Page 28 of Thor

"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.

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