Page 37 of Thor

"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.

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