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Gabriel “Hawk” Copeland
The Man, The Myth, The Problem You Don’t Want to Have
Some love stories begin with a kiss...
Theirs began with a storm, a lie, and a promise to bind her by blood.
“You trusted me,” he said. “I used that.”
Her breath caught.
“I wanted revenge.” His voice was low. “But I broke you instead.”
He gripped her hips. Her body answered him.
“Now I just want to stay inside you,” he muttered, lips grazing her jaw. “Make you forget everything else but us.”
Then he took her—bare, deep, brutal—and froze. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Alena.”
She turned away, cheeks flushed. “You could’ve warned me… before you ruined me.”
He moved—slow, raw, relentless. She cried out, not just from pain—but from something darker.
“Hate me all you want,” he growled. “But you're mine.”
His hips slammed into hers, primal and punishing. It wasn’t pain anymore. It was need. Soaking. Wild. Unstoppable.
“If you’re carrying me after this,” he snarled, thrusting harder, “you’re mine. By blood.”
No more words. Just his body claiming hers, deeper, rougher—like he meant to stay inside her forever.
Mine.
She hated him. But her body—wet, desperate—begged for more.
She came, hard and messy, and again. Her legs trembled. Her moans broke apart in the heat.
And still—she pulled him closer. She didn’t want him to stop.
Stealing My Wife
I never courted Alena. I stole her.
Because let’s be honest—her brother? Would rather set me on fire and roast marshmallows over my burning corpse than give his blessing.
And courting her properly?
Sending flowers, writing love letters, asking for permission like some spineless romantic hero?
Not my style.
So instead, I did what I do best.
I took what was mine.
It started as a game, masked in the kind of pseudo-blackmail that shouldn’t have worked, but did.
A war of wits. A battle of stubbornness.
She called me a ruthless bastard with no soul.
I called her mine.
I gave her a choice—
Or at least, I let her think she had one.
Because deep down, I knew.
Knew she wanted this as much as I did.
Knew she felt the same fire, the same madness, the same undeniable gravity pulling us together.
And when I fell—
I fell hard.
So hard it stole my breath.
So hard the mere thought of living without her made my chest feel like it was caving in.
So I didn’t give her up. Didn’t let her go.
I fought the whole goddamn world for her.
We ran. Disappeared into the night, far from the city, far from the reach of men who wanted to drag her back.
For the first time in a long time, we had peace—a stolen moment in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless green fields and the scent of freshly turned earth.
Alena wanted to walk, to breathe, to feel the sun on her skin. So I let her.
Hand in hand, we wandered through the rice fields, where the sky stretched wide and open, and the only sound was the rustling of the wind through the stalks.
For a moment, I let myself believe we were safe.
That we had won.
Then—
I heard footsteps.
Too heavy for a farmer. Too controlled for a lost traveler.
I turned.
And there he was.
Alaric.
Standing at the edge of the field, shirt sleeves rolled up, muscles coiled, his face set in pure, unfiltered fury.
I knew that look. Knew it too well.
No words. No preamble.
Just a straight punch to my jaw that sent me crashing into the mud.
Bound by the Enemy, Freed by Desire
He held her like a vow. Like a prayer. Like something he'd never survive losing.
Pain exploded across my face.
Then he was on me. Fists, elbows, knees—he didn’t hold back.
Didn’t care that we were in the middle of nowhere, that there was no audience, no city lights to make this a spectacle.
This wasn’t about saving face. This was about blood.
I fought back. Of course, I did.
I was faster, stronger, more lethal than I’d ever been—
But Alaric?
Alaric was a man fighting for his sister.
And that meant he had no limits.
We hit the ground, rolled, fists slamming into ribs, jaw, gut—a brutal, merciless brawl with nothing held back.
Then—
A gunshot. Loud. Sharp.
Enough to freeze both of us mid-motion.
My ears were ringing. The world tilted.
And then I saw her.
Alena.
Standing there, chest rising and falling too fast, gun raised, smoke still curling from the barrel.
Her voice shook when she spoke, but her grip on the gun?
Steady as hell.
"If you kill him, I will die too."
Alaric, blood dripping from his lip, his fists still clenched, finally—finally—paused.
Because Alena wasn’t bluffing. Not in the way that counted.
And then—she gasped.
One hand went to her stomach.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
The world blurred—The fight forgotten—Because suddenly, there was something more important than revenge, than pride, than anything else in the goddamn world.
Our baby.
I didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. I just held her, whispered, begged her to stay with me.
Blood. Panic. The longest night of my life.
But she pulled through.
Our child pulled through.
And in that moment, as Alaric stood there watching his sister, his pride and fury crumbling under the weight of something bigger than him—
The war ended.
Maybe not in words. Maybe not in forgiveness. But in understanding.
From that night forward, Alaric never laid a hand on me again.
Not because he forgave me—
But because Alena was worth more than his hatred.
And that?
That was enough.
She was his reckoning. He was her ruin.
Happily Ever After
(With a Lot of Bullets, Babies, and Stolen Kisses in Between)
People assume love settles with time.
Maybe that's true for other men.
It never happened to me.
Because after nineteen years, Alena still hits me the same way she did the first time I saw her standing on that ridge.
Like a punch to the chest. Like a prayer I never deserved answered.
Like the most beautiful thing God ever placed in front of a dangerous man and dared him not to fall.
I lost that fight immediately.
And I've been losing it ever since.
The truth is, I loved her before I understood what love was.
Back when she was just a stubborn girl with too much courage and eyes that made a man forget his own name. Back when the world said we shouldn't happen. Back when every road between us was blocked by blood, loyalty, enemies, and common sense.
None of it mattered. Not then. Not now.
Because every year I spend with Alena only makes the problem worse.
Every child she carried. Every child she placed in my arms. Every sacrifice she made. Every piece of herself she entrusted to me.
Instead of easing whatever obsession I've carried for her all these years, it only deepened it.
I look at her sometimes and remember every version of the woman she's been.
The girl on the ridge. The young bride. The mother holding our newborns.
The woman kneeling in prayer for our children.
And somehow she becomes more beautiful every time.
Not less. More.
I used to think a man could only love one woman so much. Then Alena spent nineteen years proving me wrong.
Again. And again. And again.
Then came the children. Eleven of them.
Some born from us. Some chosen.
Every single one mine. Every single one hers.
The boys carry my eyes. Cherokee eyes.
The same eyes my ancestors carried long before I was born.
Strong boys. Quiet boys. Watchful boys.
The kind who notice everything and reveal nothing.
I see the warrior blood in them.
The discipline. The patience. The instinct to stand between danger and the people they love.
Then the Mondego blood wakes up. And suddenly they're planning something.
Usually together. Usually involving trouble.
The younger ones are the worst.
God help me, they're clever.
I spend half my life training them and the other half trying to figure out what they're hiding.
But that's part of the job. Because one day they'll inherit more than my name.
They'll inherit responsibility.
And from the time they were old enough to understand, I've taught them one thing above all else:
Protect your sisters.
Not because your sisters are weak. Because they are precious.
There is a difference.
Then there are my girls. My jewels. My heart walking around outside my body.
And that is entirely Alena's fault.
Because every one of them came out looking like their mother. Every single one.
God must have a sense of humor.
The boys inherited my eyes.
The girls inherited her beauty.
I consider that an unfair trade.
They're still young and already people look too long.
Already men with powerful names and powerful ambitions notice them.
Already families build plans around futures that don't belong to them.
As though my daughters are prizes to be won.
As though they don't have a father willing to burn down kingdoms.
So we guard them. Not out of fear.
Out of love.
The monastery in Zambales gives them something the world cannot.
Time.
Time to grow. Time to become strong.
Time to discover who they are before the world starts telling them who they should be.
It's hard. Harder than I expected.
There are nights when the house is too quiet.
Nights when Alena misses them so fiercely that she falls asleep with a rosary wrapped around her fingers.
Praying for every child by name.
The way she always has.
The way she always will.
And every time I watch her, I remember something important.
People think I'm the one protecting this family.
The truth is— Alena built it.
She built the home.
She built the fire waiting at the end of every road.
She built the place that turned a restless man into a husband.
A father.
A man with something worth coming back to.
The boys may carry my blood.
The girls may carry my stubbornness.
But everything good in this family started with her.
Alena.
My wife. My queen. The heart of Las Águilas.
The woman who gave me sons to stand beside me. Daughters to humble me.
And a home I never dared dream I'd have.
Years later, I still look at her the same way I did on that ridge.
Like I've found something rare.
Something sacred. Something worth fighting the whole world for.
And if she walked into that meadow again today— with those eyes, that smile, that impossible face—
I'd fall just as hard.
Maybe harder.
Because now I know exactly what waits for me if I do.
A lifetime of laughter. A house full of children.
A fire that never goes out.
And the woman who taught me that even the wildest men can belong somewhere.
My name is Hawk Copeland.
I've survived wars.
I've buried enemies.
I've built an empire.
But the greatest thing I've ever done... was loving Alena Fuentabella.
And God help me—
after all these years—
I still can't get enough of her.
