The sound cut through the night air like thunder -- a motorcycle engine, deep and powerful, growling in the distance but rapidly approaching.

Relief crashed through me so intensely my knees nearly buckled.

I knew that engine, knew its distinctive rumble that always announced Hammer’s arrival at home.

Piston’s head snapped toward the sound, his grip on me loosening just enough that I could wrench my face free. The motorcycle rounded the corner of the building, headlight slicing through the darkness, illuminating us in its path before the bike came to an abrupt stop.

Hammer.

He dismounted in one fluid motion that belied his age, his imposing figure silhouetted against the streetlight behind him. In the artificial glow of the diner sign, his silver hair and beard seemed to glow with an otherworldly aura.

“Let her go.” His voice carried across the parking lot, low and even, yet somehow more threatening than if he’d shouted.

Piston’s grip tightened on my arm, his body tensing like a predator scenting competition. “This is a private conversation,” he called back. “Between me and my wife.”

“I was never your wife,” I corrected, earning another painful squeeze.

Hammer moved toward us, each step measured and deliberate.

There was nothing rushed in his approach, nothing that betrayed panic or uncertainty.

Just the steady advance of a man who knew exactly what he was capable of.

I’d seen him gentle with Aura, patient with my boys, careful with me -- but this was different.

This was the Hammer who had survived decades in a one-percenter club, who had done prison time, who commanded respect with his mere presence.

“Take your hands off my wife,” Hammer stated, stopping a few yards away, his voice calm but lined with steel.

My heart stuttered at the word -- wife. Not old lady. Not woman. Wife. Claimed openly, definitively, without qualification.

“Your wife?” Piston’s voice dripped with mockery.

He looked down at me, then back at Hammer.

“This is what you settled for? Some silver-haired grandpa who probably can’t even get it up without those little blue pills?

” His grip loosened on my arm as his attention shifted fully to Hammer.

“Tell me, old timer, does she fake it for you like she did for me?”

Something dangerous flashed in Hammer’s eyes -- a cold fury so controlled it was somehow more frightening than Piston’s volatile rage. He took a single step forward.

“You don’t talk about her like that,” he said quietly.

Piston’s smirk widened. “Hit a nerve? I’m just looking out for her satisfaction, man. She likes it rough, likes to be put in her place. You got the strength left for that? Or are you too busy taking your heart medication --”

Hammer moved so quickly I barely registered the shift. One moment he was standing still, the next his fist connected with Piston’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoed across the empty parking lot. Piston staggered backward, releasing me completely as he struggled to keep his balance.

I pressed myself against the car, breath coming in shallow pants, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before me. Hammer positioned himself between Piston and me, his broad back creating a wall of protection.

“You nearly broke my fucking jaw!” Piston spat, blood dribbling down his chin.

“Not close enough,” Hammer replied calmly. “But I’m considering it.”

Piston steadied himself, touching his jaw gingerly before his eyes narrowed with hatred. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, old man. I’ve got an entire club behind me.”

“And I’ve got mine,” Hammer said, not bothering to raise his voice. “Difference is, I don’t need them to handle you.”

Piston’s eyes darted from Hammer to me, then back again. Something calculating entered his expression. “She tell you about our boys? About how they’ve got my blood, my name?”

I wasn’t about to correct him on the name part. I’d never given my children his name since we weren’t married, and he hadn’t bothered to show up when they were born. But bringing that up would only anger him more.

“They have her heart,” Hammer countered. “Her strength. Nothing worthwhile from you.”

The words struck me like physical blows -- not painful, but powerful enough to take my breath away. I’d never heard Hammer speak like this, never witnessed this fierce protection wrapped in such simple truth.

“You think you can just step in and play daddy?” Piston sneered, though I noticed he kept his distance now. “Those are my sons. Mine.”

“Sons you beat,” Hammer said, his voice dropping lower. “Sons you terrified. Sons who flinch when a door slams or a voice raises.” He took another step toward Piston. “Not anymore.”

Piston’s eyes flicked to me. “This your plan, Amelia? Replace me with this old bastard? You think he can protect you? Protect my boys?”

Before I could answer, Hammer moved again -- another of those lightning-fast movements that belied his age. His fist connected with Piston’s stomach, doubling him over. As Piston gasped for breath, Hammer gripped the back of his neck, forcing him to look up.

“Those boys aren’t yours,” he growled. “Not anymore. They’re mine now. Under my protection. Under my roof.”

Something cold and desperate flashed across Piston’s face -- the look of a man realizing he might be outmatched. He straightened, shoving Hammer’s hand away, his body tensing for a fight.

“We’ll see about that,” he snarled.

And then he lunged at Hammer, all restraint abandoned.

Piston charged like a bull, all rage and no technique, the way he’d always fought -- the way he’d always hit me.

Brutal, full of fury, meant to overwhelm with sheer force.

Hammer, though, didn’t move. He stood his ground, waited until Piston was just within reach, then pivoted slightly, using Piston’s own momentum to send him crashing into my car.

The metal dented with a sickening crunch .

I should have worried about the damage, about how I’d explain it, about the cost of repairs I couldn’t afford.

Instead, I felt nothing but a cold satisfaction seeing the man who’d terrorized me for years sprawled against the vehicle, momentarily stunned by his own violence turned against him.

Piston recovered quickly, spinning around with a roar.

This time he swung with more precision, a right hook aimed at Hammer’s jaw.

Hammer blocked it with his forearm, the impact making a dull thud that echoed in the empty parking lot.

His counter was swift -- a sharp jab to Piston’s ribs followed by an uppercut that snapped Piston’s head back.

Blood sprayed from Piston’s nose, dark droplets splattering across the asphalt.

I pressed myself against the side of the car, unable to look away, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I’d seen Piston fight before -- had been on the receiving end of his violence more times than I could count -- but I’d never seen him matched like this.

Never seen someone who could absorb his rage and return it with such controlled precision.

“Stay down,” Hammer warned as Piston stumbled backward, blood streaming from his nose and split lip. “You get one chance to walk away.”

But Piston had never known when to stop. It was what made him so dangerous -- that inability to back down, to admit defeat. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the pavement and lunged again.

This time, Hammer met him head-on. Their bodies collided with a sound like a car crash, both men grunting with the impact.

Piston landed a glancing blow to Hammer’s temple, but Hammer absorbed it, delivering three rapid punches to Piston’s midsection that left him gasping.

When Piston doubled over, Hammer brought his knee up into his face.

More blood. More of that sickening crack of bone against bone.

I should have been horrified by the violence. Should have been screaming for them to stop, calling for help, doing something other than standing frozen, watching as these two men tore at each other -- one from my past, one from my present, fighting over a future that hung in the balance.

But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only watch as Hammer systematically dismantled the man who had haunted my nightmares for years.

Piston went down again, harder this time, his body making a wet smack against the pavement. Blood pooled beneath his head, black in the dim light of the parking lot. For a moment, I thought it might be over -- that he’d finally stay down, finally accept defeat.

Then he rolled onto his side, pushing himself up on one elbow, his face a mask of blood and hatred. “You think you’ve won?” he wheezed, spitting out what looked like a tooth. “This is nothing. I’ve got brothers who’ll --”

Hammer silenced him with a kick to the ribs that flipped Piston onto his back. Not full force -- I could tell Hammer was holding back -- but enough to drive the air from Piston’s lungs.

“Stay down,” Hammer repeated, his voice eerily calm despite the violence of his actions. “Last warning.”

Blood bubbled between Piston’s lips as he laughed -- a wet, choking sound that raised the hairs on my arms. “You can’t protect them forever, old man. Those are my boys. My blood.”

Hammer’s expression hardened, the lines of his face deepening in the harsh glow of the neon sign. He reached down, grabbing a fistful of Piston’s shirt, and hauled him partially off the ground.

“Like I said, those boys are mine now,” he said, each word precise and measured despite the exertion of the fight. “You come near my family again, and you won’t walk away. I’m giving you one chance to leave this place and never come back. Not for you, but for them.”

Family. The word echoed in my chest, spreading warmth despite the chill of the night and the violence I’d just witnessed. Hammer hadn’t just said my boys or Amelia’s sons. He’d said my family. Claimed us all.

Piston’s bloodied lips twisted in a grotesque approximation of a smile. “She’s not worth the trouble,” he sneered, eyes flickering to me. “Never was. But those are my sons, and no piece of paper, no old man playing hero changes that.”

Hammer’s response was immediate, his grip on Piston’s shirt tightening until the fabric began to tear. “They’re not your sons anymore,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl that made my skin prickle. “They’re mine.”

He released Piston then, letting him fall back to the pavement with a thud .

Piston lay there, chest heaving, blood still seeping from various cuts on his face. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked genuinely afraid -- not of pain or physical damage, but of something deeper. The loss of control. The realization that his threats no longer held power.

In the distance, I heard the distinctive rumble of motorcycles -- multiple engines growing louder by the second. Hammer didn’t turn to look, but a grim satisfaction flickered across his face.

“Hear that?” he asked, still standing over Piston. “Those are my brothers. Any minute now, this parking lot’s going to be full of Dixie Reapers who’d be happy to continue this conversation if you’re still here.”

Piston’s eyes darted toward the sound, then back to Hammer. With what looked like monumental effort, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. He swayed dangerously, one arm wrapped around his ribs where Hammer’s kick had landed.

“This isn’t over,” he spat, blood dribbling down his chin. “Not by a long shot.”

“It is for tonight,” Hammer replied, his stance relaxed but ready.

Piston’s gaze shifted to me, and I instinctively pressed harder against the car door. “You better hope he never lets his guard down, Amelia,” he said, voice thick with blood and malice. “Because when he does -- and he will -- I’ll be waiting. For all of you.”

Without waiting for a response, he staggered backward, putting distance between himself and Hammer.

From the shadows beyond the parking lot, a figure emerged -- one of Piston’s club brothers, I realized with a jolt of fear.

The man helped Piston limp toward a car parked on the street, hidden from where I’d been standing earlier.

The distinctive headlights of several motorcycles cut through the darkness at the entrance to the parking lot. Venom led the procession, his massive frame recognizable even at a distance. Behind him came at least four other Reapers, their bikes moving in perfect formation.

Piston and his brother were already in their car, pulling away from the curb with a squeal of tires before the Reapers fully entered the lot.

Hammer turned to me then, the fierce protector of moments ago transforming back into the man I’d come to rely on over these past weeks. He approached slowly, giving me time to process, to breathe, to find my footing in the aftermath of violence.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. Blood -- Piston’s blood -- smeared his knuckles, and a bruise was already forming at his temple where one of Piston’s punches had landed.

I shook my head, though in truth I wasn’t sure. My body felt numb, disconnected, like I was floating slightly above the scene rather than participating in it.

Hammer moved closer, positioning himself between me and the direction Piston had disappeared, his body a shield even now. His hand reached up, hesitating just short of touching my face where Piston’s fingers had dug into my jaw.

“I should’ve killed him,” he said quietly, the words not meant to frighten but offered as a simple truth.

“No,” I whispered, finding my voice at last. “No more violence. Not for me.”

His eyes, dark and intense in the dim light, searched mine. “And that’s why I didn’t, but… He won’t stop, Amelia. A man like that doesn’t back down. Doesn’t let go.”

“I know.” I swallowed hard. “But I don’t want his blood on your hands.”

Hammer’s expression softened, the fierce protector giving way to something more vulnerable. “Already got his blood on my hands,” he said, lifting his battered knuckles with a ghost of a smile. “Question is, are you okay with that? With what happened here?”

I thought about Piston’s threats, about the violence I’d witnessed, about Hammer claiming my boys -- claiming all of us -- as his family. About the fierce protectiveness that had driven this man to defend us without hesitation.

“Yes,” I said, my voice stronger now. “I’m okay with that.”

Hammer lifted his bloodied hand, cupping my cheek with impossible gentleness.

“Let’s go home,” he said simply.

Home. To the house where my boys slept safely. Where Hammer’s gruff kindness had slowly healed wounds we hadn’t even recognized were still bleeding. Where, somehow, in the midst of danger and false starts and awkward beginnings, we had begun to build something real.

I nodded, leaning into his touch despite the blood, despite the violence, despite everything. “Home,” I agreed.