“Hi. Have you been out here all night?”
“Said I would, didn't I?”
“Most men say a lot of things,” the words slip out before I can stop them.
Thor's lips quirk, “Not me, Charlotte. When I make a promise, I keep it.”
I cross my arms, suddenly aware I'm still in yesterday's clothes, hair a mess. “Coffee?”
“Wouldn't say no.”
In the kitchen, I busy myself with the coffee maker, grateful for the distraction. Thor follows, leaning against the counter, close enough that I can smell leather.
“You okay?”
“Peachy.” The sarcasm drips like venom.
Thor raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying my bullshit. “Wanna try that again?”
“Not particularly,” I focus on measuring coffee grounds, avoiding his penetrating gaze.
“Charlotte.” Just my name, but the way he says it—low and insistent—makes me look up. “You don't have to pretend with me.”
Something in my chest cracks open. “I'm terrified,” I admit. “For Minny. For myself. I don't know who's after me or why, and I hate that I've dragged innocent people into this mess.”
Thor pushes off the counter, closing the distance between us. “You didn't drag anyone anywhere. This isn't your fault.”
“Isn't it? If I hadn't married a psychopath?—”
“Stop. We don’t even know for sure that it’s him.” His hand covers mine, stilling my nervous movements, “You're not responsible for other people's evil.”
The coffee maker sputters to life, filling the silence between us. I want to believe him, but guilt is a familiar companion, one I've carried for so long I'm not sure who I'd be without it.
“How do you do it?” I ask, pulling away to grab mugs from the cabinet.
“Do what?”
“Live in this world. Deal with violence and danger and still sleep at night.”
He considers this, accepting the steaming mug I offer. “You compartmentalize. Focus on what you can control. And you find people who have your back.” Thor takes a long sip. “People like us—the club—we understand there's darkness in the world. We just choose to face it head-on.”
I turn his words over in my mind, wondering what it would be like to have that kind of certainty, that kind of family. Before I can respond, movement outside the window catches my eye.
A figure appears at the edge of the property—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with purpose toward the front door of the house. My breath catches.
“Thor.” I nod toward the window.
He's in motion instantly, coffee forgotten as he moves to the side of the window, peering out with practiced caution. His hand goes to his waistband where I glimpse the butt of a gun.
“Stay here,” he orders.
“Who is it?” My heart hammers against my ribs, scenarios flashing through my mind—Terrance, his friends, hired muscle.
“Don't know yet. If I tell you to run, fucking do it.”
Thor moves toward the front door with predatory grace, one hand still hovering near his weapon. My mouth goes dry as I press myself against the kitchen wall, straining to hear. The front door creaks open, and Thor's voice carries through the small house.
“The fuck you doing here?” His tone is sharp but lacks the deadly edge I'd expect if it were a genuine threat.
