Page 143 of Rebel Hawke

“Atlas…are you okay?”

Her soft question floats down to me, threatening to tear me open with her sweetness and genuine concern.

“Fuck…” I mutter under my breath and stalk into the living room toward the wet bar without answering either of her questions, but I can’t ignore them forever.

Or her.

Definitely not her.

Nor do I want to.

None of this is her fault, and the longer I remain silent, the longer I push her away, the harder it will be on her.

Swallowing the truth, I glance up to the landing when I reach the well-stocked bar on the far side of the condo. “I had something I had to take care of after training…”

Wren slowly descends the steps, wearing tight yoga pants that hug her thin frame and an oversized sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder, exposing the twisted scars across her collarbone and up her neck. And while she looks better—stronger, not as pale or unsteady—her eyes still remain puffy and red.

All I want is to go to her, to take her in my arms, to pull her close and hold her tight, to breathe in that almond and cherry scent and just pretend everything’s okay, but it’s so far from it.

So fucking far.

I pour myself a double Blanton’s neat and down it in one swallow, watching her approach.

Wren narrows her eyes on me. “Something’s wrong.”

Tightening my grip on the glass, I turn to face her fully. My grip on that control I always pride myself on slips, and while I manage to keep the truth contained, I can’t lie to her. “Everything’sfucking wrong.”

She recoils slightly, and regret immediately slams into my sternum for lashing out at her…and for my choice of words. While everythingelseis wrong, Wren and our baby are the shining lights, the only good things that aren’t wrapped in pain and uncertainty.

“Fuck, Little Bird.” I set down the glass, close my eyes, and rub my temples, where a pounding headache has suddenly decided to form. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to direct that at you. I love you…this isn’t about you or the baby or…I’m just…”

I look back up at her in time to see Wren wrap her arms around herself, crossing them over her stomach as if she and our child need to be protected.

Fromme.

Jesus, I’m an asshole.

Tentatively advancing toward her, I give her time to move away if she wants to. And I couldn’t blame her if she did. I’m not sure I would want to be around me if I were in her shoes right now, but she stands her ground, waiting for me to offer an explanation that I don’t think I can.

She levels me with an intense gaze filled with a mix of so much love and uncertainty. “Where were you? Whatever happened, just tell me.”

If only I could.

I want her advice.

Her insight.

Her support.

I want her to help me talk through this shitstorm I’ve found myself in.

But standing here, looking into her tear-soaked eyes, knowing how miserable she’s been and how hard every minute of every day is for her, I can’t put this on her.

It would draw her farther into Satriano’s sticky web, and I want her and the baby as far away from him as possible.

“It’s better if you don’t know, Wren.”

She shakes her head, fisting her hands at her sides, her frustration starting to show. “No, it’s not. Don’t you think there have been enough secrets?”

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