Page 53 of Rebel Hawke

I grip the hand railing as tightly as I can, not trusting my unsteady legs, and suck in a long, slow breath when I reach the main floor. He peers over at me again, stirring something on the stovetop, as I advance toward the island and slide onto one of the stools, putting the massive marble slab between us.

Very intentionally.

He raises a brow. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

His lips dip before he turns back to stirring. “Bullshit. You have that look.”

“What look?”

He tosses a glance over his shoulder that says, “I know you, woman.” And maybe after last night, he does. He certainly spent enough time exploring my body to know every inch of it.

Every puckered piece of skin.

Every scar.

Atlas gave them the same treatment he did the rest of me and left me trembling and wet and ready for him again.

“The one you get when you’re overthinking something, worrying yourself too much. You had the same look when you were eight, Little Bird.”

Shit.

I drum my nails on the counter and clear my throat. There clearly isn’t any point in beating around the bush, not if I want answers. “Well, we didn’t really talk much last night.”

At all, really, save for breathy pleas and gasps and all sorts of ungodly animal sounds we made that would likely have terrified the neighbors, if he had any beside Isaac across the hall.

He finally flips off the stove and turns toward me with the pan in his hand, then dumps the contents onto a plate and slides it in front of me.

My stomach rumbles at the scent of the scrambled eggs hitting my nose.

Atlas releases a little sigh. “It isn’t much. I don’t normally cook, especially when I’m in camp. I have a nutritionist who plans my meals, and it’s mostly eggs, avocado, veggies, and red meat. Very boring. I have one of the chefs at the Hawke’s Nest cook everything weekly. I just heat up pre-made meals, so I don’t keep a lot of food here. But I figured you’d be starving, so I did my best with what I had.”

His adorable, rambling apology makes me grin.

Atlas uneasy—it isn’t somethinganyonesees often.

This is a completely different side of him, one that makes my chest ache in the best way.

“I appreciate the effort. It looks great.”

He winks.

God…

That shouldn’t be hot.

It should be cheesy as fuck and totally lame, but my stomach does somersaults—and it isn’t because I’m hungry for food.

“You know, when I put my mind to something, I’m going to accomplish it, Little Bird.”

I release a little huff, my body heating thoroughly at the reminder that Atlas managed what no man before him ever has—many, many times. “Boy, do I.”

He barks out a laugh that echoes around the condo, then tugs open a drawer under him and hands me a fork. “You want coffee?”

I nod, digging into the piping-hot eggs. “Please.”

Atlas watches me take the first bite before he turns back to the other side of the counter, where a coffeemaker stands. “So, tell me what’s wrong. I didn’t—” He freezes and looks over his shoulder at me. “I didn’t hurt you last night. Did I?”

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