Page 57 of Rebel Hawke

I give her a tight smile as she fiddles with the hair tie on her wrist. “I’m okay.”

Lie.

I’mfarfrom okay today.

Between confronting a mob boss, Atlas’ overbearing, alpha-male reaction to Satriano, the ensuing sex-a-thon, then having to deal with the questioning and judgmental looks from Gramps this morning when I arrived with his prize fighter, I’ve been practically vibrating in my skin since the moment I walked in.

And now I have to watch Atlas struggle…in front of Bishop, who has a keen eye and a sharp tongue that she doesn’t like to bite.

The woman has been watchingmelike a hawk since she arrived shortly after we did, but I have no doubt she’s noticed Atlas’ discomfort as much as I have.

“You know, you don’t have to babysit me, Bishop.”

She snorts. “Yeah, tell that tohim.” Bishop inclines her head toward Atlas, who wails on the bag, seemingly oblivious to what’s going on over here—but something tells me he’s very aware despite having his back turned. “He made it very clear, in no uncertain terms, that I am not to let you out of my fucking sight, unlesshe’swith you.”

“Jesus…” I release a heavy breath and lean back against the wall where I’ve been standing, watching his morning training session instead of doing what Ishouldbe—trying to hunt down some damn clients. “A bit overprotective, isn’t he?”

Though, after what he told me this morning about Satriano and his history with the Hawkes, maybe he has reason to be.

Bishop leans next to me, alternating between watching Atlas and Gramps and assessing me.

I’d much rather she stuck with the former.

Having her sharp gaze on me feels like being disassembled, one piece at a time.

“What is it with you two?” She flicks a finger between Atlas, who still has his back to us, and me. “Are you guys athing?”

Shit.

I chew on the inside of my lip, watching him work. The bunch and flex of all that exposed muscle. The tattoos moving, making the ink look like it’s alive. All the raw power and focus that was directed solely on me last night now on the bag hanging in front of him.

How do I even answer that?

We haven’t really discussed any of that.

There wasn’t a whole lot of time between all the fucking, our conversation this morning, which led intoone more roundbefore we had to rush to my place for a quick change of clothes and get over here to meet with Gramps. Who asked me pretty much the same question Bishop just did after I arrived with Atlas in his car.

I didn’t have an answer for the old man, and I don’t really have one for Bishop, either.

It’s impossible to explain when I don’t understand it all myself.

I kept it, and I’m keeping you.

I would so love for those words to mean what theycould.But it’s literally been just over adaysince we first kissed. A measly thirty hours since he whisked me away and only two since he said that to me and showed me the photo he seemingly cherished the last two decades.

But he can’t possibly have meant…that.

And I’m not about to discuss it with Bishop.

I shrug. “I don’t really knowwhatwe are.”

Bishop scowls, casting an evil side-eye at Atlas. “Because he told you it didn’t mean anything or because you don’t want it to?”

“Oh!” I whip back to face her. “No, I definitely want it to be. It’s just…”

I focus back on him, examining the way he bounces so lightly on his feet, an elegant dance he’s memorized and that comes so easily for him. Second nature. Muscle reflex. He doesn’t even have to think about it. He justdoesit and itworks.Such a juxtaposition to what happens when he tries to throw even the simplest of punches. When his whole body tenses and rebels against the action he’s taken thousands of times.

He unleashes a series of right jabs on the bag, harder than before, releasing some of his pent-up aggression and sending Gramps rocking back.

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