Page 171 of Rebel Hawke

That thought makes bile crawl up my throat.

The two men tangle up, heads dropped low when the bell rings to end the third round—what turned into a brutal exchange of powerful hits that might have taken out any lesser boxers.

No one could argue that either man walked away unscathed.

Tired and hurting, Atlas stumbles back to the stool, looking slightly unsteady on his feet, and this time, his gaze cuts to me for the first time since the fight started before he sits.

It was only a millisecond.

But it was long enough for me to see it swimming in his Caribbean-blue eyes…

An apology.

Oh God, he’s going to throw it.

He’s going to take a fucking dive.

Why else would he look at me like that?

I swallow thickly so I don’t end up heaving right here in the front row, and Astrid squeezes my hand, leaning forward to examine me.

Her eyes that look so damn much like his narrow on me. “Are you all right? You look green.”

“Yeah”—I clear my throat, trying to hold myself together—“just nerves.”

She pats my hand. “It’s your first time at a fight. Trust me, it gets easier.”

Skye shakes her head, leaning closer so we can hear her over the anxious crowd. “No, it doesn’t.”

Gabe peers over her and offers a sympathetic look. “No, it doesn’t.”

That doesn’t help.

They may have a lot of experience watching Atlas fight, seeing his injuries in the ring, even dealing with his recoveries, but they have no idea what’s going on, the danger looming—to Coen, to Atlas, to all of us.

No one knows what tonight really means.

I might have to leave him.

I might have to walk away.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I force my lungs to accept a deep breath, convince my body not to revolt at the thought. When I open them again, Isaac is talking to Atlas with animated hand motions, screaming something inaudible over the cheering and rumbling of the sold-out crowd around us.

Atlas nods his understanding while Grayson and Pope work to control the bleeding from the wound over his eye and the swelling on his face.

But it isn’t those physical injuries I’m worried about.

Not anymore.

Not after that look he just gave me.

It’s the knife to his soul that he’s apparently accepted.

That will be what kills him—not some bruises and cuts and cracked ribs.

And it will kill me, too.

As the fourth round starts, I squeeze Astrid’s hand so tightly that my own starts to ache. She laces her fingers with mine, getting a better grip, helping to hold me steady.

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