Chapter 10
Ten
Emma
Pain jolted me awake before the first streaks of sunlight broke through the horizon. It started as a dull throb deep in my arm, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
For a few seconds, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why my body felt like it had been dragged down a gravel road. Then I lifted my arm, and the bright white cast came into focus.
Right. The bar. The confrontation outside the building. The wall at my back. The punch. The run down the road. Hawk. The motorcycle. The hospital. Everything rushed back all at once.
I groaned and pushed myself upright carefully. The movement sent a sharp ache through my wrist. “Well,” I muttered to the empty room, my voice rough from sleep, “that escalated quickly.” Three fractures. Six weeks. Fantastic.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. Every muscle in my body protested as I tried to shake off the stiffness.
The house was quiet, peaceful in a way that made memories creep in—early mornings with my parents, the smell of coffee drifting through the house, pancakes sizzling in the kitchen. Sunlight filtered through the hallway windows as I stepped out of my room.
For a brief moment, I wondered if Hawk had already left. That would make sense; he didn’t strike me as the type to linger. But halfway down the stairs, I heard a voice. Low. Rough. “…yeah.”
I slowed my steps. Hawk was in the kitchen. On the phone.
“No,” he said. “I want everything.” A pause. “I don’t care how long it takes.” His voice dropped lower. “Find him.”
Something about the tone made my stomach tighten. He ended the call just as I stepped off the last stair.
There he was—leaning against my kitchen counter like he owned the place. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Or maybe it was just him. Hawk filled the space without trying, broad shoulders and long legs creating a presence that made the room feel crowded, even when he wasn’t moving.
A mug of coffee rested easily in his hand, and my eyes drifted to the microwave clock.
6:32 a.m. Which meant one thing: Hawk had been here all night.
His eyes lifted and immediately locked onto me, moving slowly over my appearance—my messy hair, the oversized hoodie, the cast wrapped around my wrist.
His gaze lingered there before he took a slow sip of coffee. “Morning, Trouble.”
I blinked. “Trouble?”
“You broke a man’s nose.”
He said it like he was commenting on the weather. “Seems fitting.”
I frowned. “I didn’t break his nose.”
Hawk raised one eyebrow. “Pretty sure you did.”
“Well, he deserved it.”
That earned a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close.
His eyes dropped back to my cast. “How’s the wrist?”
“It’s fine.”
He snorted. “Bullshit.”
“It is fine.”
“You have three fractures.”
I paused, taken aback. “You were listening?”
His eyes flicked back to mine, steady and serious. “You think I sat there for three hours staring at the wall?”
“Well,” I said, grabbing a mug from the cabinet, “I assumed you were regretting your life choices.”
He shrugged lazily. “You walking ten miles with a broken wrist already ranks high on that list.”
Rolling my eyes, I moved toward the coffee maker. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve left.”
“I know.”
I poured coffee into my mug and turned around. “Then why didn’t you?”
He took another sip, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “Bored.”
A laugh escaped me. “Wow. I feel so special.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“You’re kind of a jerk in the morning.”
“In the morning?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
I pointed at him. “Actually, you seem like you’re probably a jerk all the time.”
Hawk looked almost offended. “Careful.”
“Oh relax,” I muttered, opening the fridge. “Help yourself if you want food. I’m starving.”
“You’re not cooking.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
I turned toward him, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Hawk straightened slightly, the first real movement he’d made since I walked in. “You have a broken arm.”
“It’s a wrist.”
“Three fractures.”
“I can still make eggs.”
“You can still make mistakes.”
I stared at him, my annoyance growing. “You’re very bossy for someone who doesn’t live here.”
“And you’re very stubborn for someone with a cast.”
Ignoring him, I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove. “You know you don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Hawk didn’t answer immediately. His eyes followed my movements as I cracked an egg awkwardly one-handed. It took two tries.
“You’re doing that wrong,” he said, stepping closer.
“I’m doing it fine.”
“You’re about to dump shell in the pan.”
“Am not.”
The shell dropped into the pan with a soft plop, and I froze. Hawk pushed off the counter and stepped closer—not touching me, just close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him.
“You’re a disaster,” he said quietly.
“Oh don’t start.”
“I punched a grown man unconscious last night.”
“Lucky punch.”
I gasped. “That was not luck.”
“You swing like you’ve never been in a fight.”
“That’s because I haven’t.”
“Exactly.”
I flipped the egg and pointed the spatula at him. “You’re incredibly annoying.”
“And you talk too much.”
“You’re just mad I’m not intimidated by you.”
That got his attention. Hawk’s eyes sharpened, the intensity in them making my heart race. “You’re not scared of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
His voice lowered slightly. “Because everyone else is.”
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Well, most people probably don’t get escorted to the hospital by you after nearly getting assaulted.”
“That doesn’t make me a good person.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
I reached for my mug but shifted my wrist wrong, causing pain to shoot up my arm. “Shit.”
Hawk was beside me instantly. One second he was across the kitchen; the next, he was right there. His hand closed gently around my forearm, steadying it before I could pull away.
“Easy.”
His touch was surprisingly careful. Warm. Strong. His fingers adjusted the angle of my wrist slightly, and the pain eased almost immediately.
I looked up and realized how close he was. My shoulder brushed his chest, and his eyes were focused entirely on my cast. His thumb brushed lightly across the edge of the plaster, checking it, making sure it hadn’t shifted.
His jaw tightened slightly. “You’re not doing that again,” he said quietly.
I frowned. “Doing what?”
“Pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip. He stepped back a second later, as if the moment hadn’t happened, as if he hadn’t just been standing close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.
Finally, he grabbed his cut from the chair. “Lock your doors today.”
I frowned. “Why?”
His expression hardened. “The guy you punched.”
My stomach tightened. “What about him?”
Hawk pulled his cut over his shoulders, the leather creaking slightly as he moved. “He’s not just some drunk idiot.”
Something cold slid down my spine. “What does that mean?”
He paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking once more to the cast on my arm, then back to my face. “You picked a hell of a person to punch.”
The door shut behind him, and suddenly the kitchen didn’t feel nearly as safe as it had five minutes ago.