Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Hawk
Not the soothing kind of stillness that invites peace, but a heavy silence that presses down relentlessly on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Each agonizing second stretches into infinity, a reminder of everything that’s at stake.
The machines beside the bed emit a soft hum, their rhythmic beeping punctuating the air like a metronome ticking away precious moments.
The green lights of the oxygen monitor blink steadily, a pattern I’ve memorized, one I could probably trace in my sleep.
Yet, sleep eludes me, just like comfort.
Emma lies before me, a pale shadow of the vibrant woman I know.
The harsh medical lights cast a stark glare that accentuates her fragility.
Her dark hair, once so full of life, spreads across the pillow, some strands still matted with dried blood—evidence of the fight she put up.
Bruises are already blooming along her throat, dark finger-shaped imprints that twist my stomach into knots every time I see them.
I tighten my grip around her hand, feeling its smallness in mine. Fragile. That word gnaws at me, a dark thought that refuses to leave. Emma is not fragile; she proved that tonight. Even bleeding on the kitchen floor, she fought fiercely enough to take down a man twice her size.
My jaw clenches tighter, a futile attempt to rein in the waves of guilt crashing over me. I wasn’t there, and that thought feels like a lead weight dragging me down.
My thumb grazes over her knuckles, tender and gentle. “Come on, Trouble,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. There’s no response, just the steady hum of the machines and the soft sound of her breathing, which feels both comforting and terrifying.
“You’re supposed to be yelling at me right now,” I continue hoarsely.
“You drive me insane.” Her fingers feel impossibly small, as if they might crumble under the weight of my concern.
“You’re stubborn, you run your mouth, you push every damn button I’ve got.
” My throat tightens as the reality of our situation sinks in deeper.
“If you don’t wake up,” I whisper slowly, “I’m gonna lose my mind.” The truth sits heavily in my chest, a weight I didn’t want to acknowledge until now. Watching her breathe, so fragile and vulnerable, I can no longer deny it.
I love her.
The realization hits like a punch to the gut—quiet, heavy, terrifying. I’ve had women before, plenty of them, but none of them ever mattered like this. None of them ever had the power to destroy me just by staying still.
My hand tightens around hers. “You don’t get to leave me,” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.
The door opens softly behind me. I don’t look up immediately, but I recognize the footsteps—Doc, our club doctor. He stops beside the bed, glancing down at Emma before turning his attention to me.
“How is she?” I ask, my voice strained.
Doc studies her monitors for a moment. “Stable,” he replies, and the word loosens something tight in my chest. But he doesn’t look completely relaxed, and I notice that immediately.
“What?” I ask, the knot in my stomach tightening.
He hesitates slightly, as if weighing his words. “There’s something else,” he says carefully.
My stomach drops. “What?”
—-
Emma
Everything hurts.
That’s the first thing I realize.
Pain is everywhere. In my ribs. In my head. In my throat. Even breathing feels wrong, like something inside my chest doesn’t want to move the way it should.
A soft groan slips out of me before I’m even fully awake.
The sound is weak.
Foreign.
My eyelids feel heavy, like they’ve been glued shut. When I try to open them, bright light burns against the back of my skull.
I wince.
My throat aches.
Not just sore—raw. Tight. Like someone wrapped barbed wire around it and pulled.
A memory flickers somewhere in the back of my mind.
Hands.
Pressure.
The feeling of air disappearing.
My chest tightens suddenly.
My eyes snap open.
The room around me is unfamiliar.
The ceiling is wooden. Dark beams running across it. A fan spinning slowly overhead. The faint smell of antiseptic and leather hangs in the air.
Where am I?
My breathing picks up automatically, which is a mistake because pain shoots through my ribs instantly.
“Ah—”
The sound catches in my throat and turns into a rough rasp.
Something shifts beside me.
A chair scrapes suddenly.
Then a voice.
Low.
Rough.
Terrified.
“Emma?”
My heart jumps.
I know that voice.
My head turns slowly toward the sound.
And there he is.
Hawk.
He’s sitting beside the bed, leaning forward so fast his chair nearly tips over behind him.
His eyes look wild.
Like he hasn’t slept in days.
His shirt is stiff with dried blood. Dark stains cover the front of it and smear across his forearms and hands. My stomach twists when I realize some of it must be mine.
“Emma,” he says again, softer this time.
His hand closes around mine.
Warm.
Strong.
Real.
For a second I just stare at him, trying to piece together what’s happening.
Why he looks like that.
Why I feel like this.
“Where…” My voice breaks instantly.
My throat burns.
Hawk’s expression tightens.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs quickly. “Don’t try to talk yet.”
Baby.
The word sends a strange flutter through my chest.
My mind feels foggy.
Heavy.
But pieces of memory start creeping in.
The box.
Blood.
The note.
Found you.
My stomach drops.
My fingers tighten weakly around Hawk’s hand.
“The—” My voice cracks again.
My throat feels like it’s made of broken glass.
Hawk leans closer immediately.
“I got you,” he says quietly.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles slowly.
“Just breathe for a second.”
Breathe.
Right.
I inhale slowly.
Pain radiates through my ribs.
“Where am I?” I whisper hoarsely.
His eyes soften slightly.
“You’re at the clubhouse.”
The words take a moment to sink in.
Clubhouse.
That means—
The kitchen flashes through my mind.
The overturned table.
Blood everywhere.
The man’s face.
My chest tightens sharply.
“Someone was in my house,” I rasp.
Hawk’s jaw tightens.
“I know.”
My heart starts racing now.
My hands tremble slightly.
“He—”
My voice falters as the memory slams into place.
His hands around my throat.
The pressure.
The panic.
I swallow painfully.
My eyes widen.
“Did I…”
The words barely make it out.
“…kill him?”
The room goes very still.
Hawk’s grip on my hand tightens slightly.
For a moment he just looks at me.
Then he exhales slowly.
“He came into your house,” Hawk says quietly.
His voice is steady.
Calm.
“What happened to him is on him.”
My chest rises and falls unevenly.
So I did.
I killed someone.
The thought should feel heavier.
But right now all I feel is relief.
Because if I hadn’t—
I probably wouldn’t be here.
My eyes close briefly.
When I open them again, Hawk is still staring at me.
Like he’s memorizing my face.
His eyes look wrecked.
Red around the edges.
Like he’s been through hell.
And suddenly his grip on my hand tightens.
“I’m sorry.”
The words come out rough.
Quiet.
My brows knit slightly.
“What?”
His head drops for a second, his forehead nearly touching our joined hands.
“I should’ve answered,” he mutters hoarsely.
My heart stutters.
“I should’ve answered your fucking calls.”
The words sound like they’re tearing their way out of his chest.
“I was being an asshole,” he continues, shaking his head slightly. “Thought you were calling to argue.”
My chest tightens.
His thumb presses hard against my hand like he’s grounding himself.
“I should’ve been there,” he says quietly. “Before he ever got inside your house.”
My throat aches, but something deeper aches more hearing the guilt in his voice.
“Hawk—”
“I should’ve been there,” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly. “You shouldn’t have had to fight him alone.”
His eyes finally lift back to mine.
And the raw emotion in them steals the air from my lungs.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
My heart twists painfully.
Slowly, carefully, I lift my free hand.
Every movement sends pain through my ribs, but I manage to reach him.
My fingers brush his wrist.
Then I gently pull his hand closer.
Resting my cheek against it.
His skin is warm.
Rough.
Familiar.
“It’s okay,” I whisper hoarsely.
His brows pull together immediately.
“No, it’s not—”
“It is,” I interrupt softly.
My throat burns with every word but I force them out anyway.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
Hawk goes still.
“I was mad,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”
His jaw tightens.
“That doesn’t make this your fault.”
I shake my head slightly against his hand.
“I don’t blame you,” I murmur.
And I mean it.
None of this feels like his fault.
The silence between us stretches for a moment.
Then his hand moves.
Carefully.
His thumb brushes gently along my cheek where it’s resting against his palm.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmurs.
The words are rough.
Honest.
My chest feels warm in a strange way.
“You didn’t leave,” I whisper.
His eyes soften.
“Not a chance.”
The room falls quiet again.
The machines beside the bed hum softly.
My ribs ache.
My throat burns.
But somehow…
With Hawk sitting beside me, his blood-stained hand still cradling my face…
I don’t feel quite as afraid anymore.
And before exhaustion pulls me back under again, the last thing I see is Hawk leaning closer in his chair.
Still watching me.
Like he’s making damn sure I don’t disappear.