Page 92 of Rebel Hawke

Standingin the middle of the dance floor with couples swirling around me in their elegant ball gowns and masks, I feel even more on display than I did before. Atlas always draws so much attention. His attitude. The tattoos. Hedemandsit.

Without him as a buffer, that fishbowl effect happens, and I reach to adjust the strap of my dress just because I have nothing else to do with my hands.

Atlas’ words float back through my head, and I stop myself. Biting my lip, I turn and glance toward the bar, where he’s still deeply involved in a heated debate with his father and uncles.

Shit.

How long does he expect me to stand here, waiting for him?

Indefinitely.

And I might consider it if I weren’t getting strange looks from some of the attendees.

How pissed will he be if I actually leave?

Probably not at all, actually.

Atlas rarely, if ever, gets angry about anything except his training and rehab.

Never with me.

Fuck it.

I need a drink.

A nice, cool glass of champagne will help ease some of the anxiety creeping in the longer I’m a fish out of water surrounded by New Orleans’ elite.

I turn to make my way over to the bar when a man in a tuxedo and a silver mask that matches his hair steps in front of me with a smile, offering his hand. “You look lonely out here. May I have this dance?”

It takes a second before his smooth, lightly accented voice registers in my memory, and my spine stiffens. “What are you doing here, Damon? I’m quite certain you didn’t get an invitation.”

He grins, the same cool tilt of his lips he gave me in the studio that morning. “Dance with me, and I’ll tell you.”

Shit.

I scan the crowd for anyone nearby who can step in and offer assistance. Pope, Coen, Bishop, hell, even one of the other girls, but in the thick crowd, with everyone concealing their faces, I can’t find anyone easily.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The choices quickly flicker through my mind.

I could run—even in these heels—but given the way everyone’s been walking around on eggshells regarding the Satriano situation, I might actually be able to learn something useful.

And I can’t be in that much danger here, surrounded by Hawkes and their supporters…

Theoretically, at least.

I hesitate another moment, and Damon raises a brow above his mask until I slide my hand into his with reluctance.

He gently tugs me up against him, a crisp, cool scent washing over me. Icy like his demeanor. “You look lovely tonight, Wren. The belle of the ball, for sure.”

The compliment from anyone else might have stroked my ego, but coming from him, it only lights a fire in my gut.

“Let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point.”

Damon chuckles. “I knew I liked you. Feisty. The perfect match for your fighter, Atlas.”

“If you say so…”

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