Page 124 of Rebel Hawke

Now, it’s different.

I’ve never been here forthis.

Never because someone I love is gone.

The pain attacks my chest like a sledgehammer, smashing into it, over and over again, as I take the stairs up two at a time.

I struggle against the agony, trying to push it down like I have so many other times with the physical kind. Because I need to be there for Wren. It isn’t about my loss but hers.

Her entire biological family is gone now.

The last person she had in this world.

And the only grandfather I ever knew.

I stagger toward Nora’s office on unsteady feet, struggling to keep focus on the task at hand rather than give in to the desire to sag against the fucking wall and scream.

How can he be gone?

The door stands slightly ajar just in front of me, and I pause and take a deep breath before I push it open.

Pull yourself together, Atlas.

It won’t do Wren any good to have you falling apart before you even get to her.

She needs you to bestrong.

Her sobs reach me before I step inside, and the sound alone is enough to bring my own that I’ve been fighting so damn hard.

She sits curled up in a chair, her face buried in her palms. Those slender shoulders that carry so much weight rise and fall with each gasping breath she struggles to take through her tears.

“Little Bird…”

Her head rises at my voice, and her red, puffy, tear-soaked eyes meet mine. Pink streaks down her cheeks mark the path of her pain, one that matches my own. “He’s gone.”

I step in and nudge the door closed behind me before I cross the short distance between us and pull her up into my arms. She collapses against me, releasing a strangled sob into my chest.

Tears finally stream unbidden from my own eyes, and I bury my face in her hair and hold her, letting her unleash her anguish as my own envelops me.

Years of memories wash over me.

Running around the gym as a child while Jenkins barked instructions to Dad, Stone, Savage, Saint, and anyone else they dragged in for a good, old-fashioned ass-kicking.

Getting older and having that sharp tongue directed at me as I learned the ropes.

The way he single-handedly molded me into the fighter I am today.

All the wins.

The less frequent losses that were so necessary for me to make mistakes so I wouldn’t ever repeat them.

So many memories filled with pain, laughter, and love.

The barrage continues as we stand, holding each other, each one like another blow from that sledgehammer threatening to split me open.

But I hear the struggle in Wren’s breathing—the shorter, tighter inhales, her inability to find it through her crying and sobs.

“Wren, baby, you have to breathe.”

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