Page 88 of Rebel Hawke

She scoffs. “Isn’t that every reason that you should give them warning and let them find a replacement?”

It may sound logical to her, but she doesn’t see the whole picture.

I shake my head. “This might be my only chance at the belt. If I don’t do it now—”

Anger tightens her fists at her sides. “If you do and you get hurt in the ring, what will that do to everyone?”

She has a point.

One I have been tryingreallyhardnotto think about.

I push to my feet and walk over to her, resting my hands on her shoulders and staring down into eyes identical to my own. “That’s not going to happen. I promise.”

Her bottom lip trembles. “You’ve always protected me, but now, I feel like I need to be the one protecting you.”

“You don’t. What you need to do is keep yourself safe from that asshole, Satriano, and help make sure Wren stays safe, too, while I’m training. Because I can’t have her with me all the time, Bishop or one of the security guys is going to stay with her when I’m not there. We’re staying at home as much as possible, but the charity gala is coming up next month, and we have other obligations. So—”

“I know. I know.” She gives me a hard smile. “Safety in numbers, right?”

“Armed numbers.” And thankfully, every single one of the girls knows how to handle a weapon properly and won’t hesitate to use it when pressed to. “That guy doesn’t just disappear. He pops back up like a fucking whack-a-mole, and he’s been quiet for far too long. He’s planning something.”

She nods. “I know. That’s what scares me.”

14

THREE MONTHS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT

ATLAS

Wren tugs at the side of the bustier of her dress for the hundredth time, adjusting it when it sits perfectly on her, hugging her beautifully and showing off all her curves.

I lean in and brush my lips against the back of her exposed neck. While I love her hair down, dark locks flowing all around her soft face, this updo definitely has its benefits.

“Stop fiddling with your dress.”

She freezes and glances over her shoulder at me from behind the elegant black, feathered mask covering the upper half of her face. “I’m not.”

I chuckle and tug her back against me. “You are, for like the thousandth time tonight.”

Ever since I took the shawl from her and draped it over the back of her chair at our table, leaving her in the strapless floor-length gown, she’s been restless in a way I don’t normally see her. With the scars that cover her left arm and trail up her neck and along her cheek exposed, she seems nervous. Unlikewhen she’s at the studio, perfectly comfortable to walk around in a tiny sports bra and leggings, here her gaze darts around the fundraiser as if she’s constantly checking to see who’s examining her.

“The only person staring at you is me because I want to bend you over this table, lift up this dress, and fuck you in front of all these people.”

She shivers and then gives me a dirty look over her shoulder. “Don’t say things like that to me in public.”

I nip at her ear. “In private’s okay?” I kiss her cheek as she laughs, then spin her around to face me, taking her hand in mine. “Let’s go hit the dance floor.”

Trying not to get sucked into conversations I’d rather avoid is a lot easier when I’m out there. Plus, it gives me a good excuse to have her body glued to mine without getting reproachful looks from people who think it’s indecent.

If they only knew what I do to her in private.

And I wasn’t joking.

If she said the word, I would bend her over the table—or anywhere else in the Marigny Opera House, where we always hold the Hawke Family Charity Fund’s annual fundraiser, which is in full swing.

Hundreds of New Orleans elite mill about, hidden behind their masquerade masks, dressed to the nines, dripping in diamonds and showing off their wealth and importance while the Hawkes all try to convince them to open their wallets for a good cause.

These things are nauseating, but having Wren here with me makes it bearable.

---