Chapter 8 Destiny
Destiny
The world blurs past, a streak of darkened windows and sleeping streets. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I know a public place is the last thing I want. Not when my skin still hums with his touch, when the memory of his fingers has left my body trembling like a plucked string.
We pass a sign. Ironwood Heights. The name leads us to a quiet, well-kept apartment complex, its corners softened by the afternoon sun. Instantly, my heart kicks against my ribs.
Is this what I think it is?
He parks the bike, and I slide off on gelatin legs, my sneakers meeting the pavement with a silence that feels too loud. I stare at a plain gray door, and my stomach clenches.
Hammer retrieves our bag of sweets from his saddlebag, his movements steady. He follows my gaze. “My home.”
The two words hang in the air, simple and immense. I don’t move, not even when the jangle of his keys cuts through the quiet. What is this feeling seeping into my bones? Nerves, yes, they’re an old, familiar coat. But this is different, deeper. Personal.
“Why’d you bring me here?” The words are a whisper, stripped bare.
This. This is the most profound trust I’ve ever been handed.
From a man so reserved, so walled off, he’s offering a piece of his sanctuary.
A piece of himself, I wonder if anyone else has ever seen.
The realization wants to go to my head, a dizzying intoxication.
My heart wants to go rogue, to beat a wild, hopeful rhythm against my better judgment.
“I can’t stay at the clubhouse full-time. The place drives me nuts after a while.” He doesn’t move, sensing my paralysis. The plastic bag crinkles in his grip. “You aren’t comfortable there, either. This place is quiet, peaceful. It’s… a place you can go to. Something you can also call your own.”
The meaning settles over me, heavy and warm. “You want me to move in with you.” I state it as a fact, my voice flat with disbelief.
“It’s safe.” He clears his throat, the sound rough. “You don’t need to make up your mind right now. At least take a look around. It’s better than the clubhouse.”
I believe him. I do. But staying here means more than just a safe address. It means waiting for the rumble of his bike in the parking lot. It means treating this fragile, terrifying thing between us as something real. Tangible.
And while I’m willing to bet my soul that Hammer wouldn’t touch me again without me breathing the demand, I know myself.
I couldn’t treat this as some casual roommate situation.
My heart, once given, doesn’t know how to ask for scraps.
It would want to put down roots. It would want something permanent. Something final.
The question lodges in my throat, a silent, desperate plea as I stare at the man offering something so grand.
Is that something a man in his boots could ever want, too?
Swallowing thickly, I nod and follow him toward the entrance. Trying to steady the mess happening in my chest, he soon lets us in.
Nudging off my shoes, I step further in while he’s unlacing his boots.
Getting an eyeful of my surroundings, the air leaves my lungs in a soft, surprised rush. It’s so… basic.
Beige walls, a functional couch with three cushions, and a television hanging like an afterthought.
A gaming console sits beneath it, and I try, and fail, to picture his large, calloused hands maneuvering a controller.
A motorcycle magazine on the end table is the only thing that feels authentically him.
I feel the weight of his gaze from the doorway, a physical pressure as I drift through his space. He’s letting me see him, truly see him, and the vulnerability in that act makes my chest ache.
The walls are so bare. He needs paintings, something with color to make this place pop. The thought arrives, unbidden. Would he let me make a few changes?
My steps falter when I see it. On a high shelf, an elegant urn stands sentinel beside a framed photograph of a young woman with a bright, laughing smile. Someone important. A sacred relic.
“My sister,” he says, the words quiet but clear, preempting my unspoken question. “Juliet.”
The air thickens. He knows about the hollowed-out wreckage of my own family. Can I ask? Do I have the right?
“Can I ask how?” My voice is meek, a thread of sound.
He grunts, a rough, pained sound, and rubs the back of his neck. “She met a man who had bad intentions.”
The words are simple, stark. Chills cascade up my spine, cold and sharp. “Did… he get caught?”
His upper lip curls, just slightly, and for a second, I see the untamed violence simmering behind his eyes. Instead of shutting me out, he lets out a long, weary sigh. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it’s joined by a profound, gut-wrenching grief. “I took care of him. He got what he deserved.”
He doesn’t give me the fine details, but he doesn’t need to. The finality in his tone is a door slamming shut in a soundproof room. He killed him. The truth hangs between us, dark and absolute.
I don’t want to know how, and the bleak shadow in his gaze tells me he doesn’t want to tell me, either.
I turn back to the photograph, to the girl frozen in a state of happiness. “She’s beautiful,” I murmur, the words heartfelt. “Must’ve taken all the good genes.”
He scoffs, but the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. My weak tease lands, a small light in the heavy dark. He guides me from one room to the next, a silent tour.
It’s a nice apartment. Cozy. The beige walls feel peaceful now, the carpet soft beneath my feet. From how quickly we got here, it’s near the town square. I could walk there. I could breathe fresh air that doesn’t taste of exhaust and neglect. A luxury I never had in Meadow Falls.
The truth settles in my stomach, warm and solid. Now that my parents are gone, I have no desire to ever return to that hellish town. Even if someone could squash the cockroach that runs that town, they could never fix the bad memories festering in its soil.
He stops at the last door. Pushing it open, he reveals his bedroom, and a flush creeps up my neck. It’s dominated by a large, simple bed, the linens dark and neat. The space is immense, airy.
Far more than the cramped room we’ve been sharing at the clubhouse.
Stepping inside his bedroom feels like crossing a threshold into a more intimate world. The air is different here, carrying the faint, clean scent of his soap and leather. I hear his soft scoff as I drift straight for his closet, pulled by curiosity.
Sliding the door open, I’m met with simplicity. A few plain T-shirts, neatly hung. A handful of jeans, some so worn they’re soft as cloth. It’s the wardrobe of a man with no pretense. Real.
“Hoping to find something inside?” His voice is closer now, a low rumble just behind me. The tease in it is laced with something warmer.
I don’t turn, my fingers brushing against a cotton sleeve. “Just wanted to see if there’d be enough room for all those clothes you bought me.” The truth slips out, unguarded, and hangs in the quiet space between us.
Then I feel it—the heat radiating from him, enveloping me without a single touch. He makes a low, rough sound in the pit of his chest, a vibration I feel deep in my own bones, and a shiver wracks my spine.
I finally turn to face him, and the look in his eyes steals my breath. Pure, undiluted hunger. His jaw is a tight line, a muscle ticking relentlessly. His fingers twitch and curl at his sides, fighting the instinct to reach for me.
After experiencing his touch at the bakery, a barely-there torment, I can only imagine the inferno he’s holding back now that we’re alone.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I hesitantly reach out.
His muscles coil, rock-hard beneath my palm as I press my fingers against his chest. The steady, powerful beat of his heart is a drum under my skin.
“You’re seriously a force to be reckoned with…
” I mutter the words, chewing on my lower lip.
“Destiny.” He groans my name like a confession, like a curse. The muscles in his face flex, his control stretched to its limit. “You’re making things hard.”
More like, I’m making him hard.
A bold, dizzying heat floods me. Needing confirmation, needing to feel the truth of it, I let my fingers trail down, over the rigid plane of his stomach, until my knuckles brush against the rigid denim of his jeans.
The question spills out, wrapped in a jealousy that surprises me with its ferocity. “If I stay here, how will I know women won’t approach you?” He isn’t mine to demand anything, and yet the very idea is a physical ache.
His throat works as my finger hooks, plucking lightly at his belt loop.
“They won’t,” he grates out, his voice thick. “Not if I already have someone. Let me get you a cut of your own, something with my name on it, and they’ll avoid me like the plague.”
My breath hitches, catching in my throat as my gaze flies up to meet his. The intensity there is overwhelming. “You want that?” I whisper, needing to hear the affirmation.
He scowls, but it’s not directed at me. It’s at the sheer obviousness of his desire. “Yes,” he says, the word leaving no room for doubt. “I do.”
I shouldn’t poke the bear when he’s this close to devouring me, but the devil on my shoulder is screaming in triumph. Seeing Hammer—so controlled, so reserved—unraveled like this is doing wicked, wonderful things to me. I crave the tingles he ignites. I am addicted to the way he makes me feel.
“Convince me.” The words leave me on a shaky breath, a reckless surrender to the heart hammering in my chest. I let it lead, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Show me how you feel. If you succeed… I’ll stay.”
I am throwing all the green flags at him, and maybe the white one of surrender, too. I see the exact moment my challenge detonates within him. The hunger in his eyes doesn’t just flare; it explodes, turning his gaze to molten steel.
The moment he touches me, I know he’s taking my challenge to heart. This isn’t a gentle persuasion. It’s a claim. I am his. The only woman for him.
His hand doesn’t cup my face; it frames my jaw, his thumb pressing against my pulse point as if to feel the frantic beat his name causes.
His other arm bands around my waist, crushing me against the solid, unyielding wall of his body.
The evidence of his desire, hard and insistent against my stomach, wrings a sharp gasp from my lips.
“Then stop talking,” he rasps, his voice rough before his mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not a kiss of gentle exploration. It’s a conflagration. It’s a man starved, finally tasting his only meal. His lips are demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim possession, and the low groan that vibrates from his chest into mine is the most primal sound I’ve ever heard.
This feels different than the kisses from last night. This is him leading.
My hands fly to his shoulders, clinging to the rigid muscle there, my nails digging into the cotton of his shirt.
He walks me back without breaking the kiss, until the back of my knees hit the edge of his bed.
Reaching for his vest wrapped around my top, he pushes it off. Growling against my teeth, he pulls back to look down at me. His lips curl into a rare smile, but it looks more like a snarl.
His hand lifts, his knuckles brushing against what his cut was hiding. My nipple beads against my shirt, revealing my very own arousal.
“You sure you want this?” His breath comes out in heavy waves. “Once I start, I won’t want to stop.”
Reaching down, I answer him by grabbing my shirt. Pulling it off, I’m left exposed where my flush has spread.
This brute abandons conversation altogether as he moves in a blur.
I fall onto the soft comforter, and he follows me down, caging me in with his powerful arms. His mouth claims mine before I feel his teeth against my throat.
“Hammer,” I pant, my head spinning, my body arching into his of its own volition.
He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his chest heaving. His eyes are wild, dark with a need that mirrors the desperate ache coiling low in my belly.
“This,” he grunts, his hips pressing down, making his intention devastatingly clear. “This is how I feel. Every day since I found you.”
My body sings, my legs already wrapping around him.
It’s all the convincing I’ll ever need. To think we’ve only started.