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Gabriel “Hawk” Copeland
The Man, The Myth, The Problem You Don’t Want to Have
Stealing My Wife
Anna Helena Mondego Fuentabella
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.
Bleed for Her
Gabriel "Hawk" Copeland
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.
Anna Helena Mondego Fuentabella
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.
Hawk and Alena
Copeland Family, upon 7th year of marriage
Happily Ever After (With a Lot of Bullets and Babies in Between)
Turns out, love isn’t just kisses and whispered confessions in the dark.
Love is five beautiful kids (and counting), chaos in the form of tiny versions of ourselves, and waking up to the only person I have ever, truly, completely belonged to.
And maybe, just maybe—
Stealing Alena wasn’t the crime the world made it out to be.
Maybe, she was always meant to be mine.
