Page 146 of Rebel Hawke

Over and over again.

At least two dozen times since Satriano dumped me back at the gym.

And he isn’t replying to texts, either.

Intentionally or not, Coen has gone underground again.

Maybe because he understands he’s fucked when it comes to my fight, that he’ll have to sit there ringside and watch me win, knowing he’s going to lose and be in debt up to his eyeballs.

Only he has no idea how serious it is. No clue that Satriano is the one pulling the strings, that the same black SUV that has snatched Pope and me is going to pick him up and make demands of him that he isn’t going to want to fulfill.

Satriano will use Coen to get what he wants from the family.

Information.

Cooperation.

Assistance in his sinister plans.

He’s already done it with Pope, and now, he’s got Uncle Stone’s youngest son under his thumb. And me, by association.

Wren gives me another squeeze and slips from my arms. “Your mom left some of the soup. Let’s heat some up and get you fed.”

“Okay.”

I don’t want to eat—especially something that holds so many memories and is supposed to make me feel better.

All I want to do is drink the rest of that bottle, pass out, and pretend the world isn’t what it is.

I would, if that were an option.

But Wren won’t let me.

Just like she never let me quit over the last three months. Just like she wouldn’t let me quit and throw this fight if she knew what was happening.

Which is why I can’t ever tell her.

WREN

Atlas lies awake,staring at the ceiling, like he has been for hours. His hand aimlessly trails up and down my back, a slow caress meant to soothe and quiet me, to lull me to sleep.

Anyone else might think he’s relaxed, calm even, but I can feel the tension in his body under mine. The way his heart won’t seem to settle into its normal rhythm beneath my cheek. How heavy his breaths are, filled with something that just won’t allow him to still his mind.

Mine won’t quiet, either.

Even his gentle, loving touch isn’t enough to keep worry from gnawing away at me. Wondering what has him so shaken. Terrified it’s something I can’t fix.

He needs sleep—badly.

This insomnia wouldn’t be good at any time, but especially so close to a fight, it could be catastrophic. He should be getting as much sleep as he can, resting his body to prepare for what he must do this week, leading into the weigh-in and the showdown in the ring.

It will be brutal on him under any circumstances. Worse because of whatever he’s holding in that seems to be eating him alive. And after almost two hours of holding my tongue, of waiting for him to say something, I finally push up onto my elbow.

His eyes immediately dart to mine in the mostly dark room, lit only by filtered moonlight sneaking in the unshuttered windows. “Are you okay?”

I trail my fingers across his stubbled cheek. “Are you?”

He tries to steel his expression, but I catch the muscle tic in his jaw before he can hide it. “I’m fine.”

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