8. Hawk #3
Instead, I force myself to break eye contact. Look down at her hand. Resume wrapping the gauze with deliberate focus, layer after careful layer, until the cut is covered and protected.
When the bandage is secure, I release her hand but don’t immediately move away. We’re sitting close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat, the way her pupils are dilated despite the light, the faint tremor still running through her.
“What happens now?” she asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Now?” I lean back, putting distance between us even though part of me doesn’t want to. “Now you get some sleep. Tomorrow—today, technically—we start working on a real plan. Figure out how to get you home without getting everyone killed.”
“And if there is no way? If every option ends with someone dead?”
“There’s always a way. Might not be clean. Might not be easy. Might require sacrifices I’m not ready to make. But there’s always a way if you’re willing to look hard enough.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Really looks. Like she’s trying to see past the club colors and the scars and the hard exterior to whatever’s underneath.
“I don’t know if I believe you,” she says finally. “But I want to.”
It’s not trust. Not even close. But it’s something. The first crack in the wall she’s built around herself. The first admission that maybe, just maybe, we’re not all the same as her ex.
That maybe I mean what I’m saying.
“That’s a start,” I say.
She nods, then stands. Her legs are unsteady, but she makes it to her feet, using the arm of the couch for balance.
“Can I ask you something?” She’s looking at me, head tilted slightly, eyes searching.
“Yeah.”
“If you’re willing to risk everything—your life, your standing in the club, maybe even the lives of your friends—just to keep me alive, what do you get out of it? What’s in this for you?”
I could lie. Could tell her it’s about honor or doing the right thing or some other noble bullshit that sounds good but doesn’t mean much.
But she deserves better than that. She’s been lied to enough.
“Redemption,” I say finally, meeting her eyes. “I fucked up with my son. Let the club take priority over being a father. Let him grow up thinking he didn’t matter, that the patch on my vest was more important than he was. Now he hates me, and I don’t blame him for it. I earned that hate.”
I pause, weighing how much to share. But she’s given me honesty. Deserves the same in return.
“You’ve got a four-year-old who needs you,” I continue.
“A kid who’s depending on you to come home.
Maybe if I make sure you get back to him, it balances the scales a little.
Makes up for the kid I failed. Doesn’t fix what I broke with my son, but it’s something.
And right now, something’s better than nothing. ”
Understanding flickers across her face. Not sympathy. Something deeper. Recognition, maybe. “That’s not how it works. Saving me doesn’t fix what happened with your son.”
“I know. But it’s something I can do. Something I can control. And maybe that’s enough.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I believe you mean what you’re saying. That doesn’t mean I trust you. Doesn’t mean I think you can actually pull this off. But I believe you’re going to try.” She looks down at her bandaged hand. “That’s more than my ex ever gave me.”
It’s more than I expected. More than I deserve, probably.
“Get some sleep,” I tell her again. “Tomorrow’s going to be complicated. We’ll need clear heads.”
She heads for the stairs, moving slowly, exhaustion written in every line of her body. Halfway up, she pauses, looks back. “Hawk?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not following the order. For trying, even if it doesn’t work out.” She swallows hard. “Mason deserves to have his mother. Whatever happens to me, at least you tried. That’s more than most people would do.”
Then she’s gone, disappearing up the stairs, leaving me sitting on the couch with bloodstained gauze and the weight of her trust settling on my shoulders. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the first aid kit, the antiseptic wipes, the supplies scattered on the coffee table.
Twenty-four hours. That’s what we’ve got.
Less than that now. The clock’s been ticking this whole time.
Twenty-four hours to figure out how to keep Jade alive, keep ourselves out of violation, and somehow navigate a war between motorcycle clubs, a federal investigation, and the fact that I’m getting attached to a woman I was supposed to eliminate.
“That went well,” Shadow says from across the room, breaking the silence.
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, she didn’t try to stab you. That’s progress.”
“I said shut up, Shadow.”
Razor moves from the window, checking the perimeter one last time before dawn. “We need a plan. Actual plan, not just hoping something works out. Reaper’s not bluffing. Twenty-four hours and he’s sending enforcers to make sure the job gets done.”
“I know.”
“So what’s the play?”
I run a hand over my face, feeling every one of my fifty-one years pressing down. “Working on it.”
“Work faster. Clock’s ticking.”
“Yeah. I’m aware.”
Twenty-one hours until Reaper’s deadline.