Page 6 of Thor

"Done," Duke replied simply. "We value expertise."

We shook on it. “You’ll be answering to Thor, working with him on the investments. I want to make sure I understand all of it.”

“Of course.”

Duke walked me out, but Thor remained seated, watching me with that inscrutable expression. Just before I turned away, I caught something else in his gaze—not just assessment but interest. The kind that had nothing to do with financial statements.

Outside, the night air cooled my flushed skin as I walked to my car. The parking lot was quieter now, just the distant sounds of music and laughter from the tavern. I slid behind the wheel but didn't start the engine immediately, needing a moment to process.

My heart still pounded from the meeting with Thor. The attraction was undeniable and completely unwelcome. Maybe if I wasn’t so tired, I wouldn’t be feeling this overwhelming attraction. But I was.

Danger. All of a sudden, my life was full of it.

Chapter 2

Thor

Nothinglikeabitof dirt to bring me back down to earth.

My hands were filthy. They moved on autopilot, breaking down the Harley transmission with practiced efficiency while my mind wandered elsewhere. The wrench felt like an extension of my fingers as I loosened bolts with just the right amount of torque—too much force would strip the threads, too little would leave them stuck. Like most things in my life, it was about control and precision, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply before something broke.

Dawn had barely cracked over the mountains when I'd unlocked Iron Kings Auto. I preferred working when the shop was empty—no brothers looking for favors, no customers hovering, just me and the mechanical puzzle before me. The early morning quiet let me think clearly, which was sometimes a blessing and other times a curse.

The garage was my sanctuary, a place where everything made sense. Tools lined the walls in strict order—wrenches arranged by size, screwdrivers separated by type, specialty implements for Harleys given places of honor. The floor gleamed despite the constant battle against grease and oil stains. Even Tyson, with his military precision, had once joked that my workshop made him feel slovenly.

That had given me a pang of pride. A rare feeling.

The smell of motor oil and metal polish filled my nostrils, comforting in its familiarity. The radio played Zeppelin low enough not to disturb my thoughts but loud enough to keep the silence at bay. "Ramble On" faded into "Kashmir" as my fingers worked free another bolt, placing it carefully in the magnetic tray.

Normally, I blocked out all other thoughts while I worked. But today, that wasn’t an option. Because yesterday, I’d met that fucking accountant. Mandy Wright. The name rolled around in my head like a bearing that didn't quite fit its housing. She'd been sitting at Duke's desk when I walked in, copper hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, pen poised over spreadsheets filled with numbers that might as well have been hieroglyphics to me.

It wasn't just her looks that caught my attention, though those were impressive enough. Her hair reminded me of burnished motorcycle parts—that deep copper glow that only comes from something of quality. Her eyes were green, not the washed-out kind, but vibrant like the mountains in summer. But what really snagged my focus was how she held herself—back straight, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised. It wasn't natural posture but something practiced and deliberate, like armor made of professionalism.

When she noticed me watching her, something flickered in those green eyes. Recognition, maybe, or understanding—a brief, unguarded moment before her professional mask slipped firmly back into place. She'd crossed her legs, adjusted her blouse, and continued explaining tax shelters and corporate restructuring to Duke as if I hadn't just caught her letting her guard down for a split second.

I’d like to have another go at that guard. I’ve got a feeling I could obliterate it.

"The investments would provide both legitimate income streams and appropriate write-offs for the auto shop expenses," she'd said, voice controlled and impersonal. But I'd noticed how her fingers tightened around her pen when I moved closer, not in fear but something else entirely.

This was not normal for me. Women didn’t have much effect. Or at least, they did, but not for more than a day. Fuck.

I set down my wrench and wiped my hands on a shop rag, leaving dark streaks that would never fully wash out. My phone buzzed against the metal workbench, and I frowned at the message from Duke: "Meeting at 10. Bring the investment paperwork Mandy prepared."

Fucking paperwork. The club was changing under Duke, especially since he'd settled down with Mia. His newfound domestic bliss had him pushing us toward legitimacy, talking about futures and stability like we were some corporate entity instead of the Heavy Kings MC.

I understood his thinking. Duke had something to protect now, someone who depended on him. Mia had transformed him, dragged him from the darkness he'd been sinking into before they met. Now he wanted security, wanted to build something that wouldn't collapse if the Serpents decided to hit our gun runs or if the feds came sniffing around our legitimate businesses.

But the Iron Serpents sure as hell weren't diversifying their portfolios or restructuring their corporate holdings. They were as vicious as ever, probably more so after we rescued Mia from their clutches. And while Duke played with business models, Venom was rebuilding his ranks and licking his wounds, planning his next move.

I loosened another bolt with more force than necessary, the wrench slipping and scraping my knuckles against metal. Blood welled from the shallow cut, and I sucked air through my teeth. The pain cleared my head, brought me back to the present.

Duke was my president, my brother. I'd follow him into hell if he asked. But I worried his happiness was clouding his judgment, making him forget what had kept us alive all these years—our reputation, our willingness to be more ruthless than our enemies.

I wiped the blood on my jeans and picked up my wrench again, focusing on the transmission. Duke might be changing, but my job remained the same: protect the club, keep my brothers safe, and make sure anyone who threatened us learned to regret it. And maybe figure out why I couldn't get a certain copper-haired accountant out of my head.

King'sTavernsatdarkand empty, the "Closed" sign hanging on the door when I pulled it open with more force than necessary. The place stank of last night's beer and whiskey. I spotted Duke and Tyson in our usual corner booth, heads bent over steaming mugs of coffee, their leather cuts standing out against the dim interior like war flags on a battlefield.

"You're late," Duke said without looking up. His voice carried the easy authority of a man who'd led our club through blood and fire.

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