Page 131 of Rebel Hawke

Apparently, to climb up my ass.

I keep wailing on the red leather, sweat dripping into my eyes, making them sting even more. But at least it covers the tears so Isaac can’t see how close I am to losing it completely. “I don’t care what I should be doing right now.”

His lips twist down, accusation in his blue gaze. “And if Jenkins were here?”

My blow falters, glancing off the side of the bag, taking me off balance. But I quickly regain my feet and land a left hook, rocking Isaac back so hard that he almost hits the wall behind him.

A move like that would’ve been excruciating a few months ago, if I could have managed it at all. Now, barely the tiniest twinge hits my shoulder.

Almost unnoticeable.

Nothing more than what I might feel after a challenging sparring match.

It’s all Wren’s work that I wish I could appreciate right now instead of wallowing in my own sorrow and anger.

I slam my fist into the leather again, rocking Isaac slightly. “Jenkinsisn’tfucking here, is he?”

Isaac steps back, releasing the bag and holding up his hands in surrender. “I get it.”

“No”—I shake my head and stagger away, bending over to rest my gloved hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath—“you don’t.”

Even my pre-fight training, which should have me in the best shape possible, hasn’t been able to keep up with what I’ve put myself through this morning. And Isaac’s right; I shouldn’t be pushing myself like this. I should be winding down, ensuring I’m not fatigued for Fight Night.

Logically, Iknowall this.

I just can’t stop.

When I stop, I think, and when I think, I feel.

All those things are bad right now.

Dangerous.

Isaac watches me, moving away to give me space, pacing slowly across the gym, looking like he’s about to cross-examine a witness on the stand. “How’s Wren?”

I struggle to suck in unsteady breaths. “How the fuck do you think?”

He offers a humorless half-smile. “Shitty, I imagine.” His gaze travels to the door that connects the gym to Wren’s space. “I see the studio’s closed today.”

It normally wouldn’t be.

She’d have seven or eight hours of classes plus a few private clients squeezed in if she could. Despite her morning sickness, she managed to maintain that schedule…and even tried to do it in the few days since the funeral. But not today—I couldn’t get her out of bed this morning.

Wren blamed the nausea, but I know it’s more than that.

And I can’t blame her for it.

I feel the loss as strongly as she does. Like a part of me has been ripped away that I’ll never get back. He wasn’t even my grandfather by blood, but he took the place of the man in every way, shape, and form. In every way that mattered.

Which is why Wren insisted I come in today, even when I would have much rather stayed in bed with her.

She won’t let all what Jenkins and I have done, all the time and energysheand I have put in, go to waste by letting me wallow.

“You shouldn’t be working yourself so hard, Atlas.” His jaw hardens. “He wouldn’t want that.”

The truth he speaks doesn’t calm me the way he hopes. Instead, it just reminds me of what we lost.

Anger already heating my blood threatens to boil over, and I push up to my full height, my chest heaving. “How the fuck do you know what Jenkins would want?”

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