Chapter 11
Eleven
Emma
A few days had passed since the night everything changed. Since Hawk had barged into my kitchen like he owned the place, laid down the law about locking my doors, and then vanished like some kind of leather-wearing storm cloud.
Not that I had been thinking about him. Much.
Okay, maybe a little.
The weird part wasn’t that he’d shown up in the first place. The weird part was that he hadn’t come back. For someone who acted like my safety was suddenly his personal responsibility, the man had vanished pretty quickly.
Still, something had definitely shifted. I started noticing bikers everywhere. Not in a dramatic way—no one was following me around like a creepy movie villain. But every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of leather cuts somewhere nearby.
Outside a bar. Across the street from the grocery store. Parked two cars down in a parking lot.
Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe Hawk had just gotten into my head. Either way, I was determined not to care.
By Friday evening, I was exhausted. The cast itched like crazy, my wrist throbbed constantly, and my fridge was completely empty. So, I found myself at the grocery store.
The place buzzed with the usual Friday night chaos.
Families grabbed dinner ingredients, couples argued over snacks, and teenagers wandered the aisles like they had nowhere better to be.
I grabbed a few basics—pasta, chicken, frozen vegetables—nothing fancy.
Just food. Future Emma would hate me if I went home empty-handed.
As I walked out of the store, the cool evening air felt refreshing against my skin.
That’s when I noticed them. A group of bikers stood near a row of motorcycles in the far corner of the parking lot.
I couldn’t see their faces clearly from where I stood, but the feeling of their attention was unmistakable.
My jaw tightened.
I kept my eyes forward and walked straight to my car. I had never noticed Hawk’s club before that night. Not once. Now it felt like they were everywhere.
I tossed my groceries into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, I had successfully convinced myself they probably weren’t paying attention to me. Probably. Hopefully.
Ten minutes later, I pulled into my garage and groaned. “Seriously?” No Diet Coke—the most important item. I looked down at the gas gauge and sighed. Low. Fantastic.
“Fine.” I backed out of the driveway and headed to the gas station a few blocks away. If I was going to survive a Friday night alone in my house, caffeine was required. Priorities.
I parked at pump fifteen and headed inside first. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as I grabbed a medium Styrofoam cup and filled it with ice and Diet Coke. Perfect ratio.
I walked to the counter and set the cup down. “Can I get twenty-five on pump fifteen?”
The clerk frowned at his screen. “Uh… looks like someone’s already pumping gas on that one.”
I blinked. “What?”
He turned the monitor slightly so I could see it. Sure enough, pump fifteen was active. “That’s weird,” I muttered.
“Maybe I looked at the wrong number.”
I grabbed my cup and walked toward the door. “Hang on.”
I stepped outside and looked toward my car. My jaw clenched instantly. A biker stood beside my car—tall, dark beard, leather cut. He was calmly pumping gas into my tank like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I had never seen him before, but I didn’t need to. He was definitely one of Hawk’s guys.
Of course.
I marched back inside. “Never mind on the gas.”
The clerk shrugged and rang up my drink.
I paid and walked back outside just as the biker finished pumping.
He screwed the gas cap back on and swung onto his motorcycle.
Before pulling away, he glanced at me and gave a small nod.
Not smug. Not mocking. Just… acknowledging. Like a job had been completed.
The engine roared to life, and he rode away. I stared after him, annoyance mixing with confusion. Fine. If they wanted to pay for my gas, they could go right ahead. I wasn’t arguing with free gas.
By the time I pulled into my garage again, I was exhausted. I grabbed my groceries and my Diet Coke and headed inside. The moment I stepped through the door, I froze. Something smelled incredible—garlic, butter, something savory.
My entire body went on high alert.
I lived alone. Very alone.
Slowly, I rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead. Hawk stood at my stove, his back facing me, a black t-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders and back, outlining muscles that definitely did not belong in my very normal kitchen.
For a second, my brain completely shut down. He didn’t even turn around, like he already knew I was there. My irritation exploded instantly.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Calmly, he stirred something in the pan. “Cooking.”
I dropped the grocery bag on the counter with a thud. “How did you get in here?”
His eyes flicked over his shoulder. “The locks sucked.”
My mouth fell open. “You WHAT?”
He nodded toward the kitchen table. “Your new key’s there.”
I followed his gesture. Sure enough, a key sat on the table. Anger surged through me. “You had absolutely no right to come in here unannounced.”
Without looking at me, he turned back to the stove. “You’re welcome.”
“And another thing,” I snapped, my voice rising, “your goons need to stop following me around.”
That made his shoulders tighten slightly. “It’s for your protection.”
I scoffed. “I don’t need your protection.”
His back went rigid. “I’m serious, Hawk,” I continued. “You and your club need to leave me alone.”
The air in the kitchen thickened instantly. “I don’t want you watching my house.”
Silence hung between us, heavy and charged.
“I don’t want bikers pumping my gas.”
More silence.
“And I definitely don’t want you breaking into my house like you own the place.”
The crack of his fist hitting the table made me jump. He spun around, his eyes blazing. “I don’t give a fuck what you want,” he growled. “As long as you’re safe.”
I stepped closer. “Well, that’s not your decision to make.”
His jaw flexed, the tension crackling in the air. “You don’t understand what you started.”
“I punched a creep.”
“You punched a Black Reapers prospect.”
“I don’t care who he is.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
He stepped toward me, and I stepped closer, our faces almost touching. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“You’re controlling.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You broke into my house,” I shot back. “I feel like that detail is being overlooked.”
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “You’re mine.”
The words rumbled out like a warning, and my eyes widened. Oh hell no. I jabbed my finger into his chest. “I am no one’s.”
A low growl tore from him. Before I could react, his hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked me forward. My body slammed against his, and then his mouth crashed down on mine.
The kiss was rough. Furious. Demanding. Like he was trying to prove a point. I shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. And the worst part? I kissed him back.
He didn't give me a chance to breathe, to think, to do anything but feel.
One hand fisted in my hair, angling my head just so, while the other arm banded around my waist, lifting me off my feet.
My back hit the wall with a thud that knocked the air from my lungs, but he was already there, his body a hard, unyielding cage pressing me into the plaster.
He broke the kiss, both of us panting, his eyes black fire in the dim light of my kitchen. "You want to act like you don't belong to me?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated straight to my core. "I'll show you exactly whose you are."
His free hand tore at the button of my jeans, the sound of the zipper harsh and loud.
He yanked them down my hips, taking my panties with them in one rough, impatient motion.
The cool air hit my heated skin, and I shivered, a gasp escaping my lips.
He hooked a hand under my knee, dragging my leg up and around his hip, opening me to me completely.
The position was raw, exposed, and sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through my veins.
I glared at him, defiance warring with the undeniable ache building between my thighs. I could feel the hard, thick ridge of him pressing against me through his jeans, and my body betrayed me, arching into him, seeking more.
He saw it. A smirk, cruel and triumphant, twisted his lips.
"That's what I thought," he growled. He held my gaze as he reached between us, freeing himself.
I couldn't look away as he took himself in his hand, stroking his thick length once, twice.
The sight was primal, erotic, and made my mouth go dry.
Then he was notching himself at my entrance. He paused, the blunt head of his cock stretching me, teasing me. "Say it," he demanded, his voice rough gravel.
"Never," I gasped out, my hands clenching into fists against his shoulders.
With a guttural groan, he drove into me in one hard, deep stroke.
I cried out, a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure as he filled me completely, stretching me to my limit.
He gave me no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that was all about possession, all about claiming.
Each thrust was deep, powerful, hitting a place inside me that made stars explode behind my eyes.
The scent of him—leather and soap and pure male—filled my senses.
The sounds of our bodies meeting, his harsh grunts, my helpless whimpers, filled the small space.
His grip on my thigh was bruising, a brand I knew I'd feel for days.
He was everywhere, in my head, under my skin, buried so deep inside me I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.
His mouth found my neck, his teeth scraping my sensitive skin before he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to mark me. To claim me. The possessive act sent me hurtling toward the edge. My inner muscles clenched around him, and he growled his approval against my throat.
"You're mine, Emma," he grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic, more forceful. "This is mine. Say it."
I couldn't. The words were trapped behind a moan as the first wave of my orgasm crashed over me. My vision went white, my body convulsing as pleasure, sharp and exquisite, ripped through me. I was lost, spiraling, completely at his mercy.
He followed me over the edge with a hoarse roar of my name. I felt him swell inside me, and then a deep, pulsing heat as he came, pouring himself into me, spilling hot and thick against my cervix. The sensation was intimate, primal, and sent another, smaller shockwave through my already spent body.
We stayed like that for a long moment, his body pinning mine to the wall, both of us breathing heavily, the only sound in the quiet kitchen. Slowly, he lowered my leg, but he didn't pull away. He rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing slowly evening out.
I felt his release, warm and wet, beginning to trickle down my inner thigh. A stark, undeniable reminder of what he'd just done. Of how he'd taken me. Of how, for a few blinding minutes, I had let him.