Page 39

Amelia

My hands trembled as I dabbed alcohol on the gash running down Hammer’s forearm, willing myself to stay steady despite the knot of fear still lodged in my throat.

He’d returned just an hour ago, bloodied but alive, limping through our front door with that same stoic expression he always wore.

Only the tightness around his eyes betrayed the pain he felt, and the way he’d immediately sought me out, his gaze locking with mine across the room, told me more than words ever could about what had happened out there in the darkness.

“Hold still,” I murmured, pressing the gauze harder against the wound. “This one’s deep. Might need stitches.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, though he couldn’t quite hide the wince when I cleaned a particularly nasty part of the gash. “Had worse.”

The bedroom was quiet around us, dim light from the bedside lamp casting our shadows against the wall.

I’d sent the boys to their room as soon as Hammer arrived, not wanting them to see the extent of his injuries.

Chase had protested, of course, but one look from Hammer had silenced him.

Even battered and bleeding, Hammer commanded respect without raising his voice.

“That tire iron could have taken your head off,” I said, carefully applying butterfly strips to hold the wound closed. “Savior told me what happened. How you went after Piston alone, then got outnumbered.”

Hammer’s jaw tightened beneath his silver beard. “Had to be done.”

I moved from his arm to his face, gently cleaning a cut above his eye.

Our proximity felt charged, intimate in a way that went beyond the physical.

His breath warmed my skin as I leaned closer, the familiar scent of him surrounded me despite the medicinal smell of alcohol and antiseptic.

My fingers lingered longer than necessary against his weathered skin.

“You could have been killed,” I whispered, not trusting my voice to remain steady at full volume.

His eyes met mine, dark and unreadable. “Worth the risk. He won’t threaten you or the boys again.”

The simple declaration sent a shiver through me. Not from fear, but from the certainty that this man -- this unexpected protector who’d come into our lives -- meant every word. He’d gone after Piston not for revenge, not for his pride, but for us. For me.

“Let me see your ribs,” I said, setting aside the bloody gauze.

Hammer hesitated before stiffly removing his shirt, revealing a torso marked by decades of scars and tattoos, now blooming with fresh bruises. I gasped softly at the mottled purple-black spreading across his left side.

“Jesus, Hammer.”

“Just bruised,” he insisted, though his sharp intake of breath when I gently pressed my fingers against his side suggested otherwise.

“Maybe broken,” I countered, reaching for the bandages. “You should see a doctor.”

“Had broken ribs before. These are just cracked, maybe. They’ll heal.”

I began wrapping the bandage around his torso, each circuit bringing me close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.

My arms encircled him as I passed the bandage from one hand to the other, creating an embrace that was both medical and something more.

He sat perfectly still, only his accelerated breathing betraying his awareness of our position.

“I was so afraid,” I admitted, securing the bandage with metal clips. “When they told me you’d broken formation to go after Piston alone… I thought I might never see you again.”

“How the fuck…” His brow furrowed.

“I asked. No, more like pleaded. I needed to know something. Anything. I was about to lose my mind I was so scared.” My hands stilled against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm.

The fear that had gripped me while he was gone surged back, making my next words tumble out before I could stop them.

“I can’t lose you, Hammer. I’m falling in love with you. ”

His body went rigid beneath my touch. Slowly, deliberately, he took my wrists and moved my hands away from his chest. The rejection was gentle but unmistakable.

“Amelia,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Don’t.”

I stepped back, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. “Don’t what? Don’t feel what I feel?”

He stood, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his injured side. “I’m too old for this. Too old for” -- he gestured between us --”whatever this is becoming.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said, heat rising to my face.

“It’s reality.” He ran a hand through his silver hair, frustration evident in the gesture. “Look at me, Amelia. I’m sixty-one years old. Got twenty-five years on you. You deserve better than some worn-out old biker who needs pills half the time to --” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

“To what?” I pressed, stepping closer again. “To make love to me? Because I seem to remember you doing just fine without any pills the other night.”

His eyes darkened. “That was --”

“That was real,” I insisted. “What we have is real. Your age doesn’t matter to me.”

“It should.” His voice dropped lower, threaded with something that might have been regret. “I can’t give you what a younger man could. Can’t give you more children, can’t promise you decades. Hell, my knees creak when it rains.”

This man who’d faced down an entire motorcycle club without flinching was afraid -- not of violence or death, but of inadequacy. Of not being enough for me.

I stepped back, hurt blooming in my chest despite my understanding of his fears.

For a moment, we stood in silence, the space between us charged with unspoken things.

Then, watching him turn away, something hardened within me.

A resolve I’d thought beaten out of me by years with Piston suddenly crystallized into certainty.

I moved toward him again, determination guiding each step. This time, when I placed my hands on his chest, I didn’t let him push me away.

“Listen to me, Hammer,” I said, my voice low but firm. “I’ve been with younger men. I was with Piston for years, and all his youth and strength brought me was pain and fear. I don’t want young. I don’t want promises you can’t keep. I want you. Just you. Nothing you say will change how I feel.”

Before he could respond, I pressed my lips to his, pouring everything I couldn’t articulate into the kiss.

For one heart-stopping moment, he remained passive, unresponsive.

Then, with a groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him, his arms came around me, one hand fisting in my hair as he took control of the kiss.

The gentleness from before was gone, replaced by raw hunger that matched my own.

I pressed myself against him, mindful of his injuries but unwilling to allow any space between us.

His beard tickled my skin as his mouth moved from my lips to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear that he’d discovered during our first night together.

“This is a mistake,” he murmured against my skin, even as his hands slid beneath my shirt, calloused palms rough against my back.

“Then it’s my mistake to make,” I whispered, arching into his touch. “I want you, Hammer. All of you. The gray hair, the creaky knees, every scar, every year.”

Something broke in him then -- the last barrier of restraint giving way to need. He lifted me with surprising strength despite his injuries, carrying me the few steps to our bed before laying me down with unexpected gentleness.

“If we do this,” he said, his voice hoarse as he looked down at me, “you become mine. For real.”

I reached up, cupping the strong jaw that had become so dear to me. “I’m already yours. Have been since you claimed us as your family.”

The admission seemed to satisfy something in him.

His eyes, normally guarded and unreadable, softened with an emotion I’d never seen there before.

Then he was kissing me again, his body covering mine, and we were speaking a different language altogether -- one of touch and taste and breathless sighs.

His hesitation melted away beneath my hands as I showed him with every caress exactly how much I desired him.

Age, scars, the gray in his beard -- none of it mattered.

What mattered was the way he moved against me, the way his touch made me feel both protected and desired, the way he whispered my name against my skin like a prayer.

Our kisses grew deeper and hotter as he nibbled his way down my neck, sending shivers down my spine. His rough hands trailed along my sides, causing me to arch into him with anticipation.

“I want you,” he said softly against my ear. All I could do was nod in agreement, wanting him every bit as much.

Seeing he’d made it back alive was one thing, but I needed to feel it too, remind myself he was alive and well, right here with me. We quickly stripped out of our clothes and his weight settled over me. No foreplay tonight. Just raw, aching need.

“Please,” I whispered, spreading my legs wider, inviting him in.

His eyes, dark with desire, held mine as he positioned himself. In one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside me, both of us gasping at the sensation. The slight sting of his entry quickly gave way to pleasure as he began to move, setting a rhythm that spoke of possession and need.

“Mine,” he growled against my throat, his silver beard tickling my sensitive skin. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his waist to draw him deeper. “I’m yours, Hammer.”

“Jeff. Use my real name when it’s just us,” he demanded.

Tears stung my eyes. I knew what it meant that he wanted me to use his name and not his road name. “Jeff.”

Despite his injuries, he moved with surprising strength, each thrust deliberate and claiming. I ran my hands down his back, careful of his bruises but needing to touch him, to feel the solid warmth of him above me. Alive. Here. Mine.