Page 89 of Thor

"Say another word about her," I growled, barely recognizing my own voice. It sounded like it came from somewhere deep and primal, somewhere beyond rage. "One more fucking word."

His face turned red, then purple, eyes bulging as his hands clawed at my arm. I pressed harder, wanting him to hurt, needing someone to suffer like I was suffering.

"Thor! Let him go!"

Hands grabbed at my shoulders, trying to pull me back. I shrugged them off with a roar, slamming the man harder against the wall. The plaster cracked behind his head.

It took three men to finally drag me off him. The guy slid down the wall, coughing and sputtering, hand at his throat. I fought against the restraining arms, wild and unfocused, until someone—the bartender, I realized dimly—shouted that cops were on their way.

That penetrated the red haze. Cops meant trouble for the club. Meant trouble for Duke. I couldn't do that to my brothers, not after everything else.

I stopped fighting. The men holding me eased their grip, and I shrugged them off.

"Get the fuck out," the bartender said, pointing to the door. "And don't come back."

I spat on the floor and stalked out, shoving through the door into the cool night air. The alley beside the bar was dark, smelling of piss and garbage. My adrenaline crashed, leaving me shaky and sick. I leaned against the brick wall, then slid down until I sat on the filthy pavement.

My hands were trembling. I stared at them, these hands that had built motorcycles and dollhouses with equal care, now nothing more than weapons I couldn't control. The knuckles were split and bloody—not from tonight, but from punching a wall yesterday when another dead end had broken what little restraint I had left.

Four days. Four days since Mandy had run from me, terrified of what I might do. And look at me now—proving every fear she had right. All it took was four days, and I was drunk, violent, out of control.

I dropped my head into my hands and fought back the burn of tears. She was gone. Actually, truly gone. And I had no one to blame but myself.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. For a split second, hope surged through me—maybe, finally, it was her. But when I fumbled it out, Duke's name flashed on the screen. I let it ring, then silenced it, shoving it back into my pocket.

In that moment, sitting in a filthy alley outside a dive bar, the realization hit me with perfect, terrible clarity: even after four days of searching, Mandy might as well have vanished from the face of the earth. And maybe that was exactly what she wanted.

Islumpedintoachairat King's Tavern the following afternoon, my head throbbing with each beat of my heart. The midday light felt like needles in my eyes. Duke sat across from me, his face hard as granite, while Tyson leaned against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. I knew that look—the intervention look. I'd worn it myself, standing exactly where they stood, more times than I could count.

"You look like death warmed up," Duke said, not bothering with pleasantries. His voice held that deadly calm that meant he was pissed but keeping it leashed.

I ran a hand over my face, feeling the scruff of days-old beard. My mouth tasted like something had crawled inside and died. The shirt I wore had stains I couldn't identify, and my jacket reeked of cigarettes and spilled whiskey.

"Thanks for the news flash," I muttered, wincing at how gravelly my voice sounded. Too much whiskey, too many cigarettes, not enough food or water.

Tyson pushed off from the bar and set a glass of water in front of me. Not a request. I drank it without argument, my body desperate for something that wasn't alcohol.

"We've been looking everywhere for you," Duke continued, steel blue eyes boring into mine. "Your cabin, the garage, your usual spots. You've been ghosting us for days."

I set the empty glass down harder than necessary. "Been busy."

"Yeah, we heard," Tyson said dryly. "Bar fight at The Iron Horse. Nearly choking a man to death. Real productive use of your time."

News traveled fast in biker circles. I should have known they'd hear about that.

"The Serpents sent those photos," I said, the words scraping my raw throat. "They blackmailed her, threatened her career, invaded my sanctuary." My hands clenched into fists on the table. "And she's just . . . gone."

Duke and Tyson exchanged a look I couldn't quite read—concern mixed with something else. Frustration, maybe.

"We know," Duke said. "We've been trying to reach you for three days."

I barely registered his words. My mind kept replaying that moment in the park—Mandy's face when I'd confronted her about the photos. The fear in her eyes. Not just fear of exposure, but fear of me. Of what I might do.

"I've looked everywhere," I continued, staring at my bruised knuckles. "Her apartment's cleaned out. Her office won't tell me anything. Her sister's house is dark." I looked up, meeting Duke's steady gaze. "It's like she vanished."

"Did you try her parents?" Tyson asked.

I shook my head. "Don't know them. Don't know where they live." Another reminder of how little I actually knew about the woman who'd shared my bed, my sanctuary, pieces of my soul I'd never given anyone else.

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