Page 34 of Rebel Hawke

Prowling…like a cat.

No limp.

No tense or awkward movements.

No obvious physical ailments.

“Pilates can definitely be beneficial in keeping your joints moving and your muscles stretched out and limber as you get older. It can also help with balance and core strength, which can be problematic as we age.”

He stops and grins at me, crossing his hands behind his back. “You don’t have to sell me, Miss Mason. I would love to sign up to be your first client.”

A low snarl rips through the studio, making me jump. “Over my dead fucking body!”

My eyes cut to the door between the studio and the gym, and Atlas barrels through it, his jaw locked, fury blazing across his blue eyes, the same determination I’ve seen in all the videos of his fights evident in the harsh set of his shoulders.

“Atlas, what are you—”

He stalks over to me and grabs my arm, dragging me back and putting himself between Damon and me. The glower he directs at the man holds a kind of pure, unadulterated fury that sends shivers down my spine. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Damon simply grins at him, unflinching. “Trying to schedule my first appointment with Miss Mason.”

“Get. The. Fuck.Out!”

Atlas’ words leave no room for argument and hold the promise of violence if Damon doesn’t comply.

Reaching forward, I grab Atlas’ bicep and dig my nails into it. “What are you doing?”

I try to whisper, but in my agitated state, in such a small, enclosed place, there’s no way Damon didn’t hear it.

Atlas doesn’t bother turning to answer me. He keeps his attention locked on the stranger. “Trying to save your fucking life, Wren.”

“What?” I tug on his arm, but he doesn’t budge or even glance back. “What are you talking about?”

Damon casually approaches, spreading his hands wide, apparently not dissuaded at all by the anger and menace Atlas displays. “Now, now, Atlas, I thought we had come to an understanding.”

“An understanding?” Atlas takes a step toward him, my hand falling away from his arm, until he’s a mere foot from the older man. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

The door opens behind us, and I twist back to find the two men who came out of the SUV with Damon entering, reaching to their hips for weapons holstered there.

Oh, shit.

I retreat one step from Atlas and Damon, backing toward the wall of mirrors. My body quakes, my legs threatening to give out from under me, watching the standoff, now made even more tense by the introduction of the two armed goons.

Even with guns drawn on him, Atlas still advances toward Damon, hands fisted at his sides, muscles bulging in his neck with his barely restrained rage. His chest almost brushes the silk suit I was appreciating moments ago. “After everything you’ve done. The people you’ve hurt. The threats you’ve made. You think you can just insert yourself into our lives?”

His words tighten my chest.

I struggle to inhale as I stagger back another step.

One of Damon’s silver brows rises. “If I remember correctly, it wasmyarrival thatsavedyour life after that bullet hit you.”

Atlas clenches his jaw, the muscle there ticcing wildly. “You know as well as I do that my father, Saint, and Bishop were the ones who ended that standoff with several well-placed shots.”

A slow grin curls Damon’s lips. “We have differing views on the same set of events, apparently.”

“Apparently. Now, getout”—Atlas thrusts a finger at the door where Damon’s men wait, at the ready, to protect the man who must be their boss, if necessary—“and I don’t want to see you anywhere near this studio or Wren again.”

Damon’s gaze drifts to mine, and he offers me a tight smile. “Miss Mason, I hope we can continue this conversation about working together later, when we won’t be interrupted.”

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