Page 9

Thor

M y boots wore a path in the hardwood floor as I paced from the living room to the window and back again. The clock on the wall ticked like a bomb, each second she was late another sharp jab to my gut. Twenty-three minutes now. Mandy was never normally late. Not for work, not for dinner, not for anything that mattered. My fingers tapped against my thigh, a rhythm of anxiety I couldn't shake, while my mind constructed increasingly dark scenarios for why she hadn't returned from the hospital.

I checked my watch for the third time in five minutes. The leather band felt too tight around my wrist, as if keeping time itself was choking me.

"Fuck," I muttered, stepping to the window again.

Nothing but darkness, trees, and the empty gravel driveway that led to my cabin. No headlights. No sign of Wiz's truck. The woods surrounding my property had always felt like protection before—a buffer between me and the world. Tonight, they felt like a barrier keeping Mandy from getting back to me.

I forced myself to move away from the window, trying to channel this restless energy into something productive. The dining table was covered with club paperwork—profit reports from King's Tavern, security schedules for the upcoming motorcycle rally, and employee timesheets from Iron Kings Auto. Mandy had organized everything into neat stacks before leaving this morning, color-coded tabs marking important sections for my review.

I pulled out a chair and sat down hard, picking up the first folder. The numbers blurred before my eyes. I couldn't focus worth shit. My mind kept drifting back to two days ago, standing in this same room with Mandy after our motorcycle lesson.

She'd been flushed with excitement, her hair wild from the helmet, green eyes bright with accomplishment. When I'd told her she was a natural, her smile hit me like a punch to the chest. Something had shifted between us in that moment—a tension that had been building for weeks finally cracking open.

The kiss was gentle at first—careful—but when she sighed against my mouth, something primal took over. My hands found her waist, pulling her tight against me. Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan. She tasted like strawberries and possibility, her body soft where mine was hard. For one perfect moment, she melted against me completely.

Then she'd pulled back suddenly, eyes wide with something like panic.

I hadn't pushed. Wouldn't push. Whatever was happening between us needed to unfold at her pace, not mine. But the memory of that kiss had haunted me for the past forty-eight hours, replaying in my head when I should've been sleeping.

I slammed the folder shut and pushed back from the table. This wasn't working. I needed to move, to do something with my hands before I went crazy with worry.

The kitchen seemed as good a place as any to channel my restlessness. I yanked open the refrigerator door, the cool air a welcome shock against my overheated skin. Beef, vegetables, potatoes—I could make a decent stew. Cooking had always calmed me, the precision and rhythm of it a meditation I could lose myself in.

As I reached for the beef, I thought about the small plastic unicorn keychain I'd found on the floor after our motorcycle lesson. It didn’t necessarily mean anything—lots of grown women liked cute characters and items. But something about Mandy—the way she reacted when I called her “Princess”, the way she organized her colored pens, the way her speech patterns changed when she was tired or felt safe—all of it added up to something for me.

She could be a Little.

If I was right about Mandy—if she was a Little looking for safety—I wouldn't rush her. Trust like that had to be earned, especially from someone as controlled and careful as she was.

A flash of light through the window pulled me from my thoughts, stopping me before I could start to cook. Headlights, finally turning up the drive. Relief washed through me, loosening the knot that had been tightening in my chest for the past half hour.

I was out the door before the truck came to a complete stop, moving down the porch steps with purpose. The truck stopped and the passenger door opened, before Mandy stepped out. She looked shell-shocked, half-asleep, like she was ready to pass out.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she replied, with a long, sigh. “I’m gonna go in. I’m tired out.”

“Sure.”

It felt like whatever had happened at the hospital today had broken something in her.

Wiz waited until Mandy had walked past us and into the cabin before he spoke.

“Hey Thor.” His calloused fingers drummed once against the truck's door. “Tough day.” The lines in his face cut deeper than usual, shadows pooling beneath his eyes.

"Everything alright?" I asked, my attention split between him and the cabin door that had just closed behind Mandy.

"Security-wise, yeah." Wiz nodded, scrubbing a hand over his silver-streaked beard. "No suspicious vehicles, no tails. Made three extra turns coming back, just to be certain."

"And?" I prompted, knowing there was more. The old man didn't look this worn out from simple security precautions.

"Her sister's not doing so hot." He sighed, glancing toward the cabin. "Latest test results came back today. Doc says they need to adjust dosages again—Amy had some kind of reaction to the new protocol. Bad one, from what I gathered."

My jaw tightened. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that nurses were running, and Mandy went white as paper." Wiz shook his head. "They stabilized the kid, but . . . it was rough. Real rough. Mandy hasn't said two words since we left the hospital."

"She say anything about what the doctors told her? Long-term prognosis?"

"Just that they're worried about infection risks now. White blood cell count's in the toilet." Wiz's expression softened—a look I rarely saw from our hardened club mechanic. "She's trying to hold it together, but she's barely hanging on. Reminds me of my Sarah, back when . . ."

He didn't finish. Didn't need to. We all knew Wiz had lost his wife to cancer years ago.

"I've got her," I said simply.

"Yeah, I know you do." Something knowing flickered in his eyes. "She’s a good kid. I know this is out of line but . . . she could do with someone like you." He climbed back into his truck before I could reply. "Call if you need anything."

I watched his taillights disappear down the drive before turning toward the cabin. Through the window, I could see Mandy hadn't moved far. She stood in the middle of the living room, still wearing her coat, staring at nothing.

Inside, the air felt heavy with her unspoken pain. She didn't acknowledge my entrance, just continued standing there like a statue someone had forgotten to position properly. Her normally immaculate appearance was subtly disheveled—hair escaping from its neat ponytail, mascara slightly smudged beneath one eye. She clutched her laptop bag in front of her like a shield.

"Mandy," I said, keeping my voice gentle. I approached slowly, giving her plenty of space to see me coming. No sudden movements, nothing that might startle her out of whatever mental place she'd retreated to.

She blinked twice, her green eyes gradually focusing on my face. For a moment, she looked confused, as if she'd forgotten where she was or how she'd gotten here.

"Thor." Her voice came out thin and distant. She straightened her shoulders, a visible attempt to pull herself together. "Sorry I was late. We should get to those quarterly projections. I know Duke wanted them by Friday, and with the weekend coming—"

"No work tonight." I kept my tone firm but kind.

"But we need to—"

"The projections can wait." I moved closer, reaching carefully for her laptop bag. "Let me take that."

She hesitated, fingers tightening briefly on the strap before she surrendered it with a small nod. I set it on the side table, then returned to help with her coat. Her arms felt fragile under my hands as I eased the wool blazer from her shoulders. She wore a simple blue blouse underneath, wrinkled now from the long day.

"Come sit down," I said, guiding her toward the couch with a light touch at the small of her back.

She followed without resistance, which worried me more than any argument would have. This was someone hollowed out, moving through motions without purpose.

When she sank onto the couch, she perched on the edge like she might need to flee at any moment. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, an accountant's posture even in distress.

"Talk or don't talk," I told her. "Your choice. But first, you need food."

She opened her mouth like she might protest, then closed it again without speaking. The dark circles under her eyes stood out starkly against her pale skin. When was the last time she'd eaten? Slept properly?

I moved to the kitchen, positioning myself where I could keep her in my line of sight. The cabin's open floor plan meant I could watch her while I worked. She hadn't moved, still sitting perfectly straight on the couch, though her gaze had drifted to the window.

My kitchen was simple but well-equipped. Cooking was one of the few skills my mother had managed to teach me before she died—one of the few normal things in an otherwise chaotic childhood. With my father in and out of prison, food had often been scarce. Learning to make something from nothing became a survival skill.

Later, in the club, that skill had evolved. The brothers teased me about it, this hulking enforcer who could break bones without blinking but also baked bread from scratch. What they didn't understand was that both came from the same place—a need for control in a world that offered little.

I pulled ingredients from the refrigerator with practiced efficiency. Onions, carrots, celery for the base. Beef from a local rancher who owed the club a favor. Potatoes, herbs, a good red wine for depth. My hands moved almost automatically, the rhythm of chopping and preparation soothing in its familiarity.

The sharp knife made quick work of the vegetables, the steady thunk against the cutting board filling the silence between us. Every few minutes, I glanced toward Mandy, making sure she was still there, still breathing. She hadn't moved except to let her head rest against the back of the couch, her eyes now closed.

I browned the meat in my heavy cast-iron Dutch oven, the sizzle and rich aroma beginning to fill the cabin. Fat rendered, meat seared, building the foundation of flavor that would become comfort. My mother had taught me that—food wasn't just sustenance, it was medicine for the soul. On the rare good days when she wasn't lost to her own demons, she'd stand beside me at the stove, showing me how a simple ingredient transformed with proper attention.

"The secret," she'd say in her soft Swedish accent, "is to care about what you're making, Thor. Food knows when you love it."

As a kid, I'd thought that was nonsense. As a man, I'd come to understand her meaning. Attention mattered. Intention mattered. Things treated with care gave care in return.

The vegetables went in next, softening in the fat left behind by the meat. Then wine to deglaze, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Stock, herbs, the return of the meat, potatoes last so they wouldn't overcook. I covered the pot and reduced the heat, letting time do the rest of the work.

The familiar routine steadied me. This, at least, I could control—this small act of nurturing when everything else felt helpless. I couldn't fix Amy's illness. I couldn't take away Mandy's pain. But I could feed her, keep her warm, make sure she wasn't alone with her fear.

I washed my hands and dried them on a dish towel, watching Mandy from across the room. Her breathing had deepened slightly, though I could tell from the tension in her shoulders that she wasn't asleep. Just retreated into herself, conserving energy, processing.

The stew needed time to simmer, flavors melding into something greater than their parts. I moved back to the living room, careful to make enough noise that she'd hear me coming. Her eyes opened as I approached, that same hollow look still present but perhaps a fraction less empty.

"Food will be ready in about forty minutes," I said, sitting in the armchair across from her rather than crowding her space on the couch. "Can I get you anything while we wait? Water? Tea?"

She shook her head slightly, then seemed to reconsider. "Water would be . . . nice. Thank you."

The politeness was reflexive, I could tell, but at least she was responding. I fetched a glass of water and placed it on the coffee table within her reach.

"You don't have to take care of me," she said quietly as I sat back down.

"I know." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, not pushing or prodding. "I want to."

Something flickered across her face—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. Like the concept of being cared for without an agenda was foreign to her. It made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.

T he stew had been simmering for nearly an hour when I ladled it into deep bowls, steam rising in fragrant curls. I set one in front of Mandy, who hadn't moved much from her spot on the couch. The spoon clinked softly against the ceramic as I placed it beside the bowl, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. She stared down at the food like she'd forgotten what to do with it, her hands still twisting restlessly in her lap.

"You should eat," I said, settling in the armchair with my own bowl. "Even just a little."

She nodded mechanically but made no move toward the food. The stew's rich aroma filled the space between us—beef, herbs, red wine, comfort—but it couldn't penetrate whatever wall had gone up inside her.

"It was bad today," she finally said, voice barely audible above the ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the fireplace. I went still, listening, giving her words the space they needed.

"Amy?" I prompted gently when she didn't continue.

She nodded, fingers moving from her lap to the edge of the coffee table, tracing its wooden grain like she was reading braille. "The doctor says her white cell count is way down. They're concerned about infection."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. I set my bowl aside, food forgotten in the face of her pain.

"She looked so small in that hospital bed." Mandy's eyes remained fixed on the table edge, not seeing it at all. "Amy's never small. She's the loud one, the brave one. She backpacked through Europe alone. Climbed mountains. Told off catcallers in three languages." A ghost of a smile touched her lips before vanishing. "But today, under those hospital blankets with all the machines beeping . . . she just looked small."

I kept silent, sensing she needed to get this out without interruption. The cabin creaked gently around us, old timbers settling as the night deepened. Outside, an owl called once, then fell silent.

"They say she'll probably be fine in the end," Mandy continued, her green eyes finally lifting to meet mine. Something in my chest tightened at the raw fear I saw there. "The type of leukemia she has—it's treatable. Good survival rates, the doctors keep saying. Eighty-five percent make it five years or more."

She swallowed hard. "But what about the other fifteen percent? And what about the suffering between now and then? You should have seen her today when the reaction hit. Her whole body just . . . seized up. She couldn't breathe. There were alarms going off, and nurses running, and for a minute I thought—"

Her voice broke off, the memory too fresh to articulate.

"Watching her suffer through it . . ." She shook her head, copper hair falling across her face. "I keep thinking about how unfair it is. She's so young. She had plans—was going to start her own event planning business this year. Now everything's on hold while she fights this."

I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees. "Your sister sounds like a fighter."

"She is." Mandy's fingers curled into loose fists on her thighs. "Stubborn as hell. Always has been. When we were kids, she once stood in the rain for three hours because our dad bet her she couldn't stay outside during a thunderstorm." The memory brought another fleeting smile. "She caught pneumonia, but she won the bet."

"Sounds like someone who won't give up easily," I offered.

"No, she won't." Tears welled in Mandy's eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "But that's almost worse, watching her fight so hard and still get knocked down by this . . . this invisible enemy. And I can't do anything but sit there and hold her hand."

She took a shaky breath. "I'm supposed to protect her. I promised our parents when they died that I'd take care of her."

This was new information, something she hadn't shared during our previous conversations. "When did you lose them?" I asked quietly.

"Car accident, seven years ago." Her voice flattened, the way people's do when they've rehearsed a painful story too many times. "Drunk driver hit them head-on. I was twenty-two, just starting my career. Amy was in her first year of college."

Seven years of carrying that responsibility, that promise. No wonder she held herself to impossible standards.

"One minute I was a normal young adult, figuring out my life, and the next I was making funeral arrangements and trying to figure out how Amy would stay in school." Mandy's hands trembled slightly as she reached for the water glass I'd given her earlier. "There was some insurance money, but not enough. I took extra accounting jobs, worked nights and weekends. Got the position at Prestige Partners because they paid better than anywhere else, even though the corporate culture there is . . ." She trailed off, shaking her head.

I knew what she wasn't saying. Prestige Partners had a reputation for grinding their employees down, demanding perfection and punishing anything less. It explained some of Mandy's more rigid professional habits—the need for control, the meticulous attention to detail, the reluctance to delegate.

"You've been taking care of her since you were barely grown yourself," I said, understanding washing over me.

"Someone had to." The first tear fell, tracing a silver path down her cheek. She brushed it away quickly, as if embarrassed by this display of emotion. "And now, when she needs me most, there's nothing I can do but watch and wait and hope the treatments work."

Another tear followed the first, then another. She turned her face away, shoulders hunching as she fought to maintain control.

"I keep thinking—" Her voice hitched. "What if she's in the fifteen percent? What if, after everything, I still lose her?"

Something in me broke watching her try so hard to stay composed when she was clearly shattered inside. I'd seen brothers in the club do the same—act tough and unaffected until the weight became too much to bear alone. Pride was a heavy burden, especially for someone who'd had to be strong for so long.

"Come here," I said softly, opening my arms.

She hesitated for just a moment, conflict clear on her face—the need for comfort warring with her lifelong habit of self-reliance. Then something gave way, a dam breaking after years of pressure. She moved toward me, first a tentative shift, then all at once folding against my chest as the first sob broke free.

I closed my arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other making slow circles on her back. She felt impossibly small against me, her body shaking with the force of emotions too long contained. Her tears dampened my shirt, her fingers clutching the fabric like she might drown without an anchor.

Mandy wasn't just letting go of today's pain; she was releasing years of it, grief layered upon grief until the weight had become crushing.

Her bronze hair smelled faintly of vanilla shampoo beneath the hospital antiseptic, soft against my calloused fingers. I let her cry, understanding that sometimes breaking down was the only way to begin rebuilding. There was strength in her vulnerability, courage in her tears.

"You're doing everything you can," I murmured into her hair when her sobs had eased slightly. "Your sister knows that."

She hiccupped against my chest, her breathing ragged. "It doesn't feel like enough."

"It never does," I said, thinking of my own failures—brothers I couldn't save, promises I couldn't keep. "But that doesn't mean it isn't enough."

We sat like that for long minutes, her tears gradually slowing, her breathing evening out. I kept my arms around her, offering the physical support she so rarely allowed herself to need. My hand continued its slow circles on her back, feeling the knots of tension beneath her blouse.

Her breathing had almost returned to normal, just an occasional catch when her body remembered it had been crying. I felt her fingers uncurl from their tight grip on my shirt, smoothing over the wrinkled fabric in a small, unconscious gesture of tidying. Even now, some part of her mind was trying to restore order.

"Better?" I asked, my voice low and gentle.

She nodded against my chest, not yet ready to look up. "Sorry for falling apart."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

"You didn't sign up to be my emotional support biker," she murmured, a hint of her usual dry humor returning.

I chuckled, the sound rumbling through my chest where her ear pressed against it. "Pretty sure that was in the fine print somewhere."

That earned a small, watery laugh. She shifted slightly, adjusting her position but not pulling away. Her body fit against mine like it belonged there, soft curves against hard angles.

"Thank you for letting me cry it out," she said softly. "I've been holding that in for a long time."

"I know." My fingers stroked her hair, gently working through a tangle. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Mandy."

"It feels like I do." Her voice had changed subtly—higher, softer, with a vulnerable quality that made my chest tighten. "Everyone expects me to handle everything. To make the hard decisions. To never break down."

"Not with me," I said. "You can be whoever you need to be here."

She was quiet for a long moment, her breathing steady against my chest. When she spoke again, her voice had slipped even further into that softer register.

"It gets so tiring, being grown-up all the time. Making all the decisions. Being responsible for everyone else."

"I know, sweetheart." The endearment slipped out naturally, feeling right in that moment.

She nestled closer, sighing. "This feels nice. Safe. Thank you, Daddy—"

She froze instantly, her entire body going rigid in my arms. I felt the exact moment her brain caught up with what her mouth had said, horror radiating through her like an electric shock.

Mandy pulled back sharply, her face flushing crimson from neck to hairline. Her eyes were wide with mortification, hands coming up as if to physically push the word back into her mouth.

"I—I didn't mean—" she stammered, scrambling to put distance between us on the couch. "That wasn't—I don't know why I—"

Her breathing accelerated, edging toward panic as she pressed herself against the opposite arm of the couch. Her green eyes couldn't meet mine, darting around the room like she was searching for an escape route.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she continued, words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "That was completely inappropriate. I don't know what's wrong with me. Just forget I said that. Please. I should go—"

She started to rise, but I gently caught her wrist before she could flee. Not restraining, just connecting. She could break away if she wanted to.

"Mandy." I kept my voice deliberately calm, free of shock or judgment. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," she whispered, still not looking at me. "It's weird and inappropriate and—"

"I understand." I paused, choosing my next words with extreme care. "More than you might think."

That stopped her. She finally looked at me, confusion mingling with hope and fear in equal measure. "You . . . know about . . . ?"

I nodded slowly. "DDLG? Yes."

Her lips parted in surprise, color still high in her cheeks but panic receding slightly. The term hung in the air between us—Daddy Dom/Little Girl—no longer an unspoken secret.

"But you’re a biker. How . . . ?" she began, then seemed unable to form the rest of the question.

"I've had experience with age regression dynamics before," I said simply. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mandy. Everyone needs safe ways to process stress, to feel protected."

She swallowed hard, her throat working with the effort. "Most people think it's . . ." She trailed off, unable to say the words.

"Most people don't understand it," I countered. "They think it's just a sexual kink, or something twisted. They don't get that it's about feeling safe enough to be vulnerable. About having someone you trust take away the pressure of constant decision-making and responsibility."

Her eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing across her face at hearing her own unexpressed feelings articulated so clearly.

"Sometimes," I continued softly, "letting yourself be small for a while makes it easier to be strong when you need to be."

Mandy's shoulders gradually lost their defensive hunch as she processed my words. She looked down at where my hand still lightly circled her wrist, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers like a trapped bird.

"I've never told anyone except my sister," she admitted quietly. "Not even my therapist. I found out about it accidentally, through an online forum when I was researching stress management techniques. It just . . . resonated. Deeply." She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it slightly. "But I never thought I could actually share that side of myself with someone. It seemed too risky."

"It is risky," I acknowledged. "Trust always is."

She studied my face, searching for any hint of mockery or disgust and finding none. "I still don't understand how you knew. About me, I mean."

I smiled slightly. "I notice things. The unicorn keychain you were so worried about losing after our motorcycle lesson. How you respond to certain words—like when I accidentally called you 'princess' last week and you blushed to your ears. The way you organize your colored pens in rainbow order, always exactly the same pattern."

Her eyes widened. "You noticed all that?"

"I’m a noticer,” I chuckled.

“That Keychain . . .iIt was the first thing I bought for my Little space," she said softly. "I was so scared someone would see it in my purse and ask questions. But I wanted to keep it with me."

"Your Little space?" I prompted gently.

A small smile touched her lips. "I have a room in my apartment. Behind a locked door. It has stuffed animals, and coloring books, and . . ." She trailed off, color rising in her cheeks again. "It sounds silly when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound silly." I kept my voice gentle but firm. "It sounds like a safe place you created for yourself when the world got too heavy. That's not silly—it's survival."

Tears welled in her eyes again, but these were different—relief, maybe, at being seen and accepted. "I never thought I'd be talking about this with anyone. Especially not with . . ." She gestured vaguely at me, encompassing my tattooed arms, broad shoulders, and general appearance.

"A big, scary biker?" I supplied with a half-smile.

"The Sergeant-at-Arms of the Heavy Kings MC," she corrected, a hint of her usual sharpness returning. "A man who literally enforces rules and intimidates people for a living."

"Maybe that's exactly why it makes sense," I suggested. "Structure, protection, safety—that's what I provide for the club. Not so different from what a Daddy Dom does for his Little."

Her breath caught audibly at the phrasing—his Little—the possessiveness implicit in those words clearly affecting her.

"I'm not saying that's what we are," I added quickly, not wanting to presume. "Just that the principles aren't as different as they might seem at first."

Mandy nodded slowly, fingers still wrapped tightly around the unicorn keychain. "How much experience do you have? With DDLG, I mean."

"One serious relationship, years ago," I said honestly. "She introduced me to it. We were together for about two years before she moved across the country for work. It awakened something in me I hadn't known was there—a specific kind of protectiveness, a desire to create safety and structure that goes beyond physical security."

"And you liked it? Being a . . . a Daddy?" She stumbled slightly over the word, still uncertain of using it directly.

"It felt natural," I answered simply. "Like finding a piece of myself I hadn't known was missing."

The tension had drained from her body now, replaced by a cautious curiosity. She tucked one leg under herself on the couch, facing me more directly.

"I never thought someone like you would understand someone like me," she admitted.

"People are more complicated than their surfaces suggest." I gestured to myself—the tattoos, the muscles, the heavy rings on my fingers. "This is real, but it's not all of me. Just like your corporate accountant persona is real but not your whole self."

She smiled then, a genuine smile that reached her eyes for the first time tonight. "We're both hiding in plain sight, aren't we?"

"Maybe we don't have to hide from each other anymore," I suggested quietly.

Her smile softened, vulnerability and hope shining in her eyes. "Maybe we don't."