Page 15 of Rebel Hawke

Logically, I know that. And I know Daniele Roselli is dead. I watched him die right in front of me. So is the man who fired the bullet that destroyed my shoulder at Dan’s order.

None of that knowledge seems to help, though.

I run my hands back through my hair and release a frustrated scream that cuts through the still air, images of that day bombarding my brain as the ache in my shoulder reminds me that it’s never going to leave.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand with an incoming call, lighting up the darkness of my room, and Astrid’s name flashes across the screen.

Fuck.

Damn twintuition.

She probably woke up the same way I did—filled with panic and unable to gather any sense of control.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

I can’t handle this conversation with her right now—or ever, really.

Ignoring my phone, I stand and rush out of the bedroom and down the steps into the living room, beelining straight for the bar to pour myself a drink. My hands shake so badly, trying to grasp the decanter, that I don’t even bother. I place my palms flat against the wooden surface and drop my head, attempting to control my breathing.

My skin itches and tightens, my entire body vibrating hard enough to rattle the bottles and glasses on the bar.

I have to get out of here, have to go somewhere else.

There was a time when the first place I would head was across the hall.

But not anymore.

I can’t go there—not to where it happened.

It doesn’t matter that all the repairs were made within a week of the shooting or that Isaac and Jack’s condo is back to how it once appeared. It still holds the echoes of the attack, so fresh and real that even their company can’t make it any better for me in that space.

Thank God they’re moving into their house soon…

Though, another family member is likely just to take up residency since Hawke Enterprises owns the building and that condo has been lived in by a Hawke for two generations. Nobody wants to get rid of it, which means Coen or Astrid will probably end up over there, or maybe even Bishop.

Andthatmeans I’ll have to figure out a way to spend time over there again without panic seizing my chest.

That seems pretty far out of reach at the moment.

I push off the bar, scramble back up the stairs, tug on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then shove my feet into my shoes and head straight for the front door. Snagging my keys off the small table next to it, I don’t even hesitate for a moment before tugging the door open.

Before the attack, there were only two places I could go to try to unleash all this tension—the gym or the club. And the gym no longer holds that ability. My anxiety ramps up there as the pain slices through me with each punch I take.

The club it is.

I slip out into the hall, careful to close the door quietly behind me in case Isaac or Jack are awake with the baby in their living room. The last thing I need is for them to hear me leave in the middle of the night and have to answer their questions.

I’m already going to have to deal with Astrid in the morning.

Which won’t be pleasant.

Having someone literally be your other half isn’t always everything it’s cracked up to be.

I make my way to the elevator, and the doors slide open immediately, inviting me inside. Leaning back against the metal wall, I enter the code required to get down to the parking garage, and the car starts to descend.

The rush of movement downward starts to lull away some of the last vestiges of the dream. Closing my eyes, I drop my head against the wall, but that fucking nightmare still lingers there.

That sound of the first shot shattering the window.

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