Page 113 of Rebel Hawke

Atlas reaches out to the nightstand and snags the black-and-white grainy picture taken today, his eyes focusing on the little number on the bottom that indicates gestation. “I still can’t believe it wasn’t our first night together or even the choir loft at the fundraiser.”

I roll onto my back and gaze up at him, dragging my nails through his beard as he leans into my touch again, still staring affectionately at the picture. “Who knew all those times we were not having sex and you were insisting on pushing your cum up into me that it would actually take?”

He glances down and grins. “The Hawkes have super sperm, I suppose.”

“Or it was the Anderson sperm.”

His humor fades. “You know my dad is more Hawke than Anderson. It’s a name only.”

“I know.” And I’ve learned all the sordid history around why Gabe has always considered himself a Hawke, even before he ended up with Skye. “Is that why you don’t fight under it?”

He laughs. “No. Anderson just isn’t very intimidating, is it?”

“I guess not.”

Though, a lot of things I used to find intimating about Atlas are now just the many things I love about him.

His intensity.

His passion.

His drive.

His ability to focus on one thing and give his whole heart and attention to it.

Atlas gets quiet, staring at the picture, and his brow furrows deeply. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his shoulders stiff and jaw locked.

I brush my fingers over the wrinkles on his forehead and down between his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

A quiet stillness settles over him, signaling that whatever he’s contemplating must be big. Atlas is rarely, if ever, quiet or still, unless he’s somewhere deep in his own head. And that, more often than not, leads him down a road he shouldn’t be on.

One that makes him second-guess things he shouldn’t.

I recognize it because I did the same damn thing with him when he first dragged me here.

“What if—” Atlas swallows thickly, the tattoos on his neck bobbing as he struggles to find what he wants to say. “What if the baby is afraid of me?”

“What?”

Where the hell did that come from?

He rolls away from me onto his back, holding the picture up above him with two hands above his face. “I mean, you were afraid of me that day with Satriano…”

It isn’t a question.

And I can hear the pain in his voice thinking it’s true.

I shift onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow, resting my free hand over his bare chest, across the colorful ink, where I can feel his heartbeat under his rib cage. “I was not afraid, just a little taken aback by the violent reaction and how angry you got so quickly. That’s all. Never afraid. Because I know that isn’t you. You were just trying to protect me from a danger I couldn’t see. What you said is true. Who you are in the ring is not who you are outside of it.”

His gaze drifts away from the sonogram photo and over to meet mine, and I see my words haven’t done much to alleviate his worry.

Stormy Caribbean-blue swirls with dark uncertainty.

“You’re going to be a great father. I’ve seen you with Charlotte and Vivi and even the babies. Benjamin and Giovanni love you, and our baby will, too.”

One corner of his lips ticks up. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“I mean it. You may be big, badass Atlas ‘the Hurricane’ Hawke, but like you said, you’re also still that little eight-year-old boy who used to hold my hand and comfort me when I cried. You’ll know what to do when the baby gets here.”

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