Page 135 of Rebel Hawke

“Wren?”

The voice that carries up the stairs to me isn’t Atlas’, and my heart sinks slightly, my footsteps faltering. I stick my head out the door and find Skye climbing the steps.

“Oh…”—her Hawke-blue eyes widen—“there you are. I knocked, and when you didn’t answer, I got worried and let myself in.”

I tighten my grip on the towel around me. “Sorry, I was in the shower.”

“No need to apologize, hon.” She motions behind her toward the kitchen, where a large cast-iron pot—that definitely wasn’t there before—sits on the stove. “I brought something you need to try.”

My stomach rumbles at the thought of eating, while it also churns and offers that same threat it has almost every day at seemingly random intervals. The morning sickness has been plaguing me, a constant companion, reminding me that it isn’t fully going away just as I start to think I’m finally feeling better. “I’m not so sure I could keep anything down.”

Save for plain bagels, boiled potatoes, and my pre-natal vitamins, I haven’t been able to eat much, despite Atlas ensuring I have just about everything under the sun as an option.

Skye gives me a sympathetic smile. “You might be able to with this. It’s one of Nana’s recipes. It was practically all I ate for months when I was pregnant with Atlas and Astrid.”

“Really?”

Her head bobs as she turns to descend to the kitchen. “I’m going to go get it heated back up while you get dressed.”

“Okay.”

I slip back into the bedroom and close the door, taking a moment to try to quell the disappointment that Atlas isn’t home.

Where are you?

With a week until he faces Gordon, he can’t possibly have been at the gym this long. He knows better than to work himself that hard before a fight, especially when his final cut will be physically taxing enough.

Does he, though?

He hasn’t been thinking clearly, hasn’t been himself since Gramps died. And I can’t blame him since I haven’t been, either. I’ve had to cancel so many classes that I’m afraid my clients won’t be there when I get back.

Just make it through the next week.

It’s what I keep telling myself: that things will quiet down, get better.

I just hope I’m not filling my own head with bullshit.

After surviving the fire, I’ve always done my best to keep a positive outlook on life, and I’ve tried to maintain one during the long nights working with Atlas over the last three months, but recently, it’s become harder and harder to maintain that mindset.

One. More. Week.

I quickly slip on my clothes, run a brush through my damp hair, then make my way downstairs. The smell of something savory hits me before I’m even five steps down, and my confused stomach does an uneasy flip-flop.

Sliding my palm over it, I take a long inhalation. “Come on, little one. I have to eat something, or you’re never going to grow.”

At first, I thought Atlas was crazy, talking to the baby and asking it to be “nice” to me, as if he or she could understand what we meant. But I’m desperate at this point to have a real meal, to not feel so dizzy and awful all the time.

I know part of it is the emotional turmoil now, but if this baby could just calm down for a bit, it would make my life so much easier.

Skye stands at the stove, stirring whatever she brought, and when I reach the kitchen, I slide onto one of the stools lining the counter. She ladles something from a pot into a bowl, turns back, and sets it in front of me.

I look down into what appears to be some type of soup, not that different from what I used to get served from the red can as a child. “What is it?”

She grins. “My mom always called it ‘penicillin soup.’”

Eww.

I must inadvertently make a face because Skye chuckles, motioning toward the steaming bowl.

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