Page 94 of Rebel Hawke

While our massage and physical therapy, coupled with flows on the reformer, have been helping Atlas greatly, compared to the videos I’ve seen in his previous fights, he’s still not there.

Still not at one hundred percent.

Instead of a hurricane, he’s a tropical storm.

Building over open water.

Twisting and swirling.

Trying to gather enough strength to decimate anything in its path.

But just as so many of the storms that grow in the Atlantic never threaten us, there’s always that chance that Atlas may burn out.

He may not be ready in time, but I won’t say that to this man.

Never show any weakness.

It was one of the only decent pieces of advice Grandmother ever gave me during my recovery.

She knew I would already face enough scrutiny because of the permanent visible evidence of the fire I wear on my skin, and she didn’t want anyone to take advantage of what they viewed as an opening to use against me.

I won’t give Satriano one to use against Atlas or the other Hawkes.

“He is, but I can guarantee you’re not going to have a front-row ringside seat.”

He tips his head back and laughs, the sound swallowed by the orchestra playing in the venue. “I didn’t have an invitation tonight, yet here I am.”

Not for fucking long.

Movement behind him catches my attention, and I grin. “I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

A massive hand grabs his shoulder and jerks him away from me, and Saint towers over him by over a foot. With at least a hundred and fifty pounds on the man, Saint’s imposing presence certainly makes a statement.

One that couldn’t have come at a better time.

All the tension I’ve been holding in my body starts to register all at once, a vise suddenly banding around my chest and squeezing tightly.

Atlas tugs me into his arms, burying my face against the front of his tux coat, wrapping me up so completely that I can barely even see what’s happening until I force my head up enough to keep track of the threat.

Saint tightens his grip on Damon as the people on the dance floor seem to notice something is happening, many of them stopping to watch the confrontation. “How did you get in here?”

Satriano holds up his hands. “I just came to make a donation.”

Gabe scowls at him from where he stands beside us, backing up his son and giving me an extra layer of protection. “Bullshit. Get him out of here.”

Saint grins. “With pleasure.”

He manhandles Satriano toward the door, disappearing into the crowd of onlookers.

Gabe turns to me, concern in his furrowed brow. “Are you all right? What did he say?”

“I-I…he—” I struggle to take a breath, my lungs seizing, making me cough “I can’t—”

“Shit.” Atlas scoops me up and carries me from the dance floor, rushing toward our table and my bag, where it sits on the chair. He inclines his head toward his father as he takes a seat and settles me across his lap. “Get her inhaler.”

Gabe scrambles to open it and holds it out. Atlas snatches it from his hand, shakes it, and brings it to my lips.

I take a long, deep pull of it, holding the medicine in as long as I can before releasing it slowly.

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