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Anna Helena Mondego Fuentabella
He loved her before they even met...
The Dream
I was eight when the dreams began.
Night after night, I would wake up shaking, drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break free from my chest.
In the dream, there was always a little boy—hiding in a closet, his face scraped, bruises dark on his arms, trembling as he tried to hold his breath.
And outside… the stepfather’s voice, slurred with rage, a baseball bat clenched tight in his fists, ready to strike like a monster in the dark.
Every time I reached out for that boy, every time I tried to grab his hand, to pull him away to safety… I woke up.
Always just before I could touch him. Always just before he could see me.
He never saw me, but sometimes—I swear—I felt he could hear me.
That somehow, he knew I was there, in the shadows. But the moment his eyes turned toward me, the moment he searched for someone to save him… I woke up. Left alone in the dark. Crying. Helpless.
The Familiarity
Strange, how familiar he felt.
Strange, how my chest ached when he was near, how my breath caught at the sound of his voice.
Strange, that the man my brother called enemy… felt like the one my heart had been waiting for in the dark.
He was bold. Fearless. A Las Águilas prized agent, bowing to no one—not even the family he once served.
And me? I was the girl always protected, always hidden from danger… yet he was the only one brave enough to come close. Not as an enemy, but as his.
And when our eyes met, for the first time, the boy in the closet wasn’t alone.
For the first time, I didn’t wake up.
And for the first time… I never wanted to wake up again.
His pain, her agony
They sent me away to the monastery, to the care of my aunt, a nun, hoping faith and quiet would heal what was broken inside me. I thought maybe the prayers would chase the ghosts away, that silence could mend the cracks.
But no. Beneath the prayers, inside the stillness of the convent walls, the boy stayed. The nightmares stayed. Until one day, I simply… accepted him. A ghost I embraced through long, aching nights.
And then I grew up. I learned to smile with a fractured heart, to laugh even when my eyes carried the weight of all I’d lost.
And then, one day, when I least expected it—he came.
I met him. The man who would shatter and heal me in the same breath. I couldn’t understand it, but the pull was there—sharp, sweet, aching. It was as if I’d been searching for him my entire life.
And when I stood before him, my soul whispered, it’s you.
Do you want to know the truth? I hated him. God, how I hated him.
The night he claimed me, it was never supposed to happen. It was meant to be his victory, my punishment.
You see, he was my brother's enemy—the man who tore my world apart, who came like a storm and left nothing standing.
And yet, when he touched me, when his lips crashed into mine with a hunger that shattered every wall I had built, I crumbled.
My body, my heart, every trembling part of me—they all betrayed me.
I wanted him.
I wanted the man I was raised to despise.
I wanted the man who should have been the villain of my story.
And I hated that. I hated the way his hands discovered me, the way his eyes saw through every mask I wore. I hated how my breath caught when he murmured my name, how I leaned into his touch like I had been starving for it all my life.
"Alena," he whispered against my neck—raw, rough, devastatingly tender. "You're mine."
And then—he knew. He felt the truth I had hidden from the world.
He felt the innocence I hadn’t known how to protect.
And in that moment, when he moved inside me for the first time, when he bound himself to me with no words, only breathless gasps and the fierce clutch of bodies desperate to belong—I gave in.
In the arms of her brother’s enemy
Forbidden longing
I hated how I wanted him, how the hunger inside me flared into something wild, something raw and all-consuming.
He awakened something in me. Something I never knew existed—a fire, a craving, a need that defied every reason, every rule.
And I let him take it. I let him take me. Not because I had no choice—but because my choice was already made the moment my body answered his.
I wanted to push him away. God knows, I should have.
I should have screamed, reminded myself of the blood, the war, the betrayal. But every time his mouth claimed mine, every time his hands roamed lower, I drowned deeper.
And when we crossed that last line, when he became my first and my ruin, the hate burned to ash. And all that remained was need. Raw, desperate, shattering need.
I was lost. And worse, I wanted to be lost in him.
So here we are.
This is our story.
A story of hatred turned hunger, of enemies tangled in a passion too big to contain.
And when people ask me why I stayed, why I let myself fall, why I gave myself to the one man I was supposed to despise, I tell them this:
I was his. From the very beginning. And in his arms, in his fire, in his ruin—I was finally home.
Gabriel “Hawk” Copeland
The Man, The Myth, The Problem You Don’t Want to Have
She was the light he never believed he deserved.
He was the dark she never feared.
“You used me,” Alena spat, voice shaking—not from fear, but from the way her body still buzzed where he touched her.
Hawk stepped forward, slow and silent, out of the dark like a shadow taking shape. His jaw was clenched, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess from where she’d pulled it earlier. “I warned you,” he said simply.
“You seduced me,” she snapped.
“You let me.”
She slapped him—hard.
He took it.
But the second she turned away, he grabbed her wrist, yanked her back, pushed her at the bed.
“Then hate me,” Hawk growled, his breath hot against her ear. “Hate how deep I got inside you. Hate the way your body opened for me like it was fucking starving.”
She gasped, back arching despite herself. “You’re disgusting,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, grinding against her. “I’m the only one who made you feel this.”
His mouth found her neck, biting hard enough to make her moan—angry, wet, furious.
She pushed at him. He pinned her hands above her head.
“Say you don’t want it,” he dared.
She didn’t.
Instead, her legs wrapped around him like surrender.
I never planned for this. Hell, I never even imagined it.
She was supposed to be a name, a face, a bargaining chip in a war that had already burned me to the bone. She was the enemy’s sister—the girl I should’ve hated, used, discarded.
But from the first moment I touched her, something inside me cracked open. Something raw. Something feral.
The first time I kissed her, it was supposed to break her down, remind her who had the power. But the second her lips parted under mine, when her hands fisted in my shirt, when her breath hitched like a prayer and a challenge all at once—it was me who came undone.
When I claimed her, when I felt the truth of her innocence, it ignited something I didn’t know I had.
It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just possession.
It was something primal. Territorial.
It was as if every nerve in my body screamed mine.
And God, the way she responded… it shattered me. The way she arched, the way she gasped my name like it was the only word she knew, the way she opened to me without even realizing what she was giving—
Beneath the scars, beneath the anger, he was already hers.
She awakened something in me I didn’t know existed.
Hunger. Rage. Worship.
Love?
All tangled up in a knot I still can’t unravel.
Even now, I’m still standing here, asking myself: What the fuck did she do to me?
How did one girl—this girl—get under my skin so deep that I can’t breathe without her scent in my lungs? How did she break past every wall I built, tear down every line I swore I’d never cross?
When people ask me if I regret it—if I regret claiming the enemy’s sister, if I regret crossing that line—I laugh.
Because the truth is, I never stood a chance.
From the moment I touched her, from the second I saw the fire in her eyes, I was already hers.
She doesn’t even know. She thinks I bound her to me that night.
But the truth is—
She bound me first.
Surrender and Rebellion
She was the girl inside my chest before I ever knew her name.
The shadow in my nightmares, the whisper in every silence,
the ache under my skin when the world turned too fucking dark.
Her voice—
God, I knew it before I ever touched her.
Before I ever saw her face.
It’s the only sound that cuts through the static in my head,
the only thing that makes the war inside me go still.
And now—
now she’s under me, around me, in me,
and fuck, I’m ruined.
I was born a weapon.
Built to destroy, to command, to take.
But with her, I’m just a man—
starving, shaking, desperate for the only thing
that’s ever broken me wide open.
Her.
Always her.
Apparently, I Married Hawk Copeland
(And Other Things Nobody Warned Me About)
People like to ask me what it's like being married to Hawk Copeland.
As if I married a normal man.
As if normal men accidentally become legends, terrify governments, collect scars like souvenirs, and somehow still remember exactly how I take my coffee.
Oo, kasi syempre, normal lang naman na ang asawa mo ay parang walking national security threat na may bonus na pagiging sweet.
The honest answer? I still don't know.
Because after nineteen years, I am still trying to figure him out.
And failing spectacularly.
The truly unfair part is that he gets worse with age.
Or better.
Depending on who you're asking.
The silver at his temples should be illegal.
The quiet confidence should be illegal.
The way he walks into a room and somehow makes everyone else disappear should absolutely be illegal.
Kung may batas lang laban sa pagiging sobrang gwapo at intimidating, matagal na siyang nakulong.
And unfortunately for me, after nineteen years, my reaction remains embarrassingly consistent.
I still look at him and think: "Oh no."
The same exact thought I had when I was twenty.
The only difference is that now we're married, have eleven children, and nobody can stop me from staring.
Not that anyone could stop me before.
The funny thing is, people assume you eventually get used to each other.
That the butterflies disappear. That the excitement fades.
That one day you wake up and your husband is simply... your husband.
Sabi nila, magiging routine na lang daw.
Comfortable. Predictable.
Parang kape sa umaga—mainit pa rin pero wala na iyong kilig.
Clearly, hindi nila kilala si Hawk Copeland.
Because somehow, that man has spent almost two decades resetting my heart.
Every. Single. Day.
Every time I convince myself, "Alena, kalma ka na. Nineteen years na kayong kasal."
He smiles. He whispers my name. He brushes a curl behind my ear.
He reaches for my hand without even looking because somehow he always knows exactly where I am.
Or I catch him watching me from across a crowded room... with that same impossible look he gave me on the ridge all those years ago.
And just like that... everything resets.
Nineteen years? Gone.
I'm twenty again.
Heart racing. Forgetting how to breathe. Falling in love with him all over again.
The worst part?
He knows.
Oh, he absolutely knows.
The confidence of that man should probably be studied by scientists.
Hawk has spent nineteen years becoming frighteningly fluent in one language—
ME.
He knows exactly what makes my heart skip.
Exactly how long he has to hold my gaze before my thoughts completely scatter.
And instead of showing mercy?
He weaponizes it. Shamelessly.
Family gatherings are the worst.
Everyone's talking. The children are laughing. Our relatives think we're listening.
Then Hawk leans in ever so slightly and murmurs something in Cherokee.
To everyone else?
It sounds like a husband being sweet to his wife.
A harmless little endearment.
I smile. They smile.
Conversation continues.
Only...
I've been married to that man long enough to know Cherokee isn't always just Cherokee.
Sometimes it's a promise. Sometimes it's a challenge.
Sometimes it's his quiet way of telling me that once we're finally alone... he intends to remind me exactly why we're still hopelessly in love after nineteen years.
And the truly unfair part?
My pulse still betrays me every single time.
He'll straighten up, continue talking to everyone as if nothing happened—Commander Hawk Copeland, calm and unreadable.
Meanwhile, I'm standing there trying to remember what my sister-in-law just asked me because my husband decided to reset my brain in the middle of dinner.
Again.
I've watched presidents stand straighter when Hawk enters a room.
I've watched criminals lose every ounce of courage with a single look from him.
I've watched powerful men rethink their decisions after one conversation.
Meanwhile... all it takes is one look meant only for me.
One quiet Cherokee word. One kiss on my forehead.
And suddenly I'm twenty years old again... wondering how in the world I became the woman Hawk Copeland chose to love.
People ask us how we ended up with eleven children.
I usually just smile.
Because the answer is embarrassingly simple.
When your husband still knows how to make you fall in love with him every single day...
Apparently, forever isn't nearly long enough.
Then there are our children.
The children are entirely his fault.
Especially the boys.
Good heavens. The boys.
Imagine taking Hawk Copeland, putting him through a copy machine several times, and releasing the results into society.
That was apparently our contribution to humanity.
But somewhere along the way, they became more than just copies.
They became his echoes.
Fierce. Protective.
Quietly dangerous in the way they carry themselves.
They don't raise their voices.
They don't need to.
There's a kind of stillness in them—the same kind their father has—that makes people listen anyway.
They watch. They think.
They understand more than they say.
And when it matters?
They move. Decisive. Certain. Unshakable.
Sometimes I catch glimpses of them standing side by side, and for a moment, it's like looking at different versions of Hawk across time.
Future commanders.
Future protectors.
Men who will carry the weight of others without ever complaining.
And it should probably terrify me.
But it doesn't.
Because no matter how tall they get…
No matter how broad their shoulders become…
No matter how many people they end up protecting someday…
They are still my boys.
The same boys who lean down just to hug me.
Who still rest their heads on my shoulder like they used to when they were small.
Who soften—always soften—when they say, "Mama."
The same boys who would burn the world for me…
but would rather just sit beside me in silence.
And I know, without a doubt, that no matter where life takes them…
No matter who they become… I will always be their queen.
Not because I demand it. But because they decided it.
And somehow… that feels even more powerful.
And then there are my girls.
My beautiful girls.
The ones who inherited my face but somehow ended up carrying their father's soul.
Life is strange that way.
People always say they look like me.
The curls. The smiles. The features.
The unfortunate tendency to attract attention simply by existing.
But when I look closer, I see Hawk.
I see him in their calmness.
In their patience.
In the way they observe before speaking.
In the way they remain steady while everyone else is panicking.
Sometimes one of them smiles.
Just smiles.
And suddenly I see their father.
Not in the face.
In the spirit.
At doon ako napapaisip—paano nangyari 'to? Akin ang mukha nila pero siya ang template ng personality?
And it catches me off guard every single time.
I've watched Hawk become many things over the years.
Commander. Leader. Mentor. Father.
The boys look at him the way young warriors once looked at kings.
The girls climb all over him as if he's a giant teddy bear who occasionally terrifies international criminals.
Both assessments are surprisingly accurate.
What people don't realize is that beneath all that intimidating silence is the most devoted man I've ever known.
Hawk doesn't do anything halfway.
Not war. Not loyalty. Not love.
Especially not love.
When that man loves, he loves with his entire soul.
Completely.
Without moderation. Without restraint.
The way a wildfire consumes a forest.
The way a river carves through stone.
The way something inevitable moves through the world.
And somehow... after all these years... he still looks at me like I'm the best thing that ever happened to him.
Which is absurd.
Because from where I'm standing, the feeling is entirely mutual.
Nineteen years later, I still reach for his hand first.
Still look for him in every room.
Still sleep better when he's beside me.
Still fall in love with him a little more every year.
Which seems excessive.
Pero wala eh. Ganito talaga kapag napangasawa mo ang walking red flag na naging green flag dahil sayo.
Miracle, kumbaga.
But at this point, nobody should be surprised.
Least of all me.
After all... I was the girl who fell in love with Hawk Copeland.
And nineteen years later...
I'm still not over it.