Page 110 of Rebel Hawke

Could I really have gotten her pregnant that night?

A combination of concern and excitement flutters through my stomach. “I need to make sure she’s okay, Mom.”

She inclines her head back toward the hallway. “Knock again and see if she lets you in before you go breaking Nana’s lock.”

“I will. I promise.”

Mom releases her grip on me, and I slip out of the kitchen and make my way back down the hallway to the bathroom.

I knock again, gentler this time, not wanting to startle her. “Wren?”

Several seconds tick by.

Then, soft footsteps.

The click of the lock and the knob turning.

She pulls open the door slowly, and I see how pale she looks, how clammy her skin appears, the red puffiness around her eyes from tears leaking out while she heaved.

Hell.

Wren has definitely been sick.

“Little Bird…” I push the door open all the way and step in, tugging her into my arms and nudging it closed behind me.Pulling her tightly against me, I let her bury her face against my chest. “Did you get sick?”

She nods weakly.

I tip her chin so she looks up at me, fear and uncertainty spinning in her unsteady gaze. “Are you pregnant?”

Her shoulders rise and fall gently. “I don’t know.”

“How long have you been here in New Orleans? Two months?”

“Yeah…” Her head bobs again. “About that.”

I brush my thumb over her cheek, not bothering to fight the grin pulling at my lips as my brain finally starts to process the possibility. And the reality. “You haven’t had your period since we’ve been together…”

Those soft bourbon eyes widen. “Oh, my God. You’re right. I didn’t even…I didn’t even notice.”

Neither did I.

But looking back, we both should have realized it happened at some point when I’ve been able to worship her completely uninterrupted the entire time.

“We’re going to have a baby, Little Bird.”

Tears spill from her eyes, but her lips curl into a grin that matches my own. “I think we are.”

17

TWO WEEKS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT

WREN

Atlas’ facial scruff brushes against my bare abdomen, walking that fine line between abrading and tickling my sensitive skin there. I laugh and squirm, trying to get away from him, but his strong, inked arm pressed across my breasts holds me down, while his other hand firmly clenches my hip, helping to keep me in place.

“Stop squirming, or I’ll tie you to this bed, Little Bird.”

Ignoring his warning and the way it heats me from the inside out, I kick my legs, trying to knee him in the ribs—or somewhere else that might hurt even more—to seek freedom. “You’re tickling me.”

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