Page 29 of Thor

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.

Threedaysintomystay 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.

---