Page 13 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

HAWK

T he clubhouse is dark when I get home except for a soft glow from the kitchen.

It’s after midnight, and I’m not expecting to find anyone up and moving.

Instead, I find Andi in the kitchen, Adam cradled in one arm as she feeds him.

She glances up as I enter, her eyes widening slightly at my, no doubt, disheveled look.

Let’s just say tampering with construction vehicles isn’t exactly the easiest—or cleanest—job.

"You look like shit," she says softly, mindful of the other occupants in the house.

"Feel like it." I drop into a kitchen chair, exhaustion hitting hard now that I'm home. The smell of something delicious lingers in the air, tempting my tastebuds. "You cooked?"

"Lasagna. I made you a plate. It’s in the fridge, if you're hungry."

“Fuck yes.”

She begins to move but I wave her off.

"Stay. I can get it." I push myself up, ignoring the protests of bruised muscles. "You've got your hands full."

She smiles, leaning back as Adam quietly sucks at the remainder of his formula.

I grab the plate, watching her as I reheat my food. She's beautiful like this—soft and unguarded in the middle of the night, humming quietly to the baby as he eats. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she wears an old T-shirt over faded sleep shorts. The sight does something to my insides.

This is a side of her the garage never sees. The ice queen mechanic, melted into this gentle creature who stays up late to feed a baby that isn't even hers.

"He always eat this late?" I ask, sitting down with my plate.

"Mm. Like clockwork."

I raise an eyebrow. “My sister has kids. I don’t remember them needing multiple feeds at his age.”

She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “He was born early. He’s small for his age. The doctor said the extra feeds aren’t a bad thing at this point. She suggested he’ll grow out of it when he’s ready.”

I nod, lifting my fork to stab a mouthful of the piping hot lasagna.

"Wasn't expecting you to cook." The words come out rougher than intended. “Thanks.”

Her eyes meet mine. "You’re welcome.” A small smile curves her lips. “It’s the least I can do when you’re putting up with us.”

I lift my fork to my mouth, wincing as my body protests. The cuts have started bleeding again, and I’m pretty sure the shoulder is bruised.

Fucking hell.

"Jesus, Hawk." She leans across the table to catch my hand, examining the damage. "What did you do, punch concrete?"

Close enough. Summit's equipment had been a little more stubborn than expected.

"It's nothing."

She shoots me a look that says she isn't buying it. "Stay put. Let me put him down and grab the first-aid kit."

I watch as she disappears down the hall, the baby now milk-drunk and sleepy against her shoulder. Her quiet efficiency with him, the natural way she soothes his fussy noises, it hits me right in the chest.

What the fuck? When did I start finding maternal instincts so damn sexy?

She returns minutes later with a battered first-aid kit.

"You don't have to?—"

"Shut up and eat." She pulls her chair closer, taking my free hand. "If I don’t clean this it’ll get infected."

Her touch is gentle, but her mouth is set in that stubborn line I'm coming to know well. This isn't a battle I'll win.

I hide a smile. “Yes, ma'am."

She works saline across the cuts, gently cleaning out the dirt and grit before applying ointment and bandages. I eat quietly while she attends to one hand, then swap over my fork to my left, allowing her to tend to the other.

"You're good at this," I say, watching her methodical care of my hands.

"Lots of practice." She dabs antiseptic on my knuckles with a gentleness that belies her usual tough exterior. "Though my usual patients are accident-prone twins."

Her gaze meets mine. “I guess I better add bikers who can't seem to avoid trouble to that list."

"Wasn't looking for trouble. But it’s my job to finish it when it arrives.”

“What do you mean?”

"It’s part of my role in the club.” At her raised eyebrow, I tap my patch. "As sergeant-at-arms, I’m in charge of keeping order and making sure we’re safe."

“So you’re essentially security? Or like a police officer?" she asks.

"Something like that. Basically what it means is sometimes I need to yell at people, and sometimes I come home with bloody knuckles."

"And tonight?" She secures the bandage with tape. "The yelling didn’t work?"

"Not so much." I flex my fingers, testing her handiwork.

She's quiet for a moment, her thumb absently brushing over my knuckles. "Does it bother you? The violence?"

The question catches me off guard. There’s no judgment in her voice, just genuine curiosity.

"No," I say honestly. "Not when it's necessary. Not when it protects what matters."

Her eyes lift to mine. "And what matters?"

"The club. Family." I catch her hand before she can pull away. "People worth protecting."

Something flickers in her expression—understanding maybe, or recognition. She knows what it means to protect what's yours. I've seen her with the kids, fierce and protective as any mama bear.

She brushes her thumb over the corner of the bandage. "This one might scar."

"I’ll add it to the collection."

Her thumb traces an old scar on my forearm. "Got stories for all of these?"

"Some better than others." I turn my arm, letting her fingers trail over the marked skin. "Though most aren't suitable for polite company."

"Good thing I'm not polite company then."

The teasing note in her voice does things to me. "No," I agree. "You're something else entirely."

Our gazes hold for a beat too long before she glances away, clearing her throat. "Well, you’re all done."

I tighten my grip on her fingers before she can pull away completely. "Thank you."

She shrugs. "It's just some bandages."

"Not to me." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Been a long time since anyone's cared enough to patch me up."

Something soft flickers in her expression before she ducks her head. "Well, don’t get used to it. The next time you come limping in after midnight, I’ll hopefully be fast asleep."

"Speaking of, you should head to bed," I say finally, noting the shadows under her eyes.

"Probably." But she makes no move to leave. "You okay? Really?"

The concern in her voice undoes me. "Yeah. Better now." I tap a finger against the now empty plate. “This was great. Thanks.” She stands, gathering my plate. "Any time. Though maybe next time try to make it home before the food gets cold."

"Yes, ma'am.”

Her free hand brushes my shoulder, the touch brief but warm. "Get some sleep, Hawk. Those knuckles need rest."

I watch her move to the sink, the quiet domesticity of her rinsing the plate hitting me right in the chest. She fits here, in my clubhouse, in my kitchen, in my space.

I stay up, nursing a beer long after she’s retired. The ghost of her touch lingers on my skin.

Andi is a dangerous woman.

I find I like it.