Page 14 of Rebel Hawke

I grin at her, letting my eyes rake over the woman who was once my bride—even if itwasa fake wedding. “You know…you looked socutein that little white dress.”

A smile plays on her lips without me even having to explain what I’m talking about. “I still can’t believe they found you a tuxedo.”

I raise a brow. “You really think I didn’t have to wear a tuxedo at least a dozen times by the time I turned eight?”

She points a finger at me, fully returning to the light humor reminiscing brings. “True.”

“Planning that wedding was the highlight of Kennedy’s life at that age. I think she thought it was real.”

Her laughter floats over me again, making warmth bloom in my chest. “I know. She was obsessed.”

I was, too.

With Wren.

I didn’t know it was possible to be in love with someone at eight, but if the effect of seeing her now is any indication, what I felt for my best friend the moment our lips touched during that ceremony wasveryreal.

“You know”—I take a little half-step closer to her, risking a retreat she doesn’t make—“I’m never quite sure how to answer when people ask if I’m married…”

Her pale cheeks pinken, and she ducks her head, suddenly very interested in the hem of her shirt. “Me either.”

I can’t even count the number of times I thought about Wren and our wedding over the years, wondering what her life was like and if I ever crossed her mind the way she did mine. But her grandfather always seemed reluctant to discuss much of her life in Texas.

All I got was “she’s doing well” after he returned from spending a few weeks with her post-fire, and everyone accepted him at his word. But seeing her now, I’m not so sure that was ever true once she left New Orleans.

I run a hand through my hair, glancing back toward the gym where I left my bag—and shirt—after Jenkins came in and told me she was here. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. I just wanted to come say hi. It’s good to see you.”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine again.

“Really…more than good.”

My Little Bird has flown home.

Wren Michaels was always the beautiful little dark-haired girl running around the gym. An honorary Hawke who spent the first eight years of her life with us.

When her mom died and she had to leave, it felt like a gaping hole had been torn in our lives, especially mine, but it was nothing compared to what she apparently suffered once her father took custody of her.

Seeing the scars, knowing what she must have gone through, makes what happened to me seem like nothing.

3

ATLAS

Apiercing crack of gunfire jolts me awake, and I bolt upright, hand automatically clutched over my left shoulder. The sharp pain there—as agonizing as it was the day it happened—brought on by my dream slowly dissipates to the dull ache that seems to be my constant companion the longer I hold it.

Cold sweat covers my body, and I tremble violently.

I struggle to suck in a deep breath, my chest heaving in the dark as I fumble on my nightstand and flip on the light.

My fingers itch to reach into the drawer and pull out my gun. The natural instinct to protect myself, to defend myself from the threat, gets harder and harder to shake each time this happens, even though I know it’s only a dream.

The same one I’ve had almost every night since the shooting that makes it impossible for me to get a good night’s sleep. Which, in turn, adds exhaustion to my struggles in the ring every day when I get in it.

Fucking hell…

I toss back the covers and drop my feet onto the hard tile. It immediately helps cool my heated skin, but it does nothing to temper the anxiety threatening to suffocate me.

It was just a dream.

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