Page 3

Thor

N othing like a bit of dirt to bring me back down to earth.

My hands were filthy. They moved on autopilot, breaking down the Harley transmission with practiced efficiency while my mind wandered elsewhere. The wrench felt like an extension of my fingers as I loosened bolts with just the right amount of torque—too much force would strip the threads, too little would leave them stuck. Like most things in my life, it was about control and precision, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply before something broke.

Dawn had barely cracked over the mountains when I'd unlocked Iron Kings Auto. I preferred working when the shop was empty—no brothers looking for favors, no customers hovering, just me and the mechanical puzzle before me. The early morning quiet let me think clearly, which was sometimes a blessing and other times a curse.

The garage was my sanctuary, a place where everything made sense. Tools lined the walls in strict order—wrenches arranged by size, screwdrivers separated by type, specialty implements for Harleys given places of honor. The floor gleamed despite the constant battle against grease and oil stains. Even Tyson, with his military precision, had once joked that my workshop made him feel slovenly.

That had given me a pang of pride. A rare feeling.

The smell of motor oil and metal polish filled my nostrils, comforting in its familiarity. The radio played Zeppelin low enough not to disturb my thoughts but loud enough to keep the silence at bay. "Ramble On" faded into "Kashmir" as my fingers worked free another bolt, placing it carefully in the magnetic tray.

Normally, I blocked out all other thoughts while I worked. But today, that wasn’t an option. Because yesterday, I’d met that fucking accountant. Mandy Wright. The name rolled around in my head like a bearing that didn't quite fit its housing. She'd been sitting at Duke's desk when I walked in, copper hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, pen poised over spreadsheets filled with numbers that might as well have been hieroglyphics to me.

It wasn't just her looks that caught my attention, though those were impressive enough. Her hair reminded me of burnished motorcycle parts—that deep copper glow that only comes from something of quality. Her eyes were green, not the washed-out kind, but vibrant like the mountains in summer. But what really snagged my focus was how she held herself—back straight, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised. It wasn't natural posture but something practiced and deliberate, like armor made of professionalism.

When she noticed me watching her, something flickered in those green eyes. Recognition, maybe, or understanding—a brief, unguarded moment before her professional mask slipped firmly back into place. She'd crossed her legs, adjusted her blouse, and continued explaining tax shelters and corporate restructuring to Duke as if I hadn't just caught her letting her guard down for a split second.

I’d like to have another go at that guard. I’ve got a feeling I could obliterate it.

"The investments would provide both legitimate income streams and appropriate write-offs for the auto shop expenses," she'd said, voice controlled and impersonal. But I'd noticed how her fingers tightened around her pen when I moved closer, not in fear but something else entirely.

This was not normal for me. Women didn’t have much effect. Or at least, they did, but not for more than a day. Fuck.

I set down my wrench and wiped my hands on a shop rag, leaving dark streaks that would never fully wash out. My phone buzzed against the metal workbench, and I frowned at the message from Duke: "Meeting at 10. Bring the investment paperwork Mandy prepared."

Fucking paperwork. The club was changing under Duke, especially since he'd settled down with Mia. His newfound domestic bliss had him pushing us toward legitimacy, talking about futures and stability like we were some corporate entity instead of the Heavy Kings MC.

I understood his thinking. Duke had something to protect now, someone who depended on him. Mia had transformed him, dragged him from the darkness he'd been sinking into before they met. Now he wanted security, wanted to build something that wouldn't collapse if the Serpents decided to hit our gun runs or if the feds came sniffing around our legitimate businesses.

But the Iron Serpents sure as hell weren't diversifying their portfolios or restructuring their corporate holdings. They were as vicious as ever, probably more so after we rescued Mia from their clutches. And while Duke played with business models, Venom was rebuilding his ranks and licking his wounds, planning his next move.

I loosened another bolt with more force than necessary, the wrench slipping and scraping my knuckles against metal. Blood welled from the shallow cut, and I sucked air through my teeth. The pain cleared my head, brought me back to the present.

Duke was my president, my brother. I'd follow him into hell if he asked. But I worried his happiness was clouding his judgment, making him forget what had kept us alive all these years—our reputation, our willingness to be more ruthless than our enemies.

I wiped the blood on my jeans and picked up my wrench again, focusing on the transmission. Duke might be changing, but my job remained the same: protect the club, keep my brothers safe, and make sure anyone who threatened us learned to regret it. And maybe figure out why I couldn't get a certain copper-haired accountant out of my head.

K ing's Tavern sat dark and empty, the "Closed" sign hanging on the door when I pulled it open with more force than necessary. The place stank of last night's beer and whiskey. I spotted Duke and Tyson in our usual corner booth, heads bent over steaming mugs of coffee, their leather cuts standing out against the dim interior like war flags on a battlefield.

"You're late," Duke said without looking up. His voice carried the easy authority of a man who'd led our club through blood and fire.

"Unlike you bums, I had some work to do. Had to finish the Carson transmission." I slid into the booth beside Tyson, our club's treasurer and resident voice of reason. Where Duke led with gut instinct and I led with fists, Tyson navigated with careful calculation. The three of us balanced each other in ways that had kept the Heavy Kings intact through years of war with the Serpents.

I tossed Mandy's folder onto the table between us. The documents inside were color-coded, tabbed, and arranged with a precision that reminded me of my tool wall. "The accountant's proposals are solid," I admitted grudgingly, spreading the papers across the sticky tabletop. "But are we really considering all this investment bullshit?"

Duke looked better than I'd seen him in years. The dark circles that had been permanent fixtures under his eyes had faded, and his shoulders carried tension from responsibility rather than exhaustion. Mia had changed him in ways I was still trying to understand.

"It's not bullshit, Thor. It's survival." Duke tapped one of the spreadsheets. "These numbers don't lie. There’s more profit we can squeeze out of our legitimate businesses, and we can invest that money to protect our future.”

"We're not fucking accountants," I said, crossing my arms. The movement made my Mjolnir tattoo flex across my back, a reminder of the strength I brought to the table. "We're the Heavy Kings. Since when do we worry about profit margins instead of protecting our territory?"

Tyson, who'd been silently studying Mandy's projections, looked up. His brown eyes held the calm assessment of a man who'd seen combat and learned to think three moves ahead.

"It's not either-or, Thor," he said, turning a page in the report. "It's both. Diversification protects us. If they hit our gun runs again, we need legitimate fallbacks." He traced a line of figures with his finger. "Look at the Ortega crew in Nevada. Feds seized their assets because everything was too connected. One business falls, they all fall."

I leaned back against the booth, unconvinced. The wood creaked beneath my weight. "Venom's getting bolder since we rescued Mia. He'll see this as weakness." I locked eyes with Duke. "He thinks you've gone soft."

Duke's face hardened, and for a moment, I saw the president who'd led us through the bloodiest territory war in club history. He looked like more bloodshed was to come. "Or he'll see us adapting while he stagnates."

"We're not abandoning our other businesses," Duke continued, voice low and dangerous. "The gun runs continue. The protection agreements stay in place. But we build something sustainable alongside it."

Tyson nodded, always the mediator. "We need both the blade and the shield, brother."

I ran a hand through my long blond hair, tied back with a leather cord. "I don't like outsiders deep in our business. The accountant knows too much already."

"Mandy's proven herself," Duke countered. "She's been handling Lena's tattoo parlor books for years without a single leak."

"I think we should bring her in deeper," Tyson said, tapping the most complex of the financial diagrams. "She's suggested a few moves here that honestly, I wouldn't have thought of. Legal ways to shield our assets that keep us protected from both the feds and rival clubs."

Something hot and unexpected flared in my chest at Tyson's words. The thought of Mandy working more closely with him sent a surge of territorial annoyance through me that I couldn't explain and didn't want to examine.

"She works through me," I heard myself say before I'd fully processed the thought. Both Duke and Tyson looked up in surprise. "I mean, I run the auto shop. If we're restructuring, I should be the point of contact."

Duke's expression shifted, something knowing flickering in his eyes. "Didn't realize you'd developed such an interest in accounting, brother."

"I haven't," I snapped. "I just don't want some outsider getting too comfortable with our operation."

Tyson exchanged a glance with Duke that made me want to punch both of them. "Sure, Thor. Whatever you say."

I glared at them, annoyed at my own transparency. "Can we focus on the actual problem? Venom's been spotted near our northern border three times this week."

Duke's face grew serious again. "I'm aware. Wiz has been monitoring their movements."

"And what are we doing about it?" I demanded.

"Being smart," Duke replied. "Building strength while they expect weakness. They think I'm distracted with Mia, that I've gone domestic." His eyes hardened to blue steel. "Let them think that until the moment I put them in the ground."

I studied my president, my brother, the man I'd follow into hell. Maybe he hadn't gone as soft as I feared. But as the meeting continued, I found my thoughts drifting back to copper hair and green eyes, and the strange surge of possessiveness I'd felt at the thought of her working closely with anyone else.

M y cabin looked like a fortress silhouetted against the darkening sky. I'd built it myself on five acres of woodland outside Ironridge—far enough from neighbors to avoid questions, close enough to town for club business. Most people expected the Heavy Kings' enforcer to live in some dive apartment above a bar or a run-down shack littered with beer cans and used condoms. The clean lines and massive windows of my modernist retreat surprised even my brothers the first time I'd hosted a club meet here.

I punched my security code into the keypad, listening for the reassuring series of clicks as the system disarmed. The front door opened to a spacious main room with concrete floors softened by a few strategic rugs. Leather furniture, sleek metal tables, and a state-of-the-art entertainment system I rarely used filled the space. A few Norse artifacts hung on the walls—a reproduction battle axe, a carved wooden Yggdrasil, a framed replica of ancient runes.

I moved to the bar cart, poured three fingers of Lagavulin into a heavy crystal tumbler, and carried it to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest. Pines stood sentinel against the night, the distant mountains barely visible as black cutouts against the navy sky. The isolation suited me—I'd had enough noise and chaos in my childhood to last several lifetimes.

The whiskey burned pleasantly down my throat, warming my chest. I hadn't wanted to admit how much Duke's meeting had unsettled me. Not the business aspect—I'd follow Duke's lead there, eventually—but the reminder of how much he'd changed since finding Mia. The peace in my brother's eyes had been unmistakable, a contentment I'd never seen in him before.

I drained the glass, set it down on the coffee table with a solid thunk, and moved toward the hallway. First, I checked that all the blinds were drawn and the security system was fully armed. No cameras in the house—I'd made sure of that when installing the system. Some privacy was non-negotiable.

At the end of the darkened hallway stood a door—solid oak, reinforced, with a deadbolt that required a key I kept separate from my others. The key hung on a thin silver chain around my neck, tucked beneath my shirt where it rested against my skin. I slipped it out, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, flicking on the warm recessed lighting.

The room that greeted me would shock most members of the Heavy Kings MC into speechless disbelief. Warm amber walls surrounded a space that was meticulously arranged and lovingly maintained. Hand-crafted wooden shelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound classic children's books—Winnie the Pooh, Peter Pan, The Velveteen Rabbit—their spines in perfect condition. Another shelf held vintage toys I'd restored myself: a hand-carved wooden train set, a collection of teddy bears wearing different outfits, a dollhouse built to exact scale.

A cabinet in the corner contained high-end art supplies—colored pencils arranged by shade, premium watercolors, and sketch pads of various sizes. In another corner sat a reading chair, oversized and plush, with a handmade quilt draped over it. Beside it stood a small table holding a finely crafted tea set—delicate china with hand-painted flowers that had cost more than most people would believe.

This room was my most carefully guarded secret—a space created for the Little I'd never found, designed with the same meticulous attention I brought to everything in my life. I'd built it slowly over years, adding pieces as I found them, creating a haven that no one else had ever seen or even suspected existed.

I sank into the reading chair, my large frame an incongruous match for the gentle surroundings. The leather of my cut creaked against the soft fabric as I leaned back, picturing Duke with Mia in their home. He'd found what I'd been silently searching for—someone who completed him, who understood the part of him that needed to protect and nurture as much as it needed to lead and fight.

My fingers traced the intricate pattern of the quilt as I remembered the flash of vulnerability I'd glimpsed in Mandy's eyes yesterday. There had been something there beyond professional concern, something that resonated with me in a way I couldn't—or wouldn't—fully acknowledge.

I'd built this room for a fantasy, a person who might never exist. Someone who could trust me enough to be completely vulnerable, who would let me care for them, protect them, guide them. Someone who needed the gentleness I kept locked away behind my warrior's mask.

The room suddenly felt emptier than usual, the shelves of untouched toys and unopened books a testament to my isolation. Duke had transformed since finding Mia, finding peace in their dynamic that had been missing from his life. And here I sat, alone in a secret room that no one would ever see, building a space for someone who might never come.

I stood and moved to the door, turning for one last look before switching off the lights. The momentary softness in Mandy's green eyes flashed again in my memory. Had I recognized something in her—something hidden behind her own carefully constructed walls? Or was I just projecting my own loneliness onto a woman who probably saw me as nothing more than a dangerous biker who happened to run an auto shop?

T he burner phone jolted me awake at 1:17 AM, vibrating against the bedside table like an angry hornet. I snatched it up, instantly alert. A text from Wiz, our club informant: "Movement near north border. Serpents maybe. Check it out?" Sleep evaporated from my system, replaced by the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with potential threat.

This was my job.

This is what I did.

I was dressed and armed in under two minutes—black thermal shirt, jeans, boots, knife strapped to my ankle, Glock tucked into my waistband. I pulled my leather cut over it all, the Heavy Kings patch a second skin I wore with pride.

Outside, the night air carried the bite of early autumn. I inhaled deeply, tasting pine and frost as I straddled my Harley. The custom bike hummed to life beneath me, the familiar vibration grounding me in the moment. I'd rebuilt this machine from scratch after a bullet had torn through its engine block during a territory dispute with the Serpents two years back. Now it responded to my touch like an extension of my body.

Mountain View Road stretched before me, a ribbon of black cutting through the darkness. The powerful machine roared as I opened the throttle, scanning the shadows on either side for any unusual movement. My body leaned instinctively into each curve, muscles tensed for trouble. This was the part of club life that made sense to me—riding through darkness, hunting threats, protecting our territory with the primal simplicity of an alpha wolf defending its pack.

Headlights caught my attention ahead—not moving, but stationary, flickering weakly against the tree line. I slowed, approaching with caution. Ambushes had been set with less. The Serpents weren't above using bait to draw us out.

A beat-up Honda sedan sat on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking pathetically. Beside it stood a small figure waving a dying flashlight, the beam barely cutting through the darkness. I pulled over fifty yards away, keeping my bike positioned for a quick exit if needed, and scanned the surroundings for hiding places or additional vehicles. Nothing but trees and shadows.

The figure by the car was an elderly woman, silver-haired and frail-looking in the dim glow of her flashlight. She wore a cardigan over what looked like hospital scrubs, her weathered hands clutching her purse protectively as I approached. I kept the bike between us, well aware how my size and appearance could frighten someone stranded alone at night.

"Car trouble?" I asked, intentionally softening my deep voice. Despite my effort, it still rumbled out of me like thunder.

The woman, easily in her seventies, flinched slightly at first but then her shoulders relaxed. "Bless you, young man. It just died, and my phone has no signal out here." Her voice carried the quiet dignity of someone who'd weathered far worse than a broken-down car.

"Martha Simmons," she continued, offering her name with the automatic politeness of an older generation. "I was visiting my sister at Mercy Hospital. She's had surgery, you see, and I stayed later than I meant to. The car just gave out about twenty minutes ago."

I could easily call Wiz back, have him send someone else to deal with this while I continued my patrol. The potential Serpent activity took priority in club hierarchy. But something in the woman's dignified worry reminded me of my grandmother, who'd raised me during the years my father was in prison. The memory hit with unexpected force.

"I'm Thor," I said. "I know my way around an engine. Let me take a look."

I popped the hood, strapping on my small headlamp. I must have looked ridiculous—six-foot-four Viking biker with a tactical light strapped to my forehead, peering into an ancient Honda's engine compartment. Martha stood a respectful distance away, watching with curious eyes.

"When did it start giving you trouble?" I asked, hands already moving across the engine components, checking connections with practiced precision.

"It made a terrible whining noise for about a mile, then just stopped," she explained. "I don't know much about cars, I'm afraid."

My fingers traced wires and connectors, finding the issue quickly. "Alternator's shot," I said, shifting my weight to peer deeper into the engine compartment. "The battery's completely drained."

I knelt on the gravel shoulder, retrieving the small toolkit I kept on my bike for emergencies. Martha watched with undisguised amazement as I extracted tools and began a temporary repair.

"You came prepared," she observed.

"Mechanic," I explained briefly, focused on the task. "Run the auto shop in town."

“I like that place.”

I grunted in appreciation.

“Alternator’s toast,” I said, unclipping a compact jump pack from my saddlebag. “I’ll isolate it so it stops draining the system, then we’ll give the battery a boost. You’ll have maybe twenty minutes of run-time—enough to get you home if you keep the lights off. Tomorrow, swing by the shop and I’ll swap the alternator properly.”

Martha nodded, watching intently. "My husband used to tinker with cars before he passed. He'd have appreciated your skill."

I glanced up, catching the wistful look in her eyes. For a moment, I wondered what she saw looking at me—a helpful stranger, or the dangerous biker that mothers warned their daughters about. Probably both.

"Try it now," I instructed, stepping back from the engine.

Martha slid into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine coughed twice, then hummed to life. Relief washed over her face, visible even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

"I can't thank you enough," she said, climbing out of the car. "What do I owe you?" She reached for her purse, but I waved her off.

"No charge," I said firmly. "Just wouldn't feel right leaving you stranded."

Something in her expression told me she wasn't used to kindness without a price tag. The thought made something twist uncomfortably in my chest.

"At least let me pay you for parts or—"

"The parts were nothing," I interrupted. "Just a couple connections from my toolkit."

She hesitated, then asked, "Is there something else I could do to repay you? I don't like being in debt, even for kindness."

I considered her question, glancing at her car and the dark, winding road ahead. "I'll follow you home," I decided. "Make sure you get there safe. These roads can be dangerous at night."

I didn't add that the danger might be the very Serpents I was supposed to be looking for. Some things civilians were better off not knowing.

I followed Martha's Honda through the winding roads, my headlight cutting through the darkness behind her. My Harley's engine growled low and steady, a protective shadow ensuring she made it safely through Heavy Kings territory. The car's temporary fix was holding, but I kept close, watching for any sign of electrical failure. Or Serpents. The night remained quiet except for our engines, the roads empty at this hour as we approached the modest East Ridge neighborhood on the outskirts of Ironridge.

Martha pulled into the driveway of a small ranch-style house with well-tended flower beds visible even in the darkness. I stopped at the curb, planning to nod goodbye once I knew she was safely inside. Instead, she walked over to where I idled my bike.

"Would you like to come in for coffee?" she asked, her voice carrying easily in the night quiet. "It's the least I can do, even at this ungodly hour."

I hesitated. Brotherhood protocol discouraged unnecessary civilian contact—the fewer people who could identify us, the better. But something in Martha's genuine gratitude tugged at me, a rare moment of normal human connection outside the club.

"Just for a minute," I conceded, killing the engine and following her up the short concrete path.

Inside, her living room was exactly what I'd never had—warm, lived-in, with furniture that had seen decades of use but was meticulously cared for. Family photos crowded every surface, telling the story of a life woven through with connections—children growing up, grandchildren arriving, holidays and graduations and weddings. A life built on relationships rather than territory and respect won through fear.

I stood awkwardly, too large for the delicate space, while Martha bustled into the kitchen to start coffee. My eyes were drawn to the photos, particularly one on the mantel—a young woman with Martha's same kind eyes, wearing blue scrubs and smiling broadly as she stood beside a sign for Mercy Hospital's Children's Ward.

"Your granddaughter?" I asked when Martha returned, gesturing toward the image.

Her face lit up with the particular pride reserved for grandparents. "That's my Katie. Been a pediatric nurse at Mercy Children's Ward going on five years now." She handed me a mug of coffee in a cup that seemed comically small in my large hands. "Never made much money at it, but that girl has a heart of gold. Works extra shifts just to be there for the long-term patients."

"The children's ward," I repeated, something shifting inside me as I stared at the photo. I thought of the room in my cabin, the toys and books waiting for someone who might never come. "Must be hard work."

"Heartbreaking sometimes," Martha agreed, settling onto her sofa. "She says the hardest part is when the kids get bored and restless during long stays. The hospital budget for games and activities gets cut first when money's tight."

My fingers tightened around the delicate mug. I'd spent thousands on my hidden room, on toys that sat untouched on shelves. Meanwhile, sick kids lay in hospital beds with nothing to distract them from their pain.

"Instead of paying me for the car," I heard myself saying, "maybe you could do me a favor."

I set down the coffee and reached for my wallet, pulling out five crisp hundred-dollar bills—my personal money, not club funds. Martha's eyes widened as I counted them out.

"Do you have an envelope?" I asked.

She brought me one, watching in confusion as I placed the money inside and wrote "For the kids' game fund" on the outside in my surprisingly neat handwriting.

"Could you ask your granddaughter to deliver this to the children's ward? Anonymous donation."

Martha stared at the envelope. "But this is too much—"

"Kids in hospitals need distractions," I interrupted, my tone making it clear this wasn't up for debate. "Games help. Books help." I thought of my own childhood, endless hours in waiting rooms while my mother worked double shifts. "It's not charity. It's just . . . right."

Before leaving, I programmed my number into Martha's phone under "Thor—Motorcycle Mechanic" with clear instructions to call if her car gave her any trouble before she could get it to a shop.

"At least tell me your last name," she insisted as I prepared to leave. "Or the name of your shop, so I can recommend it."

"Just Thor is fine," I said, shaking my head. "And don't worry about the shop. We'll find each other if needed."

Back on my bike, I felt the familiar weight return to my shoulders—the enforcer, the protector, the man who kept rival MCs in check with nothing but his reputation for violence. I'd delayed my patrol for Martha, acting on instinct rather than duty. Duke would understand, but it wasn't something I'd share with the brothers.

As I turned toward the northern border to complete my original mission, I knew no member of the Heavy Kings would ever hear about tonight's detour. The feared Thor Eriksson making midnight repairs for stranded grandmothers and anonymous donations to children's hospitals wasn't the reputation that kept enemies at bay.

But as I opened the throttle, scanning the darkness for signs of Serpent activity, I felt more centered than before. The hidden gentleness inside me had been acknowledged, briefly set free, before being locked away again behind my warrior's mask. Maybe that's why I'd noticed something similar in Mandy's eyes—the careful hiding of a softer self beneath a necessary armor.

My hand instinctively touched the key hanging beneath my shirt as I rode. Some secrets shaped us more than the faces we showed the world. Tonight I'd let a small piece of mine breathe in the open air, and somehow, it had made me stronger rather than weaker.

I eased the bike around a sharp curve, mind returning to club business and the potential Serpent threat. Time to be Thor the enforcer again. But for a few stolen moments with Martha, I'd been someone else—someone closer to the man I kept hidden behind locked doors in my empty cabin. And that hidden man, I realized, was as much a part of me as the Viking warrior the world feared.