

My phone sat on the counter, its screen cracked from when I'd hurled it against the wall after the twentieth unanswered call. I picked it up anyway, scrolling through the text messages I'd sent her.

Where are you?

We need to talk.

Mandy, please.

Just tell me you're safe.

The last one I'd sent a dozen times over the past two days. No response to any of them.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized the man staring back. My beard had grown wild, untrimmed. Dark circles carved half-moons beneath bloodshot eyes. My clothes were rumpled, stained—I couldn't remember when I'd last changed them. The controlled precision that defined me had crumbled, leaving something feral in its place.

Four days of searching had yielded nothing but dead ends. Her apartment stood empty—not just unoccupied, but cleared out. Furniture remained, but personal items were gone, closets emptied except for a few hangers swinging like gallows in the still air. I'd jimmied the lock, not caring who might see or what laws I broke. The place still smelled of her vanilla perfume, but it felt hollow, abandoned.

Her workplace had been worse. The stone-faced receptionist at Prestige Partners had stared me down with practiced indifference.

"Ms. Wright no longer works here," she'd said, eyes flicking to the security guard hovering nearby. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"When did she quit?" I'd demanded, leaning over the desk, my size usually enough to intimidate.

The woman hadn't flinched. "She didn't. That's all I'm authorized to say."

Fired. The realization had hit like a sucker punch. They'd destroyed her career just like they'd threatened.

Amy's house had been my last hope. I'd staked it out for hours, parked down the street like some fucking stalker, waiting for any sign of movement. The windows remained dark, the driveway empty. No sign of her. I’d even tried Amy’s hospital, but I hadn’t been allowed in.

It was like Mandy had vanished from the face of the earth. And it was tearing me apart.

I made my way to The Iron Horse, a dive frequented by local riders but considered neutral territory—not Heavy Kings turf, not Serpents either. Just a shithole where bikers could drink without colors causing trouble.

The familiar stench of stale beer and cigarettes hit me as I shouldered past a pair of pool players. My boots stuck to the floor with each step. The bartender—a weathered woman with faded snake tattoos up her arms—eyed me warily as I slapped down cash for another whiskey.

"You sure you need that, honey?" she asked, not reaching for a glass.

"What I don’t need is your fucking opinion," I growled.

She shrugged, poured the drink, and slid it across to me without another word.

The whiskey hit my empty stomach like acid. I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten. Didn't care. Food was just something that got in the way of the numbness I was chasing.

I scanned the bar through bleary eyes, looking for nothing and no one in particular. Just another place to kill time while my mind spun in endless circles. Where was she? Was she safe? Had she left town? Was she alone? Did she hate me now?

The questions clawed at me, ripping open wounds that hadn't even begun to heal.

A group of riders sat clustered around a corner table. Not club members—just weekend warriors with too much money and not enough sense. They laughed too loud, voices carrying across the nearly empty bar.

"—that redheaded accountant who's been slumming it with the Kings," one of them said, the tail end of some joke or story I hadn't caught.

My head snapped up, the world suddenly sharp-edged and in focus. The guy who'd spoken wore a leather vest over a faded Harley Davidson t-shirt. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, his gut hanging over his belt buckle.

I crossed the floor in four strides.

"What did you just say?" My voice came out low, dangerous.

The man looked up, annoyed at the interruption. "Wasn't talking to you, brother."

"I'm not your fucking brother." I leaned in closer. "And you're gonna tell me what you just said about the redhead."

His friends shifted nervously, but the man just snorted. "Public knowledge, man. That pretty little number keeping the Kings' books? Word is the Serpents got some interesting pictures of her. Heard she lost her fancy accounting job over it. That's what happens when you—"

I didn't let him finish. My hand shot out, fingers closing around his throat as I yanked him up and slammed him against the wall. Beer bottles crashed to the floor. His feet dangled, boots kicking uselessly as I pressed my forearm into his windpipe.

"Say another word about her," I growled, barely recognizing my own voice. It sounded like it came from somewhere deep and primal, somewhere beyond rage. "One more fucking word."

His face turned red, then purple, eyes bulging as his hands clawed at my arm. I pressed harder, wanting him to hurt, needing someone to suffer like I was suffering.

"Thor! Let him go!"

Hands grabbed at my shoulders, trying to pull me back. I shrugged them off with a roar, slamming the man harder against the wall. The plaster cracked behind his head.

It took three men to finally drag me off him. The guy slid down the wall, coughing and sputtering, hand at his throat. I fought against the restraining arms, wild and unfocused, until someone—the bartender, I realized dimly—shouted that cops were on their way.

That penetrated the red haze. Cops meant trouble for the club. Meant trouble for Duke. I couldn't do that to my brothers, not after everything else.

I stopped fighting. The men holding me eased their grip, and I shrugged them off.

"Get the fuck out," the bartender said, pointing to the door. "And don't come back."

I spat on the floor and stalked out, shoving through the door into the cool night air. The alley beside the bar was dark, smelling of piss and garbage. My adrenaline crashed, leaving me shaky and sick. I leaned against the brick wall, then slid down until I sat on the filthy pavement.

My hands were trembling. I stared at them, these hands that had built motorcycles and dollhouses with equal care, now nothing more than weapons I couldn't control. The knuckles were split and bloody—not from tonight, but from punching a wall yesterday when another dead end had broken what little restraint I had left.

Four days. Four days since Mandy had run from me, terrified of what I might do. And look at me now—proving every fear she had right. All it took was four days, and I was drunk, violent, out of control.

I dropped my head into my hands and fought back the burn of tears. She was gone. Actually, truly gone. And I had no one to blame but myself.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. For a split second, hope surged through me—maybe, finally, it was her. But when I fumbled it out, Duke's name flashed on the screen. I let it ring, then silenced it, shoving it back into my pocket.

In that moment, sitting in a filthy alley outside a dive bar, the realization hit me with perfect, terrible clarity: even after four days of searching, Mandy might as well have vanished from the face of the earth. And maybe that was exactly what she wanted.

I slumped into a chair at King's Tavern the following afternoon, my head throbbing with each beat of my heart. The midday light felt like needles in my eyes. Duke sat across from me, his face hard as granite, while Tyson leaned against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. I knew that look—the intervention look. I'd worn it myself, standing exactly where they stood, more times than I could count.

"You look like death warmed up," Duke said, not bothering with pleasantries. His voice held that deadly calm that meant he was pissed but keeping it leashed.

I ran a hand over my face, feeling the scruff of days-old beard. My mouth tasted like something had crawled inside and died. The shirt I wore had stains I couldn't identify, and my jacket reeked of cigarettes and spilled whiskey.

"Thanks for the news flash," I muttered, wincing at how gravelly my voice sounded. Too much whiskey, too many cigarettes, not enough food or water.

Tyson pushed off from the bar and set a glass of water in front of me. Not a request. I drank it without argument, my body desperate for something that wasn't alcohol.

"We've been looking everywhere for you," Duke continued, steel blue eyes boring into mine. "Your cabin, the garage, your usual spots. You've been ghosting us for days."

I set the empty glass down harder than necessary. "Been busy."

"Yeah, we heard," Tyson said dryly. "Bar fight at The Iron Horse. Nearly choking a man to death. Real productive use of your time."

News traveled fast in biker circles. I should have known they'd hear about that.

"The Serpents sent those photos," I said, the words scraping my raw throat. "They blackmailed her, threatened her career, invaded my sanctuary." My hands clenched into fists on the table. "And she's just . . . gone."

Duke and Tyson exchanged a look I couldn't quite read—concern mixed with something else. Frustration, maybe.

"We know," Duke said. "We've been trying to reach you for three days."

I barely registered his words. My mind kept replaying that moment in the park—Mandy's face when I'd confronted her about the photos. The fear in her eyes. Not just fear of exposure, but fear of me. Of what I might do.

"I've looked everywhere," I continued, staring at my bruised knuckles. "Her apartment's cleaned out. Her office won't tell me anything. Her sister's house is dark." I looked up, meeting Duke's steady gaze. "It's like she vanished."

"Did you try her parents?" Tyson asked.

I shook my head. "Don't know them. Don't know where they live." Another reminder of how little I actually knew about the woman who'd shared my bed, my sanctuary, pieces of my soul I'd never given anyone else.

Tyson moved to sit at the table, positioning himself so I was caught between him and Duke. Classic pincer move. I'd taught them that.

"Have you considered that maybe she doesn't want to be found?" Tyson asked quietly. "At least not by you?"

The words hit like a physical blow. My head snapped up, blood rushing to my face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Tyson replied, unfazed by my reaction. "You know what those pictures would do to her career, her reputation. Then you confronted her in the park, and from what you've told us, it didn't go well."

"She lied to me," I spat, the betrayal still fresh and burning. "She was feeding information to the Serpents about the club, about me."

"Was she?" Duke asked, his tone maddeningly calm. "Or was she caught in an impossible situation and trying to protect both you and herself?"

"What difference does it make? She still—"

"It makes all the difference," Duke cut me off. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "She was blackmailed, Thor. Threatened. Backed into a corner by our enemies who used her feelings for you against her. And when she finally worked up the courage to tell you the truth, how did you react?"

The question hung in the air between us. I remembered the rage that had overwhelmed me, the accusations I'd hurled at her. The way I'd stalked toward her, my size and strength suddenly not a comfort but a threat.

"That's not fair," I muttered, but the defense sounded weak even to my own ears.

"Let me lay this out for you," Duke said, his voice dropping to that quiet, dangerous pitch he used when he was deadly serious. "It means you've been on a bender for days while a woman who trusted you with her deepest vulnerabilities is dealing with her life falling apart. Alone."

I bristled at the accusation. "She lied to me."

"And your reaction proved exactly why she was afraid to tell you in the first place," Tyson said quietly. "Think about it, brother. She was caught between two impossible choices—betray the club or lose everything she'd worked for. And when she finally chose to tell you anyway . . ."

His words trailed off, but they hung in the air, heavy with meaning. For the first time in days, the fog of anger and betrayal thinned enough for me to see beyond my own hurt.

Mandy had been backed into a corner. By the Serpents. Our enemies. They'd used her against me, against the club, knowing exactly what buttons to push. They'd exploited her vulnerability, her desire to protect her career—a career she'd built from nothing, one that helped support her sick sister.

And when forced to choose, she had chosen me. She had tried to tell me the truth, risking everything.

"Fuck," I whispered, the weight of realization crashing down on me.

"Yeah," Duke said, seeing the change in my face. "Fuck is right."

I dropped my head into my hands, shame burning through me hotter than any whiskey. "I scared her."

"You're a scary guy when you're angry," Tyson said simply. "And for a woman like Mandy, with no experience in our world, seeing that side of you directed at her . . ."

"I wouldn't have hurt her," I insisted, looking up. "I would never—"

"We know that," Duke said. "But does she?"

The question cut deep. How could she know? I'd never given her reason to trust that part of me—the volatile, dangerous part I'd always kept carefully contained around her. Until that day in the park when it had exploded out of me, confirming her worst fears.

"Those first photos," I said slowly, "the ones at the garage. How did the Serpents even know to target her? She wasn't wearing colors. She wasn't obviously connected to the club."

Duke and Tyson exchanged another look.

"We've been asking ourselves the same question," Duke said. "Someone had to point her out to them. Someone who knew she was important to you."

"We've got a leak," Tyson added grimly. "Or worse, a traitor."

The realization should have made me angry, should have triggered that familiar rage, but instead I felt hollow. Tired. The past four days of drinking and searching had left me empty.

"So while you've been drowning in whiskey and feeling sorry for yourself," Duke continued, "Mandy's out there dealing with the fallout alone. Job gone. Reputation in tatters. Probably terrified the Serpents might come after her again—or that you might."

Each word was like a knife, precise and cutting. But I needed to hear it. Needed the clarity that came with pain.

"She has her sister to worry about too," I said, remembering Amy's cancer treatments. "Without her job, without the health insurance..."

"Exactly," Tyson said. "So while you're justified in feeling hurt, brother, she's the one whose whole life just imploded. And right now, she's facing it without the man who promised to protect her."

The words hung in the air between us. I'd promised to protect her, and at the first test, I'd failed spectacularly. I'd become the very thing she feared.

"I need to find her," I said, pushing back from the table. My head spun from the sudden movement, but I forced myself to stand. "I need to make this right."

Duke's hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with surprising strength. "Not like this," he said firmly. "Not drunk, stinking, and half out of your mind. You'll just scare her more."

"Then what do you suggest?" I demanded, frustration boiling up again. "I can't just do nothing. Not anymore."

"Go home," Tyson said, standing as well. "Shower. Eat something that didn't come in a takeout container. Sleep in a bed instead of passing out on the floor. Get your head straight."

"And then what?"

"Then you figure out what she needs," Duke said, releasing my wrist. "Not what you need, not what makes you feel better. What she needs."

The simplicity of it struck me. All this time, I'd been consumed by my own pain, my own sense of betrayal. I hadn't once stopped to truly consider what Mandy might be going through, what she might need.

"I've been a selfish asshole," I said quietly.

"Yeah," Duke agreed with a hint of a smile. "But you're our selfish asshole. And contrary to all evidence, you've got a good heart under all that bullshit."

"Go home," Tyson repeated, squeezing my shoulder. "We'll check on you tomorrow."

I nodded, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that had kept me going for days had drained away, leaving only bone-deep fatigue in its wake.

As I turned to leave, Duke called after me. "Thor."

I paused, looking back.

"She came to your sanctuary," he said. "She trusted you with her Little side. That means something profound in her world. Don't forget that when you're figuring out your next move."

For the first time in days, my mind cleared enough to see beyond my own hurt. Mandy had given me a gift few others had ever received—her complete vulnerability, her deepest truth. And I had thrown it back in her face at the first test of trust.

I had a lot to make up for. If she'd even give me the chance.

What did Mandy need?

All of a sudden, it hit me like a truck.