8. Hawk #2
“Because I don’t kill innocent people,” I say finally. “That’s why.”
“You’ve killed before.”
“Yeah. I have. In combat overseas. In club wars here. Men who were armed, who knew what they were signing up for, who made choices that led them to that moment.” I reach for the antiseptic and uncap the bottle.
“But not civilians. Not women who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not people who didn’t ask for any of this.
That’s not who I am. That’s not who I’m willing to become. ”
“And the others? Razor and Shadow?”
“They follow my lead. If I say you live, you live.”
“Even if it gets them killed?”
“That’s their choice to make. They’re grown men. They know the risks.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says immediately.
“Don’t have to. Believing me doesn’t change what I’m going to do.”
“Which is what, exactly? Because you keep saying you’ll figure something out, but I haven’t heard an actual plan. Just vague promises and maybes. And I’ve had enough of promises from men to last me a lifetime.”
Fair point. She deserves better than vague reassurances.
“Because I give you my word,” I say, applying antiseptic to the cut. She hisses at the sting but doesn’t pull away. “And my word means something.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to read truth in the lines and scars. Looking for the lie. Looking for the angle.
“Why should I trust anything you say?” Her voice is quiet now.
Tired. “Words are cheap, Hawk. My ex gave me his word too. Promised he’d never hurt me, never use Mason against me, never raise a hand to me in anger.
And look how that turned out. Words don’t mean shit when actions say something different. ”
“You’re right. So judge me on my actions.
” I finish with the antiseptic and reach for the gauze.
“I grabbed you instead of leaving you to get shot or arrested. I cut your zip ties instead of keeping you restrained. I let you call your sister even though it was a risk. I’m refusing a direct order to kill you even though it could cost me everything.
Those are my actions. What do they tell you? ”
She doesn’t answer immediately. She watches as I unroll the gauze.
I take her hand in mine—the one without the cut. Turn it palm-up. Her skin is soft compared to mine, decades of motorcycle grease and calluses making my hands rough as sandpaper. I can feel her pulse in her wrist.
“Other hand,” I say quietly.
She shifts, giving me her injured hand. The cut across her palm is clean but deep, still seeping blood through the antiseptic I applied. I press a square of gauze against it first, applying pressure. She winces but doesn’t pull away.
Our faces are maybe ten inches apart. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes, the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
Close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral, out of place in this cabin full of leather and gun oil and men who’ve forgotten what softness looks like.
I start wrapping the gauze around her palm. Slowly. One layer, then another, building protection over the wound. My fingers brush against hers with each pass—calloused fingertips grazing the inside of her wrist, the meat of her thumb, the delicate bones on the back of her hand.
She’s trembling. Just slightly. I can feel it in the way her fingers twitch when I touch certain spots.
“Too tight?” I ask.
“No.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. Her eyes are locked on my hands, wrapping hers, watching each movement like she’s trying to memorize it. Or maybe she’s just afraid to look up, afraid of what she’ll see if she meets my eyes.
I should be working faster. Should get this done and put distance between us. Instead, I’m taking my time, making sure each layer of gauze is perfect, that the bandage will hold, that she’s protected.
My thumb brushes across her knuckles as I adjust the angle. Her breath catches—a sharp little inhale that makes my own breathing falter.
I look up.
She’s already looking at me. Those green eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Her lips are slightly parted, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. She’s not pulling away. Not flinching. Not showing fear.
She’s showing want.
And fuck, that’s dangerous.
Because I want too. Want in a way I haven’t wanted anything in years. Want to close those last ten inches, taste those lips, find out if she’s as soft everywhere as her hands suggest. Want to hear more of those little gasps, see if I can make them turn into moans.
Want her in ways that violate every rule of what this situation is supposed to be.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip. An unconscious gesture, but it might as well be a fucking invitation.
My hands have stopped moving. The gauze is half-wrapped, held in place by my grip on her hand, but I’ve frozen. We’re both frozen. Staring at each other across a gap that’s too small and too large at the same time.
I can feel her pulse against my fingertips where I’m holding her wrist. Thundering. Matching the rhythm of my own heartbeat.
The cabin is silent except for our breathing—hers quick and shallow, mine measured but strained. She smells like rain and fear, and that floral shampoo and something underneath that’s just her. Something warm and alive and completely at odds with the violence of the past few days.
Her eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second. Then back up to meet my gaze.
The air between us is thick enough to cut. Charged with awareness and complication, and the pull of something neither of us asked for but can’t seem to ignore.
I should finish bandaging her hand. Should tie this off and move away and restore the professional distance between captor and captive, between a man old enough to know better and a woman young enough to be?—
I don’t finish that thought.