Page 58 of Rebel Hawke

I cringe—and not because of Atlas’ clenched jaw. Gramps is far too old and frail to still be holding for the likes of Atlas.

Atlas seems to sense the same thing and moves back, still bouncing on his toes, sweat pouring down his back and dripping onto the floor. He motions toward a guy training on another heavy bag in the corner. “You take the bag.”

Gramps appears ready to argue, but Atlas gives him a look that leaves zero room for discussion. The old man steps back, making space for the new bag holder.

The newcomer steps into his place, eyeing Atlas suspiciously. If this guy trains here, he knows what Atlas is capable of. I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of it, either—even with him not at one hundred percent.

Atlas throws another series of jabs, then a left hook that has him gritting his jaw so tight that it looks like he would snap his teeth in half if he didn’t have the mouthguard in.

Bishop elbows me again. “It’s just what?”

I barely hear her, too focused on Atlas, watching him and feeling his pain as if it were my own. Gramps’ gaze darts over to meet mine, and the look he gives me makes something click in my head.

A truth falls into place that should have well before today.

Holy shit.

He may need me here to help him financially. He maywantme here because he has missed me, but he also brought me back, encouraged me to come and open a studio here because heknowsAtlas is fucked and he won’t ask for help from anyone.

At least, not anyonehere.

Not the Hawkes.

Not him.

But maybe he will from his childhood best friend. Maybe I can get through to him. Maybe I can help him work through this and salvage his career.

Why didn’t I see it before?

“Earth to Wren.” Bishop waves her hand in front of my face until I finally break eye contact with Gramps and glance toward her. “You hear me?”

Nope.

Not even a little bit.

I give her my best apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Her lips twist into a scowl. “Girl, I asked if I need to have a conversation with Atlas about the way he’s treating you?”

“What?” I press my hands over my chest, where Atlas focused alotof time and attention last night. “God, no.”

That man treats me like a damn queen.

More like a goddess.

He worships me in a way I didn’t know a man could worship a woman. Like I’m his deity and my body is his altar. He doesunholythings to me. Wicked, depraved things that I love far, far too much. That I donotwant to reveal to the woman who is—for all intents and purposes—his cousin, even if they don’t share blood.

“Atlas is just…”—I offer a shrug—“Atlas. It’s brand new; that’s all. We’ll figure it out. I just have a lot of questions right now.”

She huffs and leans back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “The way that boy was talking about you, the worry in his voice when he told me you needed twenty-four-hour security after Satriano showed up…”—she tsks and shakes her head—“I don’t think there’sanyquestion about the way he feels about you.”

I offer her a tight smile. “That is super sweet of you to say, Bishop, but I’m not so sure. It’s only been a week since Icame back to New Orleans, and we’ve spent literally onenighttogether.”

She grins, her eyes flashing with humor and affection. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Hawke men.” She aimlessly waves a hand in Atlas’ direction. “When they see something they want, they take it. When they fall, they fall fast and hard, and they don’t let what they want slip away. If Atlas wants you, then girl”—she laughs—“you’re not going anywhere. Except back to his bed.”

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