Page 7

Mandy

Thor lived . . . here?

I stood frozen just inside the entryway, my mouth slightly open, as afternoon light poured through massive windows that framed a view of endless pines. This wasn't what I'd expected. Not even close. I'd braced myself for a stereotypical biker den—dark, cluttered, maybe smelling of stale beer and motor oil. Instead, Thor's cabin was . . . beautiful. The revelation hit me like a physical jolt, forcing me to reconsider everything I thought I knew about the man who'd brought me here.

"You coming in or what?" Thor's deep voice rumbled from somewhere behind me.

I stepped forward, my boots silent against the polished concrete floor. The living room opened before me—an unexpected harmony of rustic and modern. Knotty pine walls glowed amber in the morning light, contrasting with sleek furniture and industrial touches. No tacky beer signs. No cheap furniture. Just clean lines, natural materials, and sophisticated minimalism.

"This is yours?" I couldn't keep the shock from my voice. "You actually live here?"

Thor moved past me, his massive frame somehow graceful in this space that was clearly built for him. "Yeah." A single syllable, but I caught the hint of wariness in it—like he was used to people underestimating him.

I ran my fingers along the smooth edge of a coffee table. The wood had been shaped with extraordinary precision, joints fitting together without visible fasteners. "You . . . built this?"

Thor nodded, a hint of pride briefly breaking his stoic expression. "Designed it too."

I'd spent the last two years balancing the tattoo parlor’s books, and I’d heard plenty about Thor. I thought I knew what to expect from the club's intimidating Sergeant-at-Arms. The man who'd insisted on personally handling my protection after the Iron Serpents started sniffing around me.

"Want the tour?" he asked, already moving toward the kitchen without waiting for my answer.

I followed, taking in every detail. The open floor plan revealed a kitchen that would make professional chefs jealous. Custom cabinets in dark walnut. A massive island topped with concrete. High-end appliances that gleamed under recessed lighting.

"You cook?" I asked, unable to picture those huge, tattooed hands doing something as mundane as chopping vegetables.

"Every day." His eyes met mine briefly. "Don't survive on takeout and protein bars."

I felt my cheeks warm at his direct gaze. Was that a dig at the food containers he'd seen in my own kitchen when he'd come to deliver the car to me? Probably.

Thor pulled open a drawer filled with precisely arranged cooking implements. "Everything has a place." The comment seemed aimed more at himself than at me.

He moved to the dining area next, where a massive table dominated the space. It was a single slab of wood, the edges left natural and undulating while the surface had been finished to a buttery smoothness.

"This is . . ." I ran my palm over it, feeling the subtle variations beneath my fingers. "Incredible."

"Took down the tree myself." His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "Forrest land clearing project a few years back. Couldn't let it go to waste."

I tried to reconcile this—Thor felling a tree, milling it, crafting this piece of functional art—with the man I'd seen intimidate suppliers at the garage or stand menacingly behind Duke during tense meetings. The disconnect made me dizzy.

"How long have you had this place?" I asked, trying to ground myself in practical details.

"Built it six years ago." He turned toward a hallway. "Office is through here."

The office was compact but efficient—a standing desk with three monitors, security equipment filling one wall with feeds from cameras positioned around the property. I spotted one of the sentries he'd posted at the edge of the driveway, keeping watch.

"Crusher’s doing a good job," Thor said, nodding toward the screen. "He’s a prospect, desperate to join. He’ll catch anything out there."

The reminder of why I was here—hiding out from a rival MC who'd somehow connected me to the Kings' finances—sent a cold shiver down my spine. Thor must have noticed because his hand came to rest briefly on my shoulder. The heat of his palm burned through my thin sweater.

"You're safe here," he said. Somehow, I believed him.

He withdrew his hand quickly, as if embarrassed by the contact, and continued down the hallway. "Guest room's here. Bathroom's through that door. Clean towels in the cabinet."

The guest room was simpler than the rest of the house but no less thoughtfully designed. A queen bed with a handcrafted wooden frame. A small desk positioned to catch the morning light. Built-in shelves holding a carefully curated collection of books—everything from motorcycle repair manuals to classic literature and, surprisingly, several volumes on architecture and structural engineering.

"Should be space in the closet," Thor said, gesturing to the open door where I could see a section cleared of clothes. "Hangers are cedar. Keeps moths away."

I noticed how everything had its place—even in this room he clearly didn't use often. Tools arranged by size in a small utility closet we passed. Books alphabetized on shelves. Kitchen implements hanging in precise order above the island.

We returned to the living room, completing our loop of the cabin. I stood in the center, taking it all in again. The perfect proportions. The thoughtful details. The unexpected beauty of a space created by a man most people feared.

"It's beautiful," I admitted, watching his expression closely. A light flush colored his bearded cheeks, almost imperceptible beneath his tan. “I like the Scandinavian influence.”

"It's just a house," he mumbled, but I caught the satisfaction in his eyes. “My family is from Sweden. Originally.”

I felt a dangerous warmth bloom in my chest. This vulnerability was more disarming than any show of strength could ever be. Thor Eriksson, the man who could silence a room with a single glare, blushed at a compliment about his home.

"Thank you," I said, surprising myself with the sincerity in my voice. "For bringing me here. For trusting me with this."

His gaze held mine for a beat too long. "Didn’t have a choice. Iron Serpents are hunting you because of your work for us. My responsibility to keep you safe."

And just like that, the spell broke. I wasn't here because Thor wanted me here. I was here because I was in danger—because my work for the Heavy Kings had put a target on my back. I was a liability, a responsibility. Not a guest.

I nodded, my professional mask slipping back into place. "Of course. I appreciate the club's protection."

Thor's expression shuttered, and I wondered if I'd imagined the moment of connection between us. He gestured toward my bags, still sitting near the door where he'd left them earlier.

"Get settled," he said, already moving toward the security monitors. "I'll be in the office. Need to check in with Duke."

I watched him walk away, his broad shoulders filling the hallway. The casual power in his movements contrasted sharply with the gentle precision I'd just witnessed in how he'd built this place.

This was going to be harder than I thought—maintaining professional distance while living under the same roof as a man who was rapidly becoming much more complex, and much more dangerous to my carefully compartmentalized life, than I'd ever anticipated.

I picked up my bags, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. I was here for protection, nothing more. I couldn't afford to forget that, no matter how many hidden depths I discovered in Thor Eriksson.

T hree days into my stay at Thor's cabin, I was going stir-crazy. I stalked from one end of the living room to the other, the click of my bare feet against the concrete floor marking the rhythm of my frustration. The spreadsheets on my laptop blurred into meaningless columns of numbers, refusing to yield the patterns I usually found so effortlessly. I'd cleaned the already spotless kitchen twice. I'd rearranged my meager belongings in the guest room again and again. I'd even read half a novel from Thor's bookshelf. Nothing helped. The spacious cabin, for all its beauty, had become my gilded cage.

"Focus, Mandy," I muttered to myself, dragging a hand through my hair, which had long since escaped its usual neat ponytail.

I returned to the couch and my open laptop. The Heavy Kings' legitimate business spreadsheets stared back at me, mocking my inability to concentrate. The auto shop's quarterly figures should have been a soothing puzzle to solve. Instead, they were hieroglyphics.

My gaze drifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite the expansive view of pines, the walls felt like they were closing in on me. Thor had left at dawn for what he'd gruffly described as "club business." The memory of his hand on my shoulder before he left—a brief, firm pressure—lingered like a brand.

He'd stationed Crusher at the end of the driveway in a black SUV. The man with the deceptively gentle eyes had nodded at me when I'd ventured out onto the porch earlier, his hand never far from the bulge beneath his leather cut that I knew concealed a gun. Wiz, a full club member, patrolled the perimeter of the property. I'd spotted him twice, moving with surprising agility for a man in his sixties.

My phone chimed, shattering the silence. I lunged for it, desperate for any distraction.

"Mandy speaking," I answered automatically, my professional voice clicking into place.

"It's Tyson." His calm, measured tone was instantly recognizable. "Checking in. How's the cabin?"

I sank back onto the couch. "Beautiful prison. Very tasteful bars on my cage."

A low chuckle came through the line. "Thor's been known to take things to extremes when it comes to protection."

"That's one way to put it." I glanced out the window again, spotting Wiz as he emerged from the tree line. "Any update on . . . my situation?"

"That's why I'm calling." Papers rustled in the background. "I've negotiated a two-week paid leave with your firm."

My stomach dropped. "Two weeks? Tyson, I can't—"

"I told them you're consulting on a special project requiring temporary relocation for security reasons," he continued smoothly. "Your boss seemed quite concerned for your welfare."

I bet he was. Martin had been trying to get me to take a vacation for months, claiming I was "overworked." What he really meant was that I made the other accountants look lazy by comparison.

"They didn't question it?" I asked.

"The Heavy Kings have lots of friends. Police, local magistrates. It’s surprising how convincing we can be," Tyson explained.

I sank deeper into the couch, relief mixing with frustration. "Thank you, but two weeks? What about after that?"

"We'll reassess the threat level then," he replied, practical as always. "Focus on staying safe for now."

"And my apartment?" The thought of my carefully organized space—especially my hidden Little room—left unattended made anxiety twist in my chest.

"Thor's got Rook keeping an eye on it. Daily drive-bys, checking for signs of disturbance."

"But not going inside?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.

A slight pause. "No one's entered. Thor was clear about respecting your privacy."

My shoulders relaxed slightly. My secret was safe, at least for now.

"Duke's meeting with contacts tonight," Tyson continued. "We might have a lead on which Serpent specifically has been asking questions about our financial consultant."

"That's . . . good." But it didn't mean I'd be free anytime soon.

After Tyson hung up, I tried again to focus on the spreadsheets. The numbers swam before my eyes. I closed the laptop with more force than necessary and paced to the kitchen.

Everything in Thor's refrigerator was meticulously organized—condiments on the door, produce in clear containers, proteins on the bottom shelf. I opened and closed it three times, not hungry but needing to do something.

On impulse, I moved to Thor's bookshelves. Maybe there was something there to distract me. My fingers traced the spines—motorcycle repair manuals, history books, several biographies of architects and engineers. I pulled out a thick volume titled "Advanced Structural Engineering," curious about why a biker enforcer would own such a technical text.

The book fell open naturally to a section about bridges. And there, in the margins, were pencil sketches. Not notes, but beautiful, detailed drawings that extended the printed diagrams into something more artistic. I turned the page. More sketches. A suspension bridge rendered with such care that it seemed to leap from the page. Notes in a surprisingly elegant hand about load-bearing calculations and aesthetic considerations.

I sat on the floor, the heavy book in my lap, turning pages with growing fascination. Thor's hidden talent unfolded before me. Not just technical skill, but real artistry. Some pages contained standalone sketches—buildings that existed only in his imagination, structures that combined function and beauty in unexpected ways.

One sketch showed a treehouse with echoes of his cabin's design—the same clean lines and natural materials, but nestled among massive branches. So detailed I could almost feel the rough bark and smooth floors. Had he built this somewhere? Or was it just a dream on paper?

It felt intimate, seeing these drawings. More intimate than if I'd found photographs or a journal. These were from inside his mind, the creative space he apparently shared with no one.

I shouldn't be looking. I should close the book, put it back. But I couldn't stop turning pages. I traced one sketch with my fingertip, a simple cabin by a lake, wondering if this was a future project or just a fantasy. It looked peaceful. Secluded. Safe.

My thoughts drifted to the way Thor had flushed slightly when I complimented his home. How his giant hands had moved with surprising delicacy when he showed me the kitchen he'd designed. The careful way he'd made space in the guest room closet for my things.

There was so much more to him than the Sergeant-at-Arms who scared the shit out of everyone at King's Tavern. Just like there was more to me than the uptight accountant everyone at Prestige Partners thought I was.

I was so absorbed in the book that I almost missed the distant rumble. It grew steadily louder—the distinctive growl of Thor's Harley approaching up the long driveway. My pulse jumped, and I hurriedly closed the book, scrambling to return it to its exact spot on the shelf.

I smoothed my hair, straightened my sweater, and moved to the kitchen island, opening my laptop again as the motorcycle engine cut off outside. The screen came to life, presenting me with the same spreadsheets I'd been avoiding all day.

The heavy tread of boots on the porch. The rattle of keys. I kept my eyes fixed on the screen, pretending to be deeply engaged in work.

The door opened, bringing with it the scent of leather, motor oil, and cold forest air. Thor's massive presence filled the doorway for a moment before he stepped inside. I felt his eyes on me but didn't look up.

"Hey," he said, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Hey," I replied, still not looking up. "How'd it go?"

"Fine." Keys clattered as he dropped them on the counter. "You eat today?"

Had I? I couldn't remember. "I had coffee."

A grunt of disapproval. "Last time I checked, Coffee wasn't food."

I finally looked up, forcing my expression to remain neutral despite the way my heart had accelerated. Thor filled the kitchen doorway, his blond hair pulled back, his beard catching the afternoon light. His leather cut bore traces of road dust, and a new tension lined his shoulders.

"You okay?" I asked, surprising myself with the question.

His blue eyes met mine, searching. "Yeah. Club business."

Which meant he wouldn't elaborate. I nodded, looking away before he could read too much in my expression. Before he could somehow see that I'd discovered his secret talent, or worse, the confused tangle of feelings I was developing for him.

"I'll make something," he said, moving into the kitchen. "You need to eat."

I watched as he washed his hands, those same hands that had drawn delicate bridges and sketched beautiful buildings. Hands that could probably snap a man's neck.

"Thank you," I said softly, and wondered if he heard all the things I couldn't bring myself to say.

T he next morning, I nearly choked on my coffee when Thor appeared in the kitchen doorway, keys jingling between his fingers. "Get dressed," he said, his expression unreadable. "Something comfortable you don't mind getting dirty." I set my mug down carefully, studying his face for some clue about what he had planned. He wore worn jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, his blond hair pulled back in its usual messy knot.

"Where are we going?" I asked, instantly suspicious. After four days of confinement, any change felt potentially dangerous. "I thought I wasn't supposed to leave."

"Not leaving the property." His blue eyes held mine steadily. "Saw you pacing yesterday. I can tell you’re going stir crazy. Figured you need something to do besides cleaning my already clean kitchen."

Heat rushed to my face.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" I asked, wrapping my cardigan tighter around myself, suddenly self-conscious in my pajama pants and tank top.

“Gonna teach you to ride.”

"You're going to teach me what?" I stared at Thor in disbelief, convinced I must have misheard him.

He dangled the keys impatiently. "To ride. You're bored, restless. This will help."

I shook my head emphatically. "No way. I've never—I don't—"

"Everyone's gotta learn sometime." He was already moving toward the door, clearly expecting me to follow. "Got security covering all approaches to the property. You'll be safe."

"It's not security I'm worried about," I muttered, but reluctantly followed him outside.

The morning air was crisp against my face as I trailed Thor around the side of the cabin, past a tool shed I'd noticed before, and toward what looked like a small hill covered in the same cedar siding as the main house. As we got closer, I realized it wasn't a hill at all—it was a detached garage, partially built into the sloping terrain, its roof covered with growing things to blend into the landscape.

Thor unlocked a heavy door that swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. He flipped a switch, and lights flickered on inside, revealing a space I'd never imagined.

"Holy shit," I whispered before I could stop myself.

Inside the camouflaged garage gleamed five motorcycles, each one more beautiful than the last. They were arranged in a semicircle, each on its own stand, each clearly cherished. There was a massive black cruiser with what looked like custom flame detailing along its tank. Next to it sat a sleek, modern sport bike in deep blue. A classic Harley in forest green occupied the center position, its chrome polished to mirror brightness. Two more bikes—one a stripped-down café racer and another that looked vintage but immaculately restored—completed the collection.

The space smelled of oil, leather, and metal polish. Tools hung on the walls in precise arrangements—wrenches organized by size, specialized equipment I couldn't identify, and what looked like spare parts carefully labeled in bins.

"This is . . ." I struggled for words.

"My other workshop. My private workshop. You’re the first person I’ve had in here." Thor moved among the bikes with obvious pride, his hand trailing reverently over the green Harley. "Built most of these myself."

Thor bypassed the larger, more intimidating machines and stopped beside the smallest bike in the corner—the vintage one. Up close, I could see it was a Honda restored to pristine condition.

"We'll start with this one," he said, patting its worn leather seat. "Built it myself when I was sixteen. First bike I ever owned."

My stomach flipped with sudden panic. "I can't—I've never—" The words tumbled out as I took an involuntary step backward.

Thor looked up, his expression softening slightly. "It's the easiest one to learn on. Low center of gravity. Not too powerful."

I shook my head, my copper hair catching the light from the garage windows. "Thor, I'm an accountant,not an outlaw."

He laughed. "You know, riding a motorcycle isn’t a crime. And everyone starts somewhere." He was already pulling what looked like a spare helmet from a shelf. "You drive a car, right? Same basic principles. Clutch, throttle, brakes."

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look stern despite the nervous flutter in my stomach. "And when I crash your precious bike?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "You won't. I'll be right there."

Before I could form another protest, Thor was handing me a helmet—matte black with no logos or decorations—and wheeling the vintage Honda toward the door.

"Just try," he said, and something in his voice made it impossible to refuse. Not a command, but almost . . . a request. “It’s got to be more entertaining than polishing countertops.”

Outside, Thor guided me to a flat clearing behind the cabin. The space was maybe fifty yards across, ringed by pine trees, with ground that had been cleared of rocks and debris. I wondered if he'd prepared this area specifically for riding.

"Put this on." He handed me a leather jacket that smelled faintly of cedar and something distinctly male. It was obviously his, and it swallowed me completely when I slipped it on.

He helped me with the helmet, his fingers brushing my jaw as he adjusted the strap. "Too tight?"

I shook my head, not trusting my voice. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and I wasn't sure if it was the prospect of riding or Thor's proximity causing it.

Thor positioned the bike and held it steady as I awkwardly swung my leg over, settling onto the seat. The ground seemed much farther away than I'd expected.

"Feet flat," he instructed, tapping my ankle with his boot. "When you're stopped, that's how you balance."

I planted my feet firmly, feeling the bike's weight between my legs. It was simultaneously heavier and more balanced than I'd imagined.

Thor moved closer, his chest nearly against my back as he reached around to place my hands on the handlebars. "Left hand: clutch." He wrapped my fingers around the lever. "Squeeze to disengage the engine from the wheels. Like shifting gears in a car."