Page 88 of Thor

We need to talk.

Mandy, please.

Just tell me you're safe.

The last one I'd sent a dozen times over the past two days. No response to any of them.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized the man staring back. My beard had grown wild, untrimmed. Dark circles carved half-moons beneath bloodshot eyes. My clothes were rumpled, stained—I couldn't remember when I'd last changed them. The controlled precision that defined me had crumbled, leaving something feral in its place.

Four days of searching had yielded nothing but dead ends. Her apartment stood empty—not just unoccupied, but cleared out. Furniture remained, but personal items were gone, closets emptied except for a few hangers swinging like gallows in the still air. I'd jimmied the lock, not caring who might see or what laws I broke. The place still smelled of her vanilla perfume, but it felt hollow, abandoned.

Her workplace had been worse. The stone-faced receptionist at Prestige Partners had stared me down with practiced indifference.

"Ms. Wright no longer works here," she'd said, eyes flicking to the security guard hovering nearby. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"When did she quit?" I'd demanded, leaning over the desk, my size usually enough to intimidate.

The woman hadn't flinched. "She didn't. That's all I'm authorized to say."

Fired. The realization had hit like a sucker punch. They'd destroyed her career just like they'd threatened.

Amy's house had been my last hope. I'd staked it out for hours, parked down the street like some fucking stalker, waiting for any sign of movement. The windows remained dark, the driveway empty. No sign of her. I’d even tried Amy’s hospital, but I hadn’t been allowed in.

It was like Mandy had vanished from the face of the earth. And it was tearing me apart.

I made my way to The Iron Horse, a dive frequented by local riders but considered neutral territory—not Heavy Kings turf, not Serpents either. Just a shithole where bikers could drink without colors causing trouble.

The familiar stench of stale beer and cigarettes hit me as I shouldered past a pair of pool players. My boots stuck to the floor with each step. The bartender—a weathered woman with faded snake tattoos up her arms—eyed me warily as I slapped down cash for another whiskey.

"You sure you need that, honey?" she asked, not reaching for a glass.

"What I don’t need is your fucking opinion," I growled.

She shrugged, poured the drink, and slid it across to me without another word.

The whiskey hit my empty stomach like acid. I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten. Didn't care. Food was just something that got in the way of the numbness I was chasing.

I scanned the bar through bleary eyes, looking for nothing and no one in particular. Just another place to kill time while my mind spun in endless circles. Where was she? Was she safe? Had she left town? Was she alone? Did she hate me now?

The questions clawed at me, ripping open wounds that hadn't even begun to heal.

A group of riders sat clustered around a corner table. Not club members—just weekend warriors with too much money and not enough sense. They laughed too loud, voices carrying across the nearly empty bar.

"—that redheaded accountant who's been slumming it with the Kings," one of them said, the tail end of some joke or story I hadn't caught.

My head snapped up, the world suddenly sharp-edged and in focus. The guy who'd spoken wore a leather vest over a faded Harley Davidson t-shirt. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, his gut hanging over his belt buckle.

I crossed the floor in four strides.

"What did you just say?" My voice came out low, dangerous.

The man looked up, annoyed at the interruption. "Wasn't talking to you, brother."

"I'm not your fucking brother." I leaned in closer. "And you're gonna tell me what you just said about the redhead."

His friends shifted nervously, but the man just snorted. "Public knowledge, man. That pretty little number keeping the Kings' books? Word is the Serpents got some interesting pictures of her. Heard she lost her fancy accounting job over it. That's what happens when you—"

I didn't let him finish. My hand shot out, fingers closing around his throat as I yanked him up and slammed him against the wall. Beer bottles crashed to the floor. His feet dangled, boots kicking uselessly as I pressed my forearm into his windpipe.

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