Chapter 6
6
WREN
I pace barefoot back and forth down the main aisle between the two rows of reformers, chewing on my nails, as the first morning light starts to filter through the now-clean front windows.
The day might just be starting, but I’ve been here for hours, unable to sleep. Too restless. Too excited. Too nervous about the possibility of finding my first private client.
Not to mention the fact that every time I closed my eyes, the same visions of Atlas kept popping back up, making it literally impossible to get anything but worked up. Certainly not sleep.
Which makes all this waiting even more unbearable.
Who are you really waiting for?
My potential client said she would be here by 6:00—unfortunately, around the same time Gramps and the man who seems to occupy all my dreams usually show up next door.
Don’t think about that.
Concentrate on business.
Easier said than done.
I’ve tried about everything.
A long, intense flow on the Cadillac before the sun even came up. Setting up social media accounts so I can start advertising for Early Bird Pilates. Unpacking the last of the boxes that contained the Pilates chairs, balance boards, weights, and everything else any of my clients will need—now all neatly placed in the little cubbies I ordered for the end of each reformer.
All the busy work has been done, which leaves me burning a path across the wood plank floors with my pacing.
At least, looking at it now, it almost feels like I’ll be ready to open by Monday. I just have to figure out the whole “finding clients” thing, which hopefully starts today .
Right now.
A sleek black SUV pulls up to the curb in front of the studio, and I pause my pacing and yank my hand from my mouth so whoever might be coming in doesn’t see me gnawing at the beds of my fingernails like some nervous teenager.
“You have to look like a professional if you want them to treat you like one…”
Those words ring in my head the same way they did growing up. And despite how long she’s been gone, I still hear them in Grandma Nancy’s voice and tone, saying them so casually, like it was so easy for me to convince people to see past my scars.
Some can’t.
They’re incapable of not staring.
It used to bother me—not looking like the other kids, never being able to go anywhere without eyes following me. But ultimately, it only built up my resolve not to care what anyone else thinks and to never quit. Never fail.
And I cannot fail at this…
I hold my breath as the back door of the SUV opens, but the person who steps from the back isn’t at all who I expected to see this morning.
Damn…
A man who must be in his early sixties steps out smoothly, a perfectly tailored silk suit that fits him like a glove settling over him as he nudges the door closed and takes in the front of the building with observant eyes.
His focus drifts to the gym briefly, and the corners of his lips lift into a smirk before his gaze moves over to the studio and meets mine through the window. That little grin turns into a full-blown smile that would melt the panties off any woman who sees it.
With his silver hair glinting in the early morning light, his chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and perfect lips surrounded by a well-manicured white beard, the man screams “smooth and seductive” in a way that makes my whole body heat.
Jesus Christ, this can’t be my client.
He casually approaches the studio, and two burly men climb from the SUV and follow him, standing guard outside the door as he tugs it open and steps inside.
A warm smile graces his lips as he approaches. “Good morning. You must be Wren.”
Shit, find your words, girl.
I take a step forward and offer my hand. “I am…Wren Mason. Nice to meet you.”
Give the man credit—his gaze doesn’t linger on my scars. Either he is very good at covering his surprise and reaction, or he already knew they were there before he came.
He accepts my palm in his warm grasp and shakes firmly, clasping his other hand on top of it before he leans in and presses a kiss lightly to each of my cheeks. “Well, aren’t you just lovely? Bellisima .”
The slightest hint of an Italian accent slips in his words, and I pull back and smile at him, doing my best not to react to how handsome he is or the way his aura seems to draw me in.
I don’t even know the man’s name and I’m already letting myself get all worked up in his presence. “And you are?”
“Oh, my apologies.” His mouth curves again. “You may call me Damon.”
“Damon, nice to meet you. Were you the one who texted me last night?”
He releases my hand and nods as he scans the studio. “I was.”
“And you’re looking to do Pilates?”
I don’t mean the question to sound so…confused, but I can’t keep it out of my voice. Because he isn’t my normal clientele. Not by any means. In the last five years since I started teaching Pilates, I can count my male clients on a single hand, and none of them rolled in like Damon.
His gaze snaps back to me, and he smirks as he slowly wanders between the reformers, examining everything. “I’ve been considering it. The grayer my hair gets, the more my body reminds me that I’m not twenty anymore.”
I can’t help but chuckle at his comment as I follow him, keeping at least one reformer between us, leaving enough space for him to take in what I have to offer and for me to watch him and the way he moves.
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 was my arrival that saved your 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, get out ”—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.”
He brushes past Atlas, intentionally slamming his right shoulder against Atlas’ left one.
Atlas winces and grips it with the opposite hand, hissing through his teeth as Damon casually makes his way to the door and his two men. One keeps his gun at the ready, watching us, while the other tugs open the door for his boss.
They follow him out, keeping their eyes on Atlas the entire time.
The moment the door swings closed, I finally manage to take another shallow breath. “You want to explain what the fuck that was?” I raise a shaking hand and point toward the SUV as it pulls away from the curb. “You just scared off my first client.”
Atlas wheels on me, his hand still pressed over his shoulder. His eyes blaze, and he stalks toward me, backing me up against the mirror, until mere inches separate us and I have nowhere left to go. “You have no idea who the fuck that was or how much danger you’re in.”
I press my palms flat against the glass behind me, searching for anything to cling to, anything that might stop the trembling as the adrenaline coursing through my system starts to ebb.
But the vise circling my chest won’t release, and the pure anger in Atlas’ gaze makes genuine fear of his power rush through me for the first time.
He moves forward another step.
I shake my head, tears starting to cloud my vision. “Atlas, d-d-don’t…”
ATLAS
I freeze immediately, letting my hand fall away from my shoulder despite the sharp pain still shooting through it. Because it’s the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.
The pain in Wren’s gaze is all I can see or care about.
Shit.
She’s fucking terrified.
Shaking.
Ready to burst into tears.
But she isn’t scared of the man she should be.
Not of Damiano Satriano.
Wren is terrified of me , of the way I reacted, of the anger and how I lashed out at the man she only saw as her first potential client.
A man who presents so well, who mesmerizes women and somehow entrances people under his spell. Like a damn venomous spider—spinning a web and luring in his prey so he can inject them with his poison and tear into them while they still breathe.
Her body trembles as she presses herself back against the glass, unable to retreat from me any farther. Though the look in her terrified eyes tells me she’d like to.
Fucking hell.
The last thing I’d ever want is to scare Wren, to make her think I might be a threat to her in any way, shape, or form.
“Wren…”
Barely a whisper, her name comes out as the plea it is.
For her to listen to me…
For her to understand…
Her bottom lip quivers, unshed tears shimmering across her gaze.
I ignore the throb in my shoulder from Damon smashing into it and hold up my hands, taking a half-step closer. The scent of her fear mixes with the almond and cherry fragrance that always seems to cling to her. “Wren, I would never hurt you.”
She shakes her head. “You forget…I’ve seen what you’re capable of, Atlas. I’ve seen what my grandfather trained you to be.”
“Fuck.” I wince because I understand that panic in her eyes. It’s the same I want to see in my opponents, the very thing I try to strike into their hearts. But I never want to see that in Wren’s dark gaze. “That’s different, Little Bird. Who I am in there”—I throw my thumb absently over my shoulder toward the gym—“and in the ring is not who I am outside of it. That’s a job, a role I have to play while I’m there…”
My words may not be getting through to her, may not be enough to counter the violent reaction she saw in me.
I cautiously move another few inches closer, hoping she won’t try to skitter away in either direction along the mirrored wall, but she stands her ground, tipping her chin up at me, demonstrating the tenacity I always remembered.
She may be scared, but she won’t ever back down, even in the face of fear.
And she should be afraid, just not of me.
There’s so much she doesn’t understand. So many things that have happened since she’s been gone that have changed everything—for me and for the Hawkes. Things she must know if I’m going to be able to keep her safe, especially now that she’s on Satriano’s radar.
Shifting closer still, I wait for her to recoil, but she doesn’t.
Thank fucking God.
Seeing that man in here with her, so close, with her so vulnerable, and having no idea how much danger she was in, was enough to make any restraint I had when it came to Wren snap.
I shouldn’t want her.
I shouldn’t touch her.
But I can’t help myself anymore.
I slide my hand across her cheek and tilt her chin up until her eyes lock with mine. They swim with uncertainty. The amber brown melting in a coppery pool that makes me want to dive right into it and do what I wanted to since the moment I first saw her here.
“I would rather die a million deaths than hurt you, Little Bird. I think about you all the time, every fucking minute since you’ve been back.”
“What?” Her brow furrows, her confusion deepening. “Don’t toy with me, Atlas.”
“There are a lot of things I want to do with you, Wren, but toy with you about this isn’t one of them.” I brush my thumb over her soft cheek, just below those tears threatening to fall. “I’m pretty sure I’m obsessed with you, the way you’re always on my mind, even when you shouldn’t be. All I can think about is you when I should be concentrating on training.” I dip my head, enforcing the eye lock I hold with her. “I would never touch you in anger. Ever. And I’ll never lie to you.”
Her lips press into a firm line, then tip down into a scowl, and her gaze drifts to my left shoulder. “You’re lying about that .”
Shit.
I clench my eyes shut for a moment, unable to look at her after she called me out so blatantly, the way no one else has had the balls to in all these months.
They sure as hell have danced around it and made insinuations, and Savage came pretty fucking close, but no one would ever call me a liar.
Not to my face.
Except Wren…
The little girl who never backed down from me back then still won’t today. No matter what I’ve accomplished. How many opponents I’ve beaten senseless in the ring.
I open my eyes and find her staring at me, waiting for me to respond. Unwavering. “I am lying about my shoulder because I have to. But that’s different—”
She shakes her head, a single dark strand of hair falling from the high ponytail that holds the rest of it back. “No, it isn’t. You can’t stand here and tell me you won’t lie to me and expect me to believe you when I’ve seen how you’re lying to every other person in your life.”
Of course, she’s right.
I can’t expect her to trust me when no one else can…
When I can’t even trust myself anymore…
When my mind taunts me with violent nightmares and suffocating anxiety…
When my body revolts against me and refuses to do the one thing I’ve always relied on it to do well…
When it demands I get close to this woman when I should leave her be…
When that would be safer for her, to put space between us, to keep her protected from Satriano by pushing her away from me and all things Hawke…
When I know I can’t trust myself to leave…
“What do you want to know, Wren?” I brush the silky strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’ll tell you anything.”
Her gaze softens, some of the trepidation evaporating. “How bad is your shoulder?”
I swallow thickly, struggling to find the right words to describe what the last few months have been like. “Pretty damn fucked.”
She winces. “Who was that man? Why were you so angry? Why did you run him off?”
Her series of questions ping-pong in my ears, and they all need to be answered.
Eventually.
“I promise I’ll explain everything, Little Bird, but not right now.”
“Why not?”
I shift closer, tipping her face even higher toward mine, allowing her to feel the tension in my body, the trembling need I’m barely restraining. “Because right now, if I don’t fucking kiss you, I might go insane.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, and color splashes across her cheeks before I dip my head and press my lips to hers. It takes her a second to relax before she releases a tiny groan and leans into me, allowing me to slide my free hand around her waist and tug her up against me fully.
The press of her heat and body along mine makes my already stirred cock fully hard between us. And there is no hiding it from her. Not with the way her belly presses against it.
I kiss her fiercely, far harder and with more urgency than I should for a first kiss.
Our first real one, at least.
That one when we were eight doesn’t count.
This should be gentle, searching, discovering, learning each other, but I can’t stop myself from fully devouring her. From stealing every breath and little sigh. From sweeping my tongue along hers to see if she tastes as good as she smells.
Not after the dreams I’ve had, the fantasies that have overwhelmed me since she returned. Not after seeing Satriano in here with her and knowing how close she came to that kind of danger. Not after being woken at two in the morning and being told what he did last night—how easily he can take one of us and there’s nothing the Hawkes could do about it.
But kissing Wren isn’t enough.
Not nearly enough.
I tear my mouth from hers, and her eyes flicker open, hooded and full of the same lust that rushes through my veins and fuels my desire. Her chest heaves against mine, her heart thundering under her ribcage the same as mine does.
My fingers dig into her side, itching to feel more of her, to bring her even closer, which is impossible here.
No matter how much I want her, I won’t take her bent over a desk in the back of her studio for our first time. Especially not when Satriano just walked out of here with that smug look on his face.
I need her somewhere safe. Somewhere I control. “Let’s go.”
Her eyes widen. “Where?”
“My place, right now.”
“Atlas, I…” She scans the studio. “I can’t, I have too much to do today—”
The low, guttural sound that slips from my throat cuts her off, and I crush my mouth to hers again. Pleading with her without words. Asking and demanding at the same time. Her nails dig into my pecs as she meets my lips, giving it right back to me instead of pushing me away.
It would be so easy to lose myself in her like this.
But it isn’t the place.
Not now.
I manage to tear my mouth from hers long enough to kiss my way across her cheek to her ear. “If I don’t get you out of here and under me in the next ten minutes, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.” A shudder rolls through her, and she tightens her grip on my T-shirt, bunching it in her hands. “Everything else can wait, Little Bird.”
She clings to me, still trembling, though now it isn’t from fear. “Don’t you have to train?”
“Missing one fucking day of training isn’t going to kill me, but not knowing what you taste like might.”
Her eyes close, and she inhales a slow breath. “Fuck, Atlas…”
“That’s the plan.” I pull back from her and find her cheeks blazing bright red, but when her lids flutter back open, her eyes scream that she is fully on board with the plan. “Please. After that, I need…”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Fuck.
I actually don’t know what I need.
Just that it involves her.
Touching her…
Feeling her…
Being inside her…
Knowing that she’s all right and that I can protect her…
And the only thing I can think to do is get her the fuck out of here, away from where she’s so exposed, where Damon could walk in again at any minute.
She releases a long, slow breath, tightening her grip on my arms, like she’s trying to calm herself, find some center, like maybe I’m not the only one reeling and attempting to find firm footing on some sort of solid ground.
Her lips tremble over mine softly. “Okay.”