Yeah. That right there was the moment I realized something dangerous. This girl wasn’t weak. Wasn’t fragile. She was stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Mean when she needed to be. Strong enough to throw a punch even when she knew it might cost her.
And I liked that about her a little too much.
Which meant one thing.
I wasn’t just helping her tonight. I was already starting to feel like she was mine.
And once that thought got into my head… there was no getting it back out.
Nine
Emma
Hawk let go of my wrist and stepped back just enough to look around the room, like he was taking inventory of everything inside it. I stood where I was for a moment, still trying to process the fact that a ruthless outlaw biker was standing in my childhood home like it was the most normal thing in the world.
My house suddenly felt smaller.
Or maybe it was just him.
Hawk filled the space without even trying.
His eyes swept over the room once, slow and calculating, before settling back on me. It was like he was making sure I was still standing there.
“Put something comfortable on.”
His voice carried that same rough authority that seemed to live permanently in his chest.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
His eyes dropped to my wrist again, his jaw tightening slightly. “We’re getting that looked at.”
I shifted awkwardly. “I told you I can go tomorrow—”
“No.”
The word was flat. Final. Not loud, but somehow heavier than if he’d shouted it.
He tilted his head toward the closet. “Change.”
I stared at him for another second before sighing quietly. “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”
Hawk leaned one shoulder against the dresser like a man settling in for a long night. “Not happening.”
His gaze flicked toward the closet again. “You need help changing?”
My face warmed instantly. “No.”
The word came out faster than I meant it to.
Hawk raised one eyebrow.
“Then get moving.”
I turned toward the closet before he could see the embarrassment creeping across my face. Changing with one functional hand turned out to be exactly as difficult as I expected. Pulling my shirt over my head required some creative maneuvering that involved a lot of awkward twisting and muttered swearing under my breath.
“If I die fighting a sweatshirt,” I muttered, “this is incredibly embarrassing.”
