Page 168 of Rebel Hawke

Too tense.

Too ramrod straight on the stool.

Astrid leans closer, trying to get a better angle to see what’s happening. “His shoulder?”

That hit he took there definitely could have aggravated his injury—likely exactly what Gordon intended when he swung. It isn’t fighting dirty, just taking advantage of an opponent’s very visible potential weakness.

If they were in opposite positions, Atlas would have done the same. But that doesn’t make watching it any less painful for me, knowing how agonizing it might be for him.

Atlas rolls his shoulders, and Pope manipulates the left one, leaning in to whisper something to Atlas. But I can’t see Atlas’ reaction to gauge how bad it might be or to get any idea what Dr. Clarke might be saying to him.

I offer Astrid a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe…”

Or it could all be an act.

This would be the perfect wayoutfor him.

A reason to “lose” the fight.

After all, he gotshot. A bullet tore through that shoulder. An injury many thought he could never recover from. No one would question if Atlas lost because of that.

No one except me.

I never thought I’d be wishing for his potential pain to be real, but at least it would mean he wasn’t setting up the fall. It would mean this isn’t an elaborate act.

Not knowing what he plans to do tonight has eaten away at me all day, and now that the fight is underway, I can only pray he does the right thing forhimself—not for anyone else.

Because at the end of the day, he’s the one who will have to live with his choice and the consequences of it.

When he walked out on me, I couldn’t say I blamed him.

What I said was horrible, hurtful, and it might not have been fair. But he needed to hear it. He needed to know it was true and why I felt that way. Because it isn’t just about Coen, or the Hawkes, or even me.

This baby growing inside me needs a future where his father isn’t controlled by a man like Satriano or haunted by what he’s done for him.

The only way that happens is if Atlas wins this match.

Please, God…

I scan the crowd as the break ends and Atlas and Gordon return center ring for the next round. Security lines the four corners behind each man’s crew and stand along each section, with extra personnel on either side of the rows that seat the Hawkes.

There’s no way Satriano is getting in here tonight.

But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

It doesn’t mean he won’t get to Atlas—or Coen—if he needs to. He’s already proven his ability to weasel his way into places where he isn’t welcome and is least expected. The worst kind of enemy to have because he’s one we really can’t prepare for.

Yet Coen put a target on his back.

I cut my gaze over to Coen, where he’s seated next to his parents. His knee bounces wildly as he chews on a nail, eyes locked on Atlas as the bell sounds.

He should be nervous, and I can barely suppress my desire to walk over there and deck him for the position he’s put Atlas in. But I won’t cause any more drama tonight by confronting him, not when that won’t get me—or anyone else—anywhere.

Instead, I refocus on the fight.

Atlas dives in right away, letting loose a flurry of hands so fast I can barely follow them. A huge one-two followed by a right hook that lands heavy on Gordon’s chin.

If Atlas was hurt by that shot to his shoulder, he isn’t showing it now.

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