Page 2 of Rebel Hawke

I can’t let them see how truly weak I am.

Which means I can’t let Bishop kick my ass with a whole slew of Hawke witnesses.

Pull your head out of your ass, Atlas!

I push off the ropes and advance on her, ignoring the pain to throw a couple jabs to keep her back before a quick cross that normally would have put anyone on their ass—ifI were actuallyanywherenear one hundred percent power.

It barely fazes her, glancing off her cheek, and before I can land another blow, she ducks and weaves out of the way, bouncing lightly on her feet.

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes on me, keeping her guard up. “Let’s go, Atlas.” Her words sound garbled from around her mouthguard. “Come at me like you mean it. Like I’m the fucker who put that bullet in your shoulder.”

Fury rolls through me like a wave off the gulf.

If the sniper weren’t already in the ground, I’d certainly have put him there myself—with my fists or a gun. I’m not fucking picky. But Daniele took care of him before I had the chance. All Ican do is hope the man who did this to me suffered as much as I have been the last few months.

Just thinking about all the anguish draws a snarl from my lips and flips on the switch that earned me the name The Hurricane very early in my career, before I even went pro.

I push forward with a combination that sets up the perfect upper jab that sends Bishop sprawling onto her back. But I can’t enjoy it while agony threatens to make me lose my breakfast all over the mat.

Mouth guard caught between clenched teeth, I fight back the nausea, trying to keep from passing out or yacking. Neither of which would look good or be appreciated, especially by Jenkins.

My chest heaving, I stand over her, sweat dripping down my face and body, the exertion of the match and the pain enough to make me wobble on my feet.

I squeeze my eyes closed in a vain attempt to stop the room from spinning.

Cheers erupt from around the ring, breaking through the sound of blood rushing in my ears, and Astrid is suddenly in front of me, her eyes wide, smiling, talking a mile a minute, but I can’t hear a single word she says.

My gaze locks on Bishop and the concern in her furrowed brow.

Fuck.

This is going to be a conversation later—one I definitely don’t want to have.

The whooshing sound in my ears finally dissipates as the searing burn in my shoulder starts to ease.

“You looked good…” Astrid squeezes my bicep, drawing a wince I can’t cover. She glances down at the massive scar a few inches above her hand, then withdraws it. “Shit. I’m sorry, did that—”

“I’m fine.”

I bite it out through clenched teeth and around my mouth guard, but the look she gives me tells me she doesn’t buy it. Of all the Hawkes, she’s the hardest to lie to. Maybe it has something to do with having shared a womb that makes it so easy for her to read me, but she doesn’t even need to say a word to speak volumes.

I’ve been trying to keep what’s really happening from her for months, and she knows it. She’s given me space—at least, as much as is possible in this family and under these circumstances—but she’s reached the end of her patience when it comes to me withholding.

Thankfully, Jimmy waves me over to the ropes before Astrid can utter another word. She bends down to offer Bishop a hand up as I make my way over to the old man.

He leans against the red elastic cables, his white hair disheveled from running his hands through it during the entire sparring session. His lips twist as he watches me advance toward him. “You look like shit, kid.”

Not that I really believed Astrid when she said I had looked good, but I don’t need the verbal confirmation of how shitty I fought from the man who has committed his life to training fighters.

I scowl at him and spit out my mouth guard. “Gee, thanks.”

His wrinkled, weathered hands tighten around the ropes. “You want me to lie to you?”

That would be nice…

For one fucking day, I want to feel like I’m the same fighter I was before I took that bullet.

Just fucking one.

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