4. Aria
Aria
“How are you feeling this morning?” Hawk glances at me over his shoulder from where he stands at the stove, those piercing eyes pinning me in place.
I’m trying hard not to drool, and it’s not because of the savory aroma of bacon wafting from the frying pan in front of him.
No, my eyes are fixated on his broad back and the way his muscles shift beneath a thin black t-shirt.
Honed perfection. His dark mohawk is slightly rumpled from sleep, and his butt encased in grey sweat pants looks so… so…
It suddenly dawns on me that he asked me a question. He’s waiting for me to answer, and I’m standing here ogling him. God, how embarrassing.
“Um, yes. Yes, I did." My voice comes out morning-raspy, and I clear my throat. "My body still aches a bit, but a good night’s sleep does wonders."
He gives a grunt of acknowledgment and says, “Sit,” motioning to a small table with two chairs against the wall.
I slide onto one of the chairs. He places two plates on the table, both piled high with fluffy scrambled eggs and crispy bacon before taking the seat across from me.
“Wow. I didn't expect you to cook," I admit, picking up a fork and trying not to stare at his raw masculinity. But, honestly, how can a girl help it? His jawline could cut glass, and this morning it’s darkened with a sexy amount of stubble. Gah! Now you’re calling stubble sexy.
He flashes a crooked grin that transforms his face. "Don't be too impressed. I can cook exactly four things. Scrambled eggs and bacon are two of them."
"What are the other two?" I take a bite of eggs. They're perfectly seasoned.
"Steak and burgers.” He shovels a heaping forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Not much else a man needs to know."
"I love to cook," I offer. “I’ve been cooking for myself since I was a young child.”
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Yeah? What about your parents?"
“They’re both gone. My dad died when I was two from a massive heart attack. Mom passed from pneumonia when I was seven.” The familiar ache spreads through my chest. "I went to live with my uncle after that."
“Your uncle know about those bruises?" His voice drops to a dangerous register that makes goosebumps rise on my arms.
My shoulders stiffen automatically and I stare at my plate, pushing eggs around.
My uncle isn't the one who hurt me, but he might as well have. He's the one who arranged the whole twisted engagement. The one who handed me over to Marco like a business transaction.
Hawk watches me with all-seeing eyes, registering every nuance of my reaction.
I expect him to demand answers from me. I knew it was coming, the questions, the grilling about last night and the events leading up to it, and my whole body tenses as I search for a way to explain.
But, to my surprise, before I can answer, he asks, "You cook Italian food? "
The abrupt subject change throws me. “Huh?”
“You said you like to cook. You make any Italian food? It’s my favorite."
"Yes. My parents emigrated from Italy. My nonna taught my mom, and my mom taught me.” So relieved at his change of topic, I smile and tease, “Let me tell you, I make a mean lasagna." I press my fingertips to my puckered lips, then fan them out in an exaggerated chef’s kiss. “Deliziosa!”
He huffs a laugh at my antics, but I know he's filed my reaction away for later. He’s not a man who misses much.
We finish eating in relative silence. I’m not sure what I should do now. I can’t go back home. My uncle will no doubt be furious with me. What am I supposed to do all day while hiding from Marco?
When I can’t stuff in another bite, I ask, “What do you have planned for today?”
“Gotta head down to open the shop soon.” Hawk scrapes the last of his eggs into his mouth.
My fingers twist in my lap. "Could I...would I be too much of a bother if I stayed here? Just for today? I promise I won't touch anything."
“I was hoping you'd come down with me." His expression remains neutral, but I swear there’s a hopefulness in his eyes. Or am I imagining that? “You could hang out at the shop for a while."
"Really?" The word comes out breathier than I intended. "I'd love to see your shop." Excitement bubbles through me at the prospect.
Witnessing my enthusiasm, Hawk’s face splits into a huge smile that nearly stops my heart. I thought he was hot before with his menacing gaze and hard scowl. With his face relaxed, a wide grin wrinkling the corners of his eyes and showing off his straight, white teeth, he’s breathtakingly handsome.
“It’s settled then. Go get yourself ready.” He stands, gathering our empty plates. "Your sweater from last night is toast. But I washed your jeans. You can grab one of my shirts from the dresser if you want."
I turn to go get ready, but as I reach the door to the bedroom, his voice stops me. “Hey.”
I look back over my shoulder. His gaze is warm and heated in a way that makes my pulse race.
"You’re not a bother, little sparrow. Not at all.”
Heat crawls up my neck into my cheeks. I’m not sure what to say, so I simply nod and hurry off to the bedroom with his words echoing in my mind.
I dig through Hawk’s dresser, eventually selecting a faded black t-shirt with a vintage motorcycle printed on the front. It swallows me whole, hanging nearly to my knees, but when I roll up the sleeves and tie a knot at my waist, it looks almost fashionable.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I touch the bruises on my face. They're turning a sickly yellow-purple, but they'll fade. Unfortunately, I don’t have any makeup to hide them. I pull my curls into a messy bun and borrow a bit of toothpaste, using my finger as a makeshift toothbrush.
My thoughts drift to Hawk. Little sparrow . I love that he called me that. Why couldn’t I be engaged to a man like Hawk? What would it feel like to be desired, to be wanted, by a man like him?
Everything about him screams danger, and I have no doubt that under the right circumstances he’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, yet he took me in—me, a drowned rat of a girl who trespassed on his property and broke into his home—and I’ve never felt safer than I did sleeping under his roof.
Even at breakfast, when he sensed my discomfort, he changed the subject.
I trace my lips with my fingertip. What would it be like to kiss him? To feel those full lips against mine?
I shake my head at my ridiculous fantasy. A man like Hawk—worldly, strong, dangerous—would not be kissing a shy, introverted nobody. He’s like those heroes in romance novels or action movies. The kind who saves the world and gets the girl—a girl who is not plain and inexperienced like I am.
Still, I can't help wondering.
Twenty minutes later, clutching the strap of my backpack, I try (unsuccessfully) to not stare at his broad back or his tight buns that are now encased in faded denim as we descend the external staircase to the tattoo shop.
Reaper’s Ink, the sign proclaims in gothic lettering.
Hawk unlocks the door, flipping on lights as we enter.
"Welcome to my shop,” he says with a sweep of his arm.
The space is nothing like I expect. Instead of dark and intimidating, it's bright and clean. A black and white checkered floor gleams beneath overhead track lighting. The walls are covered in framed flash art—hundreds of tattoo designs showcasing every style imaginable.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning in a slow circle, dropping my backpack near the front counter. “This is amazing.”
"Let me show you around." Hawk's hand settling at the small of my back sends tingles down my spine and to my toes as he guides me through the shop.
He points out the reception area, the private rooms where artists work, and finally leads me to his own station in the back. His walls are covered with photographs of completed tattoos—intricate sleeves, detailed portraits, stunning designs, all rendered on human skin.
"You did all these?" I step closer, studying a photorealistic eagle spanning someone's entire back.
“Yep.” There's pride in his voice, not arrogance.
"They're incredible." I reach out, tracing the outline of a wolf design without touching the photo. "The detail is unbelievable."
"Ever thought about tattooing?" He leans against the wall, watching me.
I laugh. "Me? No, I've never even had a tattoo."
"I got a confession to make." He scratches his jaw while I wait in silence, nervously wondering what he could possibly be about to say. "I looked through your sketchbook last night. While you were in the shower."
"Oh." I'm not sure how to respond. I’m a little embarrassed. The man clearly has extreme talent. I wonder what he thought of my drawings.
"You're incredible, Aria." His voice is low, intense. "Better than any artist who's ever worked for me. Your eye for detail, the way you capture emotion..." He shakes his head. “You have a rare talent."
My chest expands with warmth. No one has complimented my art like that—like it matters, like it's something special. Uncle Vincent called it a waste of time, but he did let me start art school last month. Marco said “doodling,” as he called it, was fine as a hobby, but I’d have to quit those art classes once we were married.
So I could stay home and take care of him.
"Thank you," I whisper, unable to look away from Hawk's golden-amber gaze.
He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my face, careful of my bruises. "I mean it. You have a gift."
We stare into each other's eyes for a long, heated moment, and I feel mesmerized, like I’ve been enchanted by a witch's spell. I can’t look away. Does he feel it too?
Before I can ponder the question, he leans down and presses his soft, warm lips to mine in what feels like it was meant to be a brief peck.
But the moment his lips touch mine, a current of desire zings through me, electrifying my whole body. Without thinking, I push up onto my tiptoes, pressing closer, deepening the contact. My fingers clutch his shirt and curl into fists.
Hawk makes a sound low in his throat—something between a growl and a groan—and suddenly his arms are around me, lifting me onto the counter. My legs part instinctively to make room for him, and he steps between them, his large hands spanning my hips.
His lips are firm but gentle, coaxing rather than demanding as they move against mine.
I've never been kissed before. I often imagined what it would feel like when I watched couples kiss on TV or in movies.
But this...this far exceeds anything I could have envisioned.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him, gasping as it plunges inside, tangling seductively with mine.
One of his hands slides up my back, cupping the nape of my neck, while the other drifts down, brushing the strip of skin exposed where my shirt has ridden up. His touch is careful, mindful of my bruises, but there's nothing tentative about the way he claims my mouth.
He tastes like sin and salvation. I'm drowning in sensation, my fingers clutching at his shoulders for support as he kisses me like he's a starving man—starving for the taste of me.
When his hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, his palm hot against my bare skin, I make a sound I've never heard myself make before—a needy and desperate moan.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to search my face, asking a silent question.
I nod, not entirely sure what I'm agreeing to, but knowing I want more of whatever this is.
His fingers find the clasp of my bra, tracing along the elastic, and I shiver. He's about to unclasp it and free my breasts when a pounding at the front door interrupts us.
Hawk pulls back slightly, eyes dark with lust. "Ignore it. We don't open for ten more minutes."
Unable to speak, I merely nod, but the pounding grows more insistent, followed by a cacophony of women’s shouts.
Hawk's expression shifts. “Fuck.” He rolls his head back, shuts his eyes, and lets out an exasperated sigh. “They’re not gonna go away.”