Chapter 9
9
WREN
E very time Atlas lands a punch on the bag, I flinch, and a familiar cold sense of dread settles over me.
It has nothing to do with what happened yesterday in the studio with Satriano or the things Atlas explained to me this morning about the threat the man poses and has everything to do with the way I see Atlas’ whole body stiffen and jaw tighten each time.
He fights so hard to hide the pain and conceal what a fairly typical training session is doing to him, when he should be able to work through it easily in his sleep. Just like I’m sure he has been since the day he came back to the gym.
Everyone else may pretend not to see it, but I can’t ignore what I know he’s feeling.
Because I’ve been there.
Battling the agony.
Putting on a brave face.
Trying to get back to that feeling of before.
For so long, I never thought it was possible. I truly believed I’d never find the joy I felt before the fire. Years spent searching for it were in vain.
Until last night.
Until Atlas…
And seeing him in the exact same position I was after the flames took too much from me brings me right back to that same pain, that feeling that I’ll never get back what was stolen from me so violently.
I reach up to rub at the ache forming in the center of my chest as Atlas lands another combination that makes him grit his teeth.
Bishop bumps me with her shoulder, and I jerk and spin toward her, hand slapped over my heart…which now beats wildly under my ribcage.
Shit.
She scared the crap out of me.
Her brown eyes widen. “You all right?” She reaches back and unties the bun of braids at the back of her head to let them spill down her shoulders. Shaking them out, she releases a little laugh. “You’re jumpy as hell this morning.”
Crap.
Seems I’ve done a really awful job of covering my unsteady nerves today.
I give her a tight smile as she fiddles with the hair tie on her wrist. “I’m okay.”
Lie.
I’m far from okay today.
Between confronting a mob boss, Atlas’ overbearing, alpha-male reaction to Satriano, the ensuing sex-a-thon, then having to deal with the questioning and judgmental looks from Gramps this morning when I arrived with his prize fighter, I’ve been practically vibrating in my skin since the moment I walked in.
And now I have to watch Atlas struggle…in front of Bishop, who has a keen eye and a sharp tongue that she doesn’t like to bite.
The woman has been watching me like a hawk since she arrived shortly after we did, but I have no doubt she’s noticed Atlas’ discomfort as much as I have.
“You know, you don’t have to babysit me, Bishop.”
She snorts. “Yeah, tell that to him .” Bishop inclines her head toward Atlas, who wails on the bag, seemingly oblivious to what’s going on over here—but something tells me he’s very aware despite having his back turned. “He made it very clear, in no uncertain terms, that I am not to let you out of my fucking sight, unless he’s with you.”
“Jesus…” I release a heavy breath and lean back against the wall where I’ve been standing, watching his morning training session instead of doing what I should be—trying to hunt down some damn clients. “A bit overprotective, isn’t he?”
Though, after what he told me this morning about Satriano and his history with the Hawkes, maybe he has reason to be.
Bishop leans next to me, alternating between watching Atlas and Gramps and assessing me.
I’d much rather she stuck with the former.
Having her sharp gaze on me feels like being disassembled, one piece at a time.
“What is it with you two?” She flicks a finger between Atlas, who still has his back to us, and me. “Are you guys a thing ?”
Shit.
I chew on the inside of my lip, watching him work. The bunch and flex of all that exposed muscle. The tattoos moving, making the ink look like it’s alive. All the raw power and focus that was directed solely on me last night now on the bag hanging in front of him.
How do I even answer that?
We haven’t really discussed any of that.
There wasn’t a whole lot of time between all the fucking, our conversation this morning, which led into one more round before we had to rush to my place for a quick change of clothes and get over here to meet with Gramps. Who asked me pretty much the same question Bishop just did after I arrived with Atlas in his car.
I didn’t have an answer for the old man, and I don’t really have one for Bishop, either.
It’s impossible to explain when I don’t understand it all myself.
I kept it, and I’m keeping you.
I would so love for those words to mean what they could. But it’s literally been just over a day since we first kissed. A measly thirty hours since he whisked me away and only two since he said that to me and showed me the photo he seemingly cherished the last two decades.
But he can’t possibly have meant… that.
And I’m not about to discuss it with Bishop.
I shrug. “I don’t really know what we are.”
Bishop scowls, casting an evil side-eye at Atlas. “Because he told you it didn’t mean anything or because you don’t want it to?”
“Oh!” I whip back to face her. “No, I definitely want it to be. It’s just…”
I focus back on him, examining the way he bounces so lightly on his feet, an elegant dance he’s memorized and that comes so easily for him. Second nature. Muscle reflex. He doesn’t even have to think about it. He just does it and it works. Such a juxtaposition to what happens when he tries to throw even the simplest of punches. When his whole body tenses and rebels against the action he’s taken thousands of times.
He unleashes a series of right jabs on the bag, harder than before, releasing some of his pent-up aggression and sending Gramps rocking back.
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 may want me here because he has missed me, but he also brought me back, encouraged me to come and open a studio here because he knows Atlas is fucked and he won’t ask for help from anyone.
At least, not anyone here.
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 a lot of 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 does unholy things to me. Wicked, depraved things that I love far, far too much. That I do not want 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’s any question 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 I came back to New Orleans, and we’ve spent literally one night together.”
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.”
Maybe the way she talks about him should worry me.
Maybe the things I’ve already experienced should.
His intensity.
His passion.
His ruthlessness.
The sheer power he controls within that body and the steadfastness of his mind once he sets it to something.
Certainly, how she makes me sound like I’d “belong” to him somehow if we officially got involved should give me real pause. But instead, warmth fills my chest at the idea.
All those years ago, I said “I do” with Atlas Anderson-Hawke in front of Kennedy as our officiant and with the rest of the Hawke kids and their parents as our witnesses, and I don’t think I ever truly got over that press of his lips against mine.
That man has always held a piece of my heart, so giving it over to him now doesn’t seem like a huge leap. Yet, it still feels like standing at the edge of some vast chasm, staring down into a dark abyss below, ready to try to make it across with no safety net.
So much has changed so quickly.
And Atlas is still hiding things, still lying to so many people, including Bishop, who raced over here in an instant for him—for me —because he asked.
He may seem strong, confident, downright invincible.
But he’s far from it.
Watching him shake out his shoulder and grimace after throwing another combination, it’s getting harder for him to hide it the longer he trains today. Even the man holding the bag seems to see it, casting side glances toward Gramps, who watches with his hand against his mouth, concern furrowing his already wrinkled brow.
Atlas is his star. The one he’s always said can go all the way. His belt contender. The sole person he’s ever trained who he basically considers a grandson. Watching him suffer like this, witnessing him hold in the truth and tell the lie over and over again, must be killing him.
That’s why he begged me to come home.
I could be the only one who can do anything about it.
So, no matter how twisted up I might be about where I stand with Atlas, I know why I’m here now.
To help them both.
ATLAS
Stinging sweat drips into my eyes, and I mop it away with my towel as I shove through the door into the locker room.
My chest heaves from the workout Jenkins just put me through, and my shoulder burns—a familiar, searing pain I know won’t abate for several hours after running the gauntlet like that.
I rub at it and try to work out the kinks, releasing a hiss through my clenched teeth.
It’s no fucking use.
Today is no different than any other over the last few weeks since I returned to training full-time.
More pain.
More frustration.
I sink down onto the bench and scrub the towel over my face again, trying to suck in long, slow breaths to get my heart rate down and stop my body from shaking.
The door swings open, and I turn toward it. I expect to see Jenkins coming after me to have the conversation I know he wants to have but I’ve been avoiding like the plague. Instead, Wren slips in, offering me a tight half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She lets the door close behind her, twisting her hands in front of her nervously. “Hey.”
Her apparent unease makes my shoulders tense.
“Hi…”
Wren approaches me slowly, cautiously, like I’m some sort of wild animal she’s afraid she might set off. And there’s something about the way she’s looking at me that makes my stomach twist.
“What’s wrong, Little Bird?”
She chews on the inside of her lip and leans against the metal lockers in front of me, eyeing me suspiciously. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Bullshit.” I rub the towel across the back of my neck, mopping up more sweat. “You are not very good at hiding it when you’re upset or worried about something, Wren.”
Her dark brows rise, but she fights a smile. “You think you know me so well, huh?”
That draws a grin across my lips. “I think I proved yesterday, last night, and again this morning—a dozen times, if I remember correctly—that I know a lot. And anything I don’t know…well”—I waggle my eyebrows—“I’m a very quick learner.”
Her cheeks heat that stunning bright red I’ve become addicted to, the one that means she’s thinking about every moment we spent together.
Exactly the reaction I had hoped for.
She knows the words are true.
I learned every fucking inch of her.
Know every pucker of the scars, each line and shape they make. Memorized every sound that slipped from her lips and what parts of her body elicit them. Committed the look on her face to memory as she took me so beautifully and flew off into ecstasy.
It may have only been our first night together, but I made it fucking count. Ensured it was unforgettable for us both. That blush proves it.
She presses her lips together in a firm line, almost like she’s annoyed that I brought it up, and I push to my feet, tossing the towel onto the bench.
“Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
I felt her eyes on me all morning from where she stood, watching my workout, scrutinizing me, right along with Bishop, who should have been keeping her eyes on the front of the building to ensure Satriano didn’t show his face again.
But that isn’t what’s worrying me now.
What did Wren see that has her so out of sorts?
Wren sucks in a deep breath and releases it slowly, building up the courage to say what she has to.
Oh, shit.
I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up until her amber eyes meet mine. “Come on, Little Bird. Spill it. It’s time to sing.”
Her nostrils flare, her pupils dilating.
Hell .
I know that look. I saw it a dozen times last night before I took her, and my cock stirs against my shorts, hardening almost instantly. Stepping forward, I press into her so she can feel how hard I am already, and she groans, shifting her back against the hard metal behind her.
“I want the truth, Wren, about what’s bothering you. Or should I take you into the shower with me and fuck it out of you?”
A tiny moan slips from her lips, and she shudders against me.
“Mmm.” I run my thumb across the scar on the side of her jaw. “You like that idea?”
She swallows thickly. “You know I do, Atlas. That isn’t the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Wren allows her eyes to meet mine again, but the look there has shifted from need to determination. “It’s time we have a very uncomfortable conversation.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my spine stiffens. “About what?”
I give the woman credit. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “About your shoulder, how fucked it is, and how you have absolutely no business training for a title fight in three months when you’re in so much pain.”
“Fucking hell.”
Releasing her, I step away, retreating three or four paces.
Her shoulders fall. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about it. I know you want to pretend like everything’s okay, but it’s not , Atlas. You have to let someone help you—”
“No one can fucking help me, Wren. That’s the problem.”
Shoving my hands through my sweaty hair, I press my thumbs into the base of my skull where it suddenly throbs like someone is running a jackhammer against it. I pace away from her. Needing distance from the words she threw at me like knives.
Silence lingers for a moment before her soft, uncertain voice filters through my frustration. “How do you know that if you haven’t let anyone try?”
I whirl to face her, finally letting all the pent-up aggravation flow out. “I have , Wren. I did bullshit physical therapy for months. Let the doctors and the therapist poke and prod me. Stick TENS units on me, fucking electrical shocks, massages, all sorts of treatments and workouts that were supposed to rebuild the muscle and make me whole, and you know where it got me? Fucking nowhere .”
My final word booms around the locker room, bouncing off the metal lockers and old rafters like a bomb exploding around us.
Her bottom lip trembles, and tears start to pool in her eyes. “I know you feel that way, and I know it probably seems like it’s hopeless, but I’ve had a lot of patients in your situation—”
I gape at her. “Really? You’ve worked with a lot of people who got shot?”
She recoils slightly, and instantly, regret sits heavy on my chest for snapping at her. “Okay, well, no. Not exactly your situation, but I’ve worked with athletes who have had major reconstructive surgeries, who had to battle their way back, and I’m telling you right now that continuing to train like nothing’s wrong is only going to hurt you further and make it impossible for you to get to where you want to be.”
“Fuck!”
Pacing away from her again, shaking out my hands, I try to ignore that burning pain in my shoulder that merely confirms she’s fucking right. It’s been months and I’m getting nowhere. Not progressing. Stuck in this limbo that seems to go on forever.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I release a frustrated groan. “What the fuck do you want me to do, Wren?”
“I want you to let me examine you, and I want you to give me copies of your MRIs, your treatment notes, and any other medical records you have so that I can look at them.” She inhales hard enough for me to hear it over the rushing of blood in my own ears, and I open my eyes to meet her concerned ones. “And I want you to tell me exactly what’s wrong. Everything you feel. Any time of day. All day. When you’re doing any thing.”
“What good will that do?”
Besides making me admit my weaknesses and lay them all out in the open.
Exposing me.
Laying me completely bare.
She presses her lips together again and approaches me cautiously, stopping a few feet in front of me. “It’ll help me know what I’m dealing with so I can devise a course of treatment. We are going to work together, Atlas, to try to fix your shoulder.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do PT. I’m in the middle of training camp. By the time I’m done with my workouts with your grandfather, I’m fucking exhausted and in too much pain to do anything else.”
“Then you’re just going to have to dig deep and find some more fucking energy,”—her lips twist knowingly—“dig deep for that stamina I know you have because what you’re doing at training camp isn’t going to mean shit if we don’t try to fix your shoulder.”
“What if—” I swallow back the words, not wanting to think them, let alone speak them. “What if it can’t be fixed?”
It’s the obvious question.
And at least two different doctors have told me that I might never fight again, that it might never get better.
I didn’t want to believe them, but the last few months have proven they might be right.
Wren fists her hands at her sides, like she’s trying to fight the urge to touch me when I’m so agitated. “Then you’re going to have a really difficult decision in a few months, but for right now, we stay optimistic.”
“That’s pretty fucking hard.”
All the optimism has been zapped out of me by months of pain and being stuck in this purgatory.
Tears shimmer in her eyes, and she nods. “I know. Believe me, I’ve been there.”
“Shit.” I wince and rub at the back of my neck again. “Of course, you have.”
She undoubtedly spent months—maybe even longer—in some burn unit, having skin grafts, fighting infections and damaged lungs, trying just to live, and here I am, complaining about having to do some extra fucking work to try to heal myself.
I release a heavy breath and open my eyes to meet hers.
Wren so badly wants to fix things.
To fix me .
And I know how tenacious she can be.
If anyone can help me, it would be this woman. The only one who has ever really touched my heart and who holds it now after one single night with her.
“You can’t tell anyone, Little Bird.”
She sighs. “Why not? Your family wants to help you. They all love you. My grandfather does, too. They’ll understand—”
“No, they won’t.” I shake my head and slam my fist against the closest locker. The sharp crack of metal reverberates through the room. “You don’t understand. This is all I’ve ever been good at. The only thing I’ve ever had. If I fail at this…” I swallow, the emotion threatening to choke me. “I don’t have anything to fall back on. I can’t go to work for the family. I can’t go sling drinks at the fucking clubs, wait tables at The Grind or one of the other restaurants, or hell, even fucking sell books with Jude. I can’t do it. I’m not cut out for any of that.”
“You can do anything , Atlas.”
“This is it for me, Wren. If I can’t make this work…”
I let my words trail off because I don’t know what the answer or the continuation of that sentence is. But she steps forward and throws her arms around me, laying her cheek against my sweat-slicked chest.
“Shit, Wren, I’m disgusting right now.”
She presses her lips over my heart. “I don’t care. You need a hug.”
I chuckle and wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair, the scent of almonds and cherry filling my lungs as I breathe her in. Having her up against me, offering herself so freely and openly, begging me to let her help, makes it physically impossible for me to say no.
“Okay.”
She tilts her face up toward me. “Okay, what?”
“I’ll work with you, do whatever you tell me…”
Her dark brows rise. “Anything?”
The way she asks makes my blood run cold. She’s already worried I won’t like something she’s going to suggest. That reservation runs through her typically open gaze and gives her away.
“Within reason .” I tilt her face up to mine more. “Why?”
She twists her lips, clearly contemplating how to say whatever it is she’s holding back. “Because I don’t think you’re going to like my first rule.”
“There are rules?”
Her head bobs, her dark hair slipping from her shoulder, exposing the evidence of last night.
I dip my head and feather my lips over the spot, wanting so badly to bite and suck at her flesh again. “What’s that?”
She swallows so thickly I can hear it. “No sex.”
“The fuck?” My hard cock pinned between us jumps at her words, and I tug my head back. “You’re joking.”
She shakes her head, determination in her gaze. “No. You need to focus on getting better. Channel all your energy into that. Not other…activities.”
“Bloody hell, Wren.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, then down to that love mark on her collarbone. “No fucking way. You can’t give yourself over to me like you did last night and then lay down a rule like this.”
“I just did.” She shoves gently at my chest, and I pull back to meet her gaze. “I’m offering you my help to try to save your career. Either you take it with its conditions, or you continue on the path you have been, which seems to be a dead fucking end.”
“Fuck.”
She’s serious.
That bullet didn’t kill me, but Wren might with this rule.
Still, two can play her game.
“Fine, but I have a rule, too.”
Her brows rise again. “Oh, really?”
I dip my head and run my tongue along her neck to that spot behind her ear that I discovered last night makes her entire body twitch. “Yep. I’ll agree to no sex until you say so, but you’re moving in with me.”
She jerks back with wide eyes. “What? No! I can’t—”
Taking her face in my hands, I hold her steady. “You can , and you will. I saw your apartment this morning, Wren, and you are not staying there. Not only is it a dump that probably has asbestos and lead paint, but you aren’t safe there, not from the likes of Satriano.” I brush my mouth across hers, breathing her in, pressing my body against hers and letting her feel how serious I am about this. “You will move into my place, sleep in my bed every night, be there when I wake up every morning, and you’re not going anywhere without me, Bishop, or some other type of security with you at all times. That’s the deal. Non-negotiable.”
Need burns across her gaze, but I see the resignation there, along with the resolve to stand her ground despite anything I throw at her.
She knows I won’t budge, and I know she won’t, either.