Page 59 of Rebel Hawke

Maybe the way she talks about him should worry me.

Maybe the things I’ve already experienced should.

His intensity.

His passion.

His ruthlessness.

The sheer power he controls within that body and the steadfastness of his mind once he sets it to something.

Certainly, how she makes me sound like I’d “belong” to him somehow if we officially got involved should give me real pause. But instead, warmth fills my chest at the idea.

All those years ago, I said “I do” with Atlas Anderson-Hawke in front of Kennedy as our officiant and with the rest of the Hawke kids and their parents as our witnesses, and I don’t think I ever truly got over that press of his lips against mine.

That man hasalwaysheld a piece of my heart, so giving it over to him now doesn’t seem like a huge leap. Yet, it still feels like standing at the edge of some vast chasm, staring down into a dark abyss below, ready to try to make it across with no safety net.

So much has changed so quickly.

And Atlas is still hiding things, still lying to so many people, including Bishop, who raced over here in an instant for him—forme—because he asked.

He may seem strong, confident, downright invincible.

But he’s far from it.

Watching him shake out his shoulder and grimace after throwing another combination, it’s getting harder for him to hide it the longer he trains today. Even the man holding the bag seems to see it, casting side glances toward Gramps, who watches with his hand against his mouth, concern furrowing his already wrinkled brow.

Atlas is his star. The one he’s always said can go all the way. His belt contender. The sole person he’s ever trained who he basically considers a grandson. Watching him suffer like this, witnessing him hold in the truth and tell the lie over and over again, must be killing him.

That’s why he begged me to come home.

I could be the only one who can do anything about it.

So, no matter how twisted up I might be about where I stand with Atlas, I know why I’m here now.

To help them both.

ATLAS

Stingingsweat drips into my eyes, and I mop it away with my towel as I shove through the door into the locker room.

My chest heaves from the workout Jenkins just put me through, and my shoulder burns—a familiar, searing pain I know won’t abate for several hours after running the gauntlet like that.

I rub at it and try to work out the kinks, releasing a hiss through my clenched teeth.

It’s no fucking use.

Today is no different than any other over the last few weeks since I returned to training full-time.

More pain.

More frustration.

I sink down onto the bench and scrub the towel over my face again, trying to suck in long, slow breaths to get my heart rate down and stop my body from shaking.

The door swings open, and I turn toward it. I expect to see Jenkins coming after me to have the conversation I know he wants to have but I’ve been avoiding like the plague. Instead, Wren slips in, offering me a tight half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

She lets the door close behind her, twisting her hands in front of her nervously. “Hey.”

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