Page 8 of Thor

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?

Theburnerphonejoltedme 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.”

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