Page 15 of Thor

I quickly shifted the bag, but it was too late. Thor had seen.

His expression remained impassive as he nodded toward my apartment.

"You should clean that cut," he said gruffly, motioning to my forehead. "And rest, like the doc said."

I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"I'll give you an update on your car tomorrow. You have to get to work?"

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He cut me off. "Give me your phone."

I fumbled in my bag again, producing my shattered phone. Thor took it, his massive hands somehow delicate as he tested the screen. To my surprise, it lit up despite the cracks.

"Still works," he said, tapping on it. "I'm putting my number in. Call if you need anything. I’ll be here in the morning with transport for you."

He handed it back, and I saw he'd created a new contact. Just "Thor." No last name, no explanation needed.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it more than I could express. "For everything tonight."

He nodded once, then turned to go. "Lock your door," he called over his shoulder as he headed back toward the elevator.

I watched until he disappeared, then stepped inside my apartment and did exactly as I was told—locked the door, leaning against it as the events of the night crashed over me in waves.

The silence of my apartment pressed against my eardrums after the chaos of the night. I stood in my entryway, still wearing Thor's leather cut, my body aching and my mind spinning like a carnival ride with no off switch. I peeled it off carefully, hanging it on a hook by the door where it looked wildly out of place against my neutral decor. The Heavy Kings insignia—a crowned skull—stared back at me, a reminder that tonight had actually happened.

I moved through my apartment in a daze, dropping my bags on the kitchen counter and heading straight for the bathroom.

The shower stung my cut but washed away the hospital smell, the blood, and the lingering scent of motorcycle exhaust. As the hot water pounded my sore muscles, I replayed the night's events: the crash, Thor's unexpected arrival, the hospital, the motorcycle ride with my arms wrapped around the waist of a man who looked like he could bench press a car.

My Practical Mandy voice reminded me that I was still a professional woman with responsibilities. Thor had said that he would be here in the morning with transport. But who knew what he meant? Or if he’d actually show up. I should probably organize a rental, and then prepare mentally for work on Monday.

But I didn’t do that.

Instead, I padded to my bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of my dresser where I kept the clothes nobody saw. I pulled out my pastel pink sweatpants with tiny hearts down the side and my favorite penguin t-shirt worn soft from too many washings. Comfort clothes. Little clothes.

Once dressed, I moved to the walk-in closet in my spare bedroom. At first glance, it looked like normal storage—plastic bins neatly labeled, winter clothes hanging from a rod. But behind the hanging clothes was a door that led to a small powder room I'd converted years ago. My secret space.

I pushed through into my little sanctuary. The walls were painted a soft lavender, string lights twinkling around the perimeter. A fuzzy purple bean bag sat in one corner beside a bookshelf filled with coloring books, stuffed animals, and picture books. A small television was mounted on the wall, my collection of Disney movies arranged below it. This room didn't exist in my public life—not for Duke or the MC or my colleagues at Prestige Partners. Only Amy knew.

I grabbed Mr. Hoppy from my bag before settling into the bean bag. I hugged him to my chest, inhaling the familiar scent of fabric softener and the vanilla extract I sometimes spritzed him with.

"What a day, Mr. Hoppy," I whispered.

I'd interacted with various MC members since taking on the Heavy Kings' accounts, but mostly Duke and occasionally Tyson. Thor had been a distant, intimidating figure I'd only glimpsed across King's Tavern. The Sergeant-at-Arms. The enforcer. The man whose glare made grown men step back.

Yet he'd sliced my seatbelt with careful precision. Wrapped me in his precious cut when I was cold. Waited hours at the hospital without complaint. Taken me home and insisted on seeing me safely to my door.

I remembered the brief moment when our fingers touched outside my apartment, the unexpected current that had passed between us. How had that felt so significant after such a night of extremes?

And then there was the moment he'd seen Mr. Hoppy—twice. No comments. No judgment. Just that flash of . . . something . . . in his eyes. Not disgust or mockery. Almost like . . . recognition?

I reached for my sippy cup—pink with purple dolphins—and filled it with chocolate milk from the mini-fridge tucked under the bookshelf. The familiar ritual calmed me, a small comfort in a day that had shattered my carefully compartmentalized life.

As I sipped, my phone buzzed on the bean bag beside me. The cracked screen lit up with a message from the newest contact: Thor.

"Car's totaled. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 9 to see Amy."

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