Page 69 of Hammer

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.”

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