Page 24

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. “Out? Tonight?” The thought of my boys beyond the compound’s gates sent a chill through me.

At least at school, there were protocols in place.

I knew someone couldn’t walk in and take them.

But being out in public? The Devil’s Minions Prospect was still out there somewhere, watching, waiting. “I don’t think that’s --”

“Don’t worry,” Aura cut in, reading my expression. “Sam’s coming too. Full colors, full protection. Nobody’s gonna mess with your boys while big brother Ghost is around.”

I glanced at Hammer, looking for guidance, for reassurance. He nodded once, his beard shifting against his jaw. “Sam won’t let anything happen to them,” he said, his voice a low rumble that somehow soothed the panic rising in my chest. “And Aura’s no slouch herself.”

Aura grinned, flexing her tattooed arm. “Damn straight. Been kicking ass since I was sixteen.”

Levi’s eyes were already bright with excitement, his perpetual caution melting away at the prospect of a normal teenage outing. “Can we go, Mom? Please?”

How long had it been since my youngest had asked for anything with such open enthusiasm? Since either of my boys had looked forward to something so simple as an evening at an arcade? The realization that Piston had robbed them of these normal experiences made my decision for me.

“All right,” I relented, setting my fork down. “But phones on, check in every hour, and --”

“Home by eleven,” Chase finished for me, already on his feet. It looked like he’d known I was going to give him a curfew. “Thanks, Mom.”

Within twenty minutes, they were gone -- Aura herding my boys out the door with promises of dessert and video games, Sam waiting outside on his bike, his imposing figure a comfort rather than a threat.

The front door closed behind them, and suddenly the house seemed unnaturally quiet, the silence heavy between Hammer and me.

I stared at the half-eaten lasagna, the scattered plates, anything to avoid looking directly at Hammer. For the first time since we’d moved in, we were truly alone. No kids as buffers. No easy excuses to retreat to separate corners.

“Guess we should clean up,” I said, my voice too high, too bright as I stood and began gathering plates.

Hammer pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “I’ll help,” he offered, carrying his and Aura’s plates to the sink.

We moved around each other in the kitchen, a careful dance of proximity and avoidance.

His broad shoulder brushed mine as he reached for a sponge, and I nearly dropped the glass I was holding.

Every nerve ending seemed hypersensitive to his presence -- the subtle scent of motor oil and pine soap that clung to him, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body in the narrow space between the sink and counter.

“Boys seem to be settling in,” he said after a stretch of silence, rinsing a plate before handing it to me to dry. “Chase knew his way around a carburetor today. Aura was impressed.”

I nodded, focusing intently on drying the plate. “Levi too. Never seen him so interested in anything that wasn’t connected to a power source before.”

Hammer chuckled, the sound warm and unexpectedly intimate in the quiet kitchen. “Kid’s smart. Thinks things through.”

“And Chase?” I couldn’t help asking.

Hammer’s hands stilled in the soapy water. “He reminds me of me,” he said quietly. “Always watching. Always ready for trouble. Carrying the weight of everyone else.”

Something about the simple honesty in his voice made my chest tighten.

I’d spent the last five days watching him with my boys -- the way he gave Chase space but stayed available, how he asked Levi thoughtful questions about his computer projects, respecting their boundaries while gradually earning their trust. It was so different from Piston’s approach of demanding immediate obedience through fear.

“Thank you,” I said, the words inadequate for everything I wanted to express. “For being patient with them. With all of us.”

Hammer shrugged, passing me another dish. “Nothing to thank me for.”

We continued washing up, the silence more companionable now.

I became acutely aware of his movements -- the flex of his forearms as he scrubbed a stubborn bit of lasagna, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the careful way he handled my favorite coffee mug.

This close, I could see the individual strands of silver in his beard, the crow’s feet fanning from the corners of his eyes, evidence of a life fully lived.

“You’ve been good for them too,” he said suddenly. “Aura. Even Sam. Having you all here, it’s… different.”

“Different good or different bad?” I asked, half-joking, half-terrified of his answer.

He paused and looked at me full-on. “Good. Definitely good.”

I reached for the pot he’d been washing and his large hand covered mine as I fumbled the pot.

Neither of us pulled away. His skin was warm, rough with calluses, solid against mine.

I froze, hardly daring to breathe as our gazes locked.

Something shifted in his expression -- a softening, a hunger quickly suppressed.

“Amelia,” he said, my name like gravel in his throat.

I don’t know which of us moved first. Maybe we both did.

One moment we were standing with our hands touching, the next his lips were on mine, tentative at first, then with growing urgency.

His beard was softer than I’d imagined, tickling my skin as his mouth claimed mine.

I gasped against him, my hands -- still damp from the dishes -- clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking mine, drawing a moan from somewhere deep in my chest. He clasped my waist, lifting me slightly to set me on the counter, positioning himself between my legs.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, fingers threading through his silver hair, holding him to me like he was my lifeline, and maybe he was.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back, breathing hard. His eyes were dark with desire, but something else flickered there too -- doubt, hesitation.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, his voice rough. “This isn’t -- I’m not --”

“Not what?” I asked, not letting him step away, my legs still loosely wrapped around his waist.

His jaw tightened. “I’m too old for you, Amelia. Too damaged. Got too much history.” He shook his head. “Don’t want to take advantage.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me, short and incredulous. “Take advantage? I’m thirty-six, Hammer, not sixteen. I know what I want.” I reached for him again, but he stepped back, disentangling himself from my grasp.

“You want safety,” he corrected, his voice gentler now. “Protection for your boys. That’s why we’re doing this.”

“Maybe at first,” I admitted. “But now I want…” I hesitated, struggling to put into words the tangled mess of emotions he evoked in me. Desire, yes, but also something deeper, more frightening. “I want you,” I finished simply. “Age doesn’t matter to me.”

He shook his head, putting more distance between us. “It should. This isn’t right.”

“Why not? Because you’re older? Because we didn’t choose this marriage?”

“Because,” he said, turning away to grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white with tension, “you deserve better than a worn-out old biker who can’t even guarantee he’ll be able to satisfy you.”

The raw honesty in his voice made my throat tighten. I slid off the counter, moving to stand beside him, not touching but close enough to feel the heat from his body. “Hammer,” I said softly. “Look at me.”

He turned, albeit reluctantly. I reached up, my fingers tracing the outline of his beard, the strong line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows.

“I want this,” I whispered. “I want you. Not because I need protection or because I’m grateful. Because when you look at me, I feel seen for the first time in years.”

For a moment, I thought he might give in. His expression softened, his body leaning almost imperceptibly toward mine. Then he straightened, gently removing my hand from his face.

“I need time,” he said, his voice strained. “If we do this -- if we really do this -- I want it to be right. Not rushed. Not confused with everything else.”

Before I could respond, he stepped back, running a hand through his silver hair. “I should check in with Savior,” he said, already moving toward the door. “Make sure the boys are okay. I’m sure Sam asked for backup to go with them, even if the kids don’t realize it.”

I watched him go, frustration and understanding warring within me. He was being honorable, careful, everything Piston had never been. But standing alone in the kitchen, my body still humming with unfulfilled desire, honor felt like a cold comfort.

* * *

I heard the shower running when I finally gathered enough courage to enter the bedroom.

After our kitchen encounter, Hammer had disappeared to his office, then to the clubhouse, returning late enough that I’d almost given up waiting.

Now, I stood frozen by the dresser, nightgown clutched to my chest, listening to the water beat against the tile and wondering how we were supposed to navigate this -- sharing a bed with a man I’d kissed hours ago, who had pulled away despite wanting more.

The marriage certificate might be fake, but the tension between us was painfully real.

The bathroom door opened in a cloud of steam, and Hammer stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. We both froze, caught in an awkward tableau.

Droplets of water clung to his silver chest hair, trailing down to his stomach, which was solid but softened slightly with age.

Scars marked his skin -- some faded white with time, others still pink and angry.

The Dixie Reapers patch tattooed over his heart seemed almost to pulse with each beat.