Chapter 17
17
TWO WEEKS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
WREN
A tlas’ facial scruff brushes against my bare abdomen, walking that fine line between abrading and tickling my sensitive skin there. I laugh and squirm, trying to get away from him, but his strong, inked arm pressed across my breasts holds me down, while his other hand firmly clenches my hip, helping to keep me in place.
“Stop squirming, or I’ll tie you to this bed, Little Bird.”
Ignoring his warning and the way it heats me from the inside out, I kick my legs, trying to knee him in the ribs—or somewhere else that might hurt even more—to seek freedom. “You’re tickling me.”
I barely get the words out around my laughter and struggling breaths, and I use all my strength to try to get the big guy to budge.
He doesn’t relent, just feathers his lips over my stomach. “I don’t care. I’m talking to the baby.”
Well, damn.
My heart stops for a second before it returns to hammering violently against my ribcage from the exertion of trying to escape this man.
I swear, I never thought I’d be one of those women desperate to have kids, to be knocked up, especially by a man I’ve only been with for a few months. But something about lying in bed with him tonight, after we just saw our baby on a sonogram for the first time, knowing that we’re going to be a family fills me with a kind of joy I didn’t know was possible.
Or one I ever thought I could have.
Things were always so chaotic with Mom.
In and out of rehab.
Disappearing for days or weeks at a time.
Her constant struggle with addiction and no meaningful relationship with Dad meant I never felt truly settled or secure.
Gramps tried to keep all the bad things from me. He did his best to provide what I never got from the two people in the world who should have given it to me but weren’t fully able to.
But I saw the Hawkes.
Almost every day.
So many of them—some not even connected by blood.
With so much love that it practically oozed out of them.
And I craved that—the big, loud, at least seemingly happy family that was eternally there, supporting each other.
Looking back, I know better and understand that no one is ever happy all the time, that there were always struggles lingering beneath the smiles and dramas happening behind the scenes, but it never changed how they were there for each other.
And me.
They helped Gramps give me the most normal life possible.
Things with the Hawkes aren’t exactly calm right now—not with the opening, the fight, the wedding, and Satriano constantly sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong—but I see a light at the end of the tunnel.
A future.
A real one with stability and love I couldn’t even fathom feeling.
All because of Atlas.
“Now, little one, I would appreciate it if you would stop making your mother so nauseous.” He kisses above my belly button and spreads his wide palm across it, his rough fingers tickling me again and making me squirm. His gaze darts up to meet mine, heated with something other than anger. Worry . “I don’t like seeing you sick.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not sick, Atlas. I’m pregnant.”
His lips twist into a scowl. “Well, the baby is making you sick.”
Thankfully, not at this exact moment, though I know better than to think it will stay this way long. Ever since that night at dinner, things have been less than pleasant.
Something Atlas has been on high alert about.
Every minute.
Every day.
And his constant concern over the last few weeks, since the morning— all day —sickness really kicked in, borders on overbearing at times.
Also, insanely sweet.
I’ve come to accept that Atlas just doesn’t know any other way to do anything but at full throttle. That definitely includes the protectiveness he’s shown toward me since I arrived and even more so since he discovered he got me pregnant.
As I thread my fingers through his hair, he leans into it, seeking to have me drag my nails along his scalp, which has somehow become his absolute favorite. “I’ll be okay once my body adjusts to the hormones. Hopefully.”
He sighs and shifts up to rest on one elbow, hovering above me, his hand still affectionately and protectively placed over where our baby grows. “Maybe. My mother said she was sick almost her entire pregnancy with Astrid and me.”
A laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
One of his brows rises suspiciously. “Why not?”
“Because you’ve always been difficult.”
Even as a child, Atlas was a rebel.
Never falling in line with the other kids.
Always running around, making trouble.
Seeking new and exciting ways to explore and push his parents’ buttons.
That was what drew me to him—his unbreakable, indomitable spirit.
Which is why seeing him how he was when I first returned was so crushing. Because he was beaten. Maybe not broken but cracked. Threatening to shatter.
I wouldn’t know that now, looking at him, the playful gleam in his eye, the mischievous tilt to his lips.
“Hey”—his hand slides from my stomach over to my side—“what did you just call me?”
His light, teasing tone doesn’t fool me.
Trouble brews in his eyes.
A glimmer of intent I recognize all too well.
I know exactly what he plans, and in my current state, I don’t think I can handle one of his vicious attacks. “Don’t you dare, Atlas.”
He offers a coy look. “Don’t I dare what?”
Before I can even form a response or object further, he starts tickling me. And he knows exactly where to hit me to have the greatest effect.
I double over, trying to turn away from him, but he simply wraps his massive, strong body around mine and cocoons me in, completely at his mercy, with his hand at my sensitive side, covering the scars.
“Okay, okay, okay.” I gasp. “I take it back—”
“Liar.” He finally stops when my breath catches hard. “You okay?”
Releasing a relieved sigh, I glance back at him. “I’m fine.”
Mostly.
I know he’s asking about my damaged lungs as much as he is my nausea, and at the moment, I’m good on both fronts.
The ginger candies Skye suggested have helped somewhat—as has having the chef who does all Atlas’ pre-planned meals during camp constantly trying to find things I can eat and keep down—but I still had to duck out of two classes today before our doctor’s appointment to make a bathroom run and pray to the porcelain god.
If everyone in the classes didn’t already know I was pregnant, they sure did today.
Atlas reaches out to the nightstand and snags the black-and-white grainy picture taken today, his eyes focusing on the little number on the bottom that indicates gestation. “I still can’t believe it wasn’t our first night together or even the choir loft at the fundraiser.”
I roll onto my back and gaze up at him, dragging my nails through his beard as he leans into my touch again, still staring affectionately at the picture. “Who knew all those times we were not having sex and you were insisting on pushing your cum up into me that it would actually take?”
He glances down and grins. “The Hawkes have super sperm, I suppose.”
“Or it was the Anderson sperm.”
His humor fades. “You know my dad is more Hawke than Anderson. It’s a name only.”
“I know.” And I’ve learned all the sordid history around why Gabe has always considered himself a Hawke, even before he ended up with Skye. “Is that why you don’t fight under it?”
He laughs. “No. Anderson just isn’t very intimidating, is it?”
“I guess not.”
Though, a lot of things I used to find intimating about Atlas are now just the many things I love about him.
His intensity.
His passion.
His drive.
His ability to focus on one thing and give his whole heart and attention to it.
Atlas gets quiet, staring at the picture, and his brow furrows deeply. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his shoulders stiff and jaw locked.
I brush my fingers over the wrinkles on his forehead and down between his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
A quiet stillness settles over him, signaling that whatever he’s contemplating must be big. Atlas is rarely, if ever, quiet or still, unless he’s somewhere deep in his own head. And that, more often than not, leads him down a road he shouldn’t be on.
One that makes him second-guess things he shouldn’t.
I recognize it because I did the same damn thing with him when he first dragged me here.
“What if—” Atlas swallows thickly, the tattoos on his neck bobbing as he struggles to find what he wants to say. “What if the baby is afraid of me?”
“What?”
Where the hell did that come from?
He rolls away from me onto his back, holding the picture up above him with two hands above his face. “I mean, you were afraid of me that day with Satriano…”
It isn’t a question.
And I can hear the pain in his voice thinking it’s true.
I shift onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow, resting my free hand over his bare chest, across the colorful ink, where I can feel his heartbeat under his rib cage. “I was not afraid, just a little taken aback by the violent reaction and how angry you got so quickly. That’s all. Never afraid. Because I know that isn’t you. You were just trying to protect me from a danger I couldn’t see. What you said is true. Who you are in the ring is not who you are outside of it.”
His gaze drifts away from the sonogram photo and over to meet mine, and I see my words haven’t done much to alleviate his worry.
Stormy Caribbean-blue swirls with dark uncertainty.
“You’re going to be a great father. I’ve seen you with Charlotte and Vivi and even the babies. Benjamin and Giovanni love you, and our baby will, too.”
One corner of his lips ticks up. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”
“I mean it. You may be big, badass Atlas ‘the Hurricane’ Hawke, but like you said, you’re also still that little eight-year-old boy who used to hold my hand and comfort me when I cried. You’ll know what to do when the baby gets here.”
He releases a little sardonic laugh. “I sure as fuck hope so because right now, I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing anywhere except for when I’m with you.”
That crack in his armor, the ding in his usual steady confidence, makes tears sting my eyes, and I take the picture from him and set it back on the nightstand. He watches me dubiously, like he’s waiting for me to crawl off the bed and leave him to go heave in the bathroom again.
I return to him and throw a leg across his hips, spreading myself across his body and laying my cheek on his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and presses a kiss on my forehead.
But he doesn’t relax.
Tense under me, I can feel the weight of everything still heavy on his mind.
Tracing the words inked across his chest, their meaning hits me even heavier today than it normally does.
Warriors don’t show their heart until the axe reveals it.
I know the heart that lies beneath my palm, the one that beats for me and this baby and every single member of his family, and I know the one he brings into the ring with him and what carrying that expectation—from himself and the Hawkes—is doing to him.
“I think things will be better after the fight.”
He twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. “You do?”
“I do.”
Atlas may not believe it, may not be able to see the forest through the trees, but this won’t be forever.
He just needs someone to reassure him of that and make him believe it, too.
“Once the hotel is open and that big thing that’s been looming over the family is over, and once you’ve won that belt, then all that stress is going to be off your shoulders. It won’t feel like you’re carrying the weight of the Hawkes’ future on it.”
“I know it sounds stupid, Little Bird, but if I lose this fight at our hotel opening, it’s just…” He closes his eyes and releases a heavy sigh. “It would be a fucking embarrassment to all of us. I have no choice but to win.”
There it is.
That “take no prisoners” attitude that’s always served him in the ring is right there; he just needs to dig through the other bullshit to get it out and focus on it.
“So do it.” I push myself up so I can lock gazes with him. “You’ve earned it through your hard work and the pain you’ve suffered to get here. Don’t let Gordon win. Do whatever it takes. I know how relentless you can be, how ruthless—”
He grins at me. “Do you?”
I nod, feathering my lips over his. “That’s how I ended up pregnant. Remember?”
“Oh, believe me.” He kisses me. “I remember.” Another kiss. “Every single time I’ve kissed you.” Another. “Every single time I’ve touched you.” Another. “Every single orgasm I’ve ever given you…all seared into my memory forever.”
“You better have a lot more room in there”—I tap my finger to his temple—“given that we’ve only been together for a few months.”
His blond brows rise. “Are you saying you plan on staying with me forever?”
Shit.
We’ve joked about the future, about him buying me a better ring, and he’s said things that have certainly insinuated that’s what he wants. And now, I’m having his baby, which definitely means we’ll be tied together forever as parents. But we’ve never really discussed getting married or anything more permanent than getting through these three months. That single night has always been our finish line in everything we’ve done up until now.
Atlas smiles at me. “I like the sound of that, Little Bird.”
He leans up and presses his lips to mine, tugging me down against him. The tension melts away from his body under mine, and something else hardens the longer he kisses me senseless.
When he finally pulls away, I can see it there in his eyes, that future for all of us.
All we have to do is get through the opening and the fight.
Let him prove to himself that he is who he thinks he is, that he’s back.
Atlas pushes my hair behind my ear. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay meeting the girls tomorrow?”
I nod. “I’ll be fine. I can deal with the nausea.”
He slides his hand between us and spreads his palm across my stomach again. “I’ll keep asking the baby to be nicer to his mom.”
“His? What if it’s a girl?”
Atlas’ face goes very pale, as if I’ve suggested something that never even crossed his mind. He swallows thickly again. “Then I’m in serious fucking trouble.”
ATLAS
I tug at the collar of the ugly-as-hell tux and scowl at my reflection in the long mirror in front of me, making eye contact with the guys scattered in the room behind me through it. “Can someone please remind me again why we can’t just all wear our own existing tuxes for this shindig?”
Cass walks up behind me and slaps me on the shoulder, squeezing it in a way that would have been excruciating a few months ago. “Because your cousin wants us in these .”
He makes a flourished sweeping gesture down my body, and I catch Isaac’s smirk in the mirror.
Making a mock gagging sound, I glance behind me at the long tails on the coat that go to my knees. “But these are legit penguin suits. We’d look much better in our modern tuxes than these horrendous things.”
Kennedy’s soon-to-be husband smirks and goes to take a seat on the low red leather couch along the wall of the private dressing room area reserved for us to do our final fitting for the wedding. “If you have the balls to tell Kennedy that”—he raises his glass of scotch to me—“you go right ahead. Be my guest.”
Pope snorts as he shrugs on his jacket and starts buttoning it. “I don’t think we should be encouraging Atlas to risk his life this close to the fight date.”
I scowl at him and flip him the bird. “Fuck off, Dr. Clarke.”
He grins at me and nudges me off the small dais so he can examine himself in the mirror. Turning side to side, he adjusts his jacket. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I think these look good. Dashing. Very old-fashioned New Orleans.”
Cass points at him. “Precisely. Exactly what Kennedy wants. Old elegance.”
Isaac snorts, crossing his ankle over one knee, where he sits on the opposite side of the room from the groom. “Then why is she getting married at a brand-new hotel?”
Exactly.
I almost interject my agreement and object, once again, to the awful attire Kennedy is insisting we wear, but Cass holds up a hand.
He tosses me a “shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you” look. “She and I have spent pretty much all our time working on that place for well over a year, and we’re touting it as a premiere wedding and reception space in the city, so do you really think she would have gotten married anywhere else?”
Isaac’s brow furrows as he considers the question for a moment. “Good point.”
It is.
And as much as I hate these damn tuxes and that I have to spend my time here getting them fitted properly instead of with Wren, I can see why she’s so insistent on this.
Kennedy loves The Hawke Hotel, and she has good reason to want to share her big day in the space that she almost single-handedly ensured would get built.
She’s poured her heart and soul into it, working with Aunt Storm and Uncle Landon on the construction and guiding the interior design almost solely. Because while Savage and Dad might like to think they’re the ones in control at Hawke Enterprises, everyone else knows who is really running things these days—especially where the hotel is concerned.
And it’s the blonde in sky-high stilettoes who walks all over them to get what she wants.
Like Wren at the dress fitting today, even when I know she isn’t feeling well.
After watching her spend half an hour with her head in the toilet this morning after she woke and seeing the green color her skin appeared even after she insisted she was feeling better, it was nearly impossible for me to leave her.
Until she practically forced me out the door.
For the hundredth time since I got here, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check for any messages from her or one of the other girls indicating she might need me.
Nothing.
Just like the other ninety-nine times.
I tighten my grip on the stupid device, fighting the need to text all of them for an update.
Cass swirls his drink, staring into it, momentarily lost in thought, and I walk over to the small bar provided by the tailor to pour myself one. It’s the only thing I can think of that might actually relax me and keep me from being too overbearing where Wren is concerned today.
Pope glances over at me from his spot on the dais, where he turns side to side and examines himself. “Should you be having that?”
Glowering at him, I snag the tumbler from the bar top. “One ounce of whiskey isn’t going to fuck over my entire training camp. Besides, I need it.” I sip the scotch, savoring the smoky, peaty Islay and letting it burn through my chest and gut.
Fuck, is that good.
My first taste of alcohol in almost three months—and it’s worth it.
Even if it doesn’t do anything to ease my worry about Wren and how she’s doing.
Isaac waggles his eyebrows, eyeing the drink in my hand. “Trouble in paradise, Daddy?”
I point at him. “You don’t call me that.”
He laughs, relaxing back onto the couch, his own drink in hand. “You better get used to being called that.”
Pope smirks and steps off the dais. “The only one left here who won’t be called that is going to be Jude.”
At least here in this room, since Coen is still a no-show.
Jude looks up from where he sits quietly on the other end of the couch with Cass and offers a little half-hearted smile. “I am perfectly content to live childless with Angelina, if that’s what she wants. We have a lot of nieces and nephews to keep us busy.”
I lean against the bar and examine the quietest, most reticent Hawke. It’s so rare to get him alone, away from Angie or out of his condo, that the opportunity to talk to him about anything can’t be missed. “ Is that what she wants?”
Ang has always been like another mother figure to all of us, and of any of the girls, she has the most natural instincts in that regard. I had always assumed she’d end up with a whole brood of her own someday.
He rubs his hand on the back of his neck and up through his thick blond hair. “I mean, I’m sure she wants kids, but…”
Oh, fuck.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
Sometimes, when we’re all together, the banter seems to encourage things to slip out that shouldn’t be said. Here I’ve been worried about the type of father I am going to be, and Jude can barely leave his fucking condo some days.
We’ve seen a lot more of him since he and Angelina got together. He seems to be a lot better about going to familiar places, but there are times he can’t even make it to Nana’s for Sunday dinner.
I’m surprised he even came today.
Even if they can have children, they may not want to, and it’s none of my fucking business. It just seemed like the natural question to ask in the conversation, given how there aren’t any secrets with the Hawkes.
“Man…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
His head whips up, and those icy eyes meet mine. “No, it’s okay. It’s a fair question. She’s your cousin. You want her to be happy.”
“You do make her happy.”
No matter what happens between them, I know that much is true.
Those two were always meant to end up together, just like Wren and I were.
I take another sip of my drink and check my phone yet again as an awkward silence settles over the room. Typically, someone is always busting someone else’s balls, but today, things feel a little off.
Maybe because one of the tuxes still hangs on the elegant stand in the far corner of the room, and no one has been able to get a hold of Coen to see why he isn’t here.
He might not have a lot of direction in life, but one thing he has always been is loyal to a fault. And reliable. Filling in when needed anywhere in the Hawke Enterprises empire without argument—even if he complains about it to us occasionally.
Him not showing up for the tux fitting for Kennedy’s wedding doesn’t sit well with anyone.
Isaac pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks it, muttering something under his breath. Of everyone in the room, he’s the most annoyed with his little brother’s absence and the least likely to give him any grace when he does rush in with some excuse.
Pope takes off his jacket, watching Isaac closely. “Still no word from him?”
The hard set of Isaac’s jaw gives us the answer before he ever speaks. “Nope.”
Cass shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “Did you ask your mom and dad?”
Isaac nods while he continues to stare at the phone in his hand. “Yep.” His eyes dart up to meet Cass’. “They haven’t seen him in two days.”
What started as annoyance over Coen being forty-five minutes late has suddenly shifted into something much more serious. The last thing the Hawkes need right now is another problem—like one of us MIA while Satriano lurks around.
I tighten my grip on my drink as my entire body goes rigid. “He’s not, like, missing, is he?”
A scowl tilts Isaac’s lips as he considers my question. “I’m not totally sure. He told me he was heading to Baton Rouge for something a couple of days ago. I haven’t heard from him since. But we all know it’s not totally unusual for him to disappear for a few days and then pop back up. It’s not like he has any sort of set schedule.”
Pope nods, but his hard, dark gaze holds concern. “True, but still, the fact that no one’s heard from him…”
My gut twists, the scotch souring. “He knew about the fitting, right?”
Isaac bobs his head, his thick, dark hair falling over his eyes. “We talked about it at dinner on Sunday.”
I chew on my bottom lip, trying to remember the conversation.
They probably did.
Not that I would know about it.
I was more engrossed in the heated discussion about my upcoming fatherhood with everyone, getting peppered with a million questions we don’t have answers to yet. It beat being drilled about my training and readiness for the fight, but it left me no time to engage with any other topics that may have been mentioned around the long, now-almost-overflowing table.
Cass tenses, his green eyes lifting from his drink to Isaac. “Should we be worried?”
Isaac sighs and slips his phone back into his pocket, running his hand over his head. “I don’t know. If I don’t hear from him by the end of the day, I guess we’ll send Bishop and Saint looking for him.”
Hell.
A somber mood settles over us.
Between my verbal snafu with Jude, and Coen potentially missing, the idea of joking about these stupid tuxes or Kennedy’s bridezilla attitude suddenly holds less appeal.
And her words from a few weeks ago come back, ringing in my ears.
It seems like anytime something good happens in this family, it’s immediately followed by two, sometimes three, bad things…
Wren’s pregnancy is something good.
That wasn’t what Kennedy was referring to at that point, since no one knew. She was concerned about what would happen after the opening, but now, I can’t shake the shiver down my spine, thinking she might be right.
Something good followed by two—or three—bad things.
Like a missing Coen.
Cass sits back, scanning the room. “Two weeks, guys…”
Everyone looks over at him.
He holds up two fingers. “In two weeks, the hotel is going to open, and all of our lives are going to change. Atlas will have his title belt, and a week later, I’m going to be a married man.”
Pope grins, despite the heavy mood in the room. “Officially a Hawke.”
Cass chuckles. “I’m pretty sure I was officially a Hawke the moment your cousin sunk her nails into me.”
I snort-laugh at this characterization of his and Kennedy’s relationship and down the rest of my drink. “More like her stilettos.”
He smirks. “That, too. Though, at the beginning, she was trying to hit the jugular.”
Rightfully so.
The man was trying to bring down Hawke Enterprises and spent years setting up ways to do just that, so if he hadn’t developed feelings for Kennedy and if Satriano hadn’t revealed himself, things would look very different today.
Isaac climbs from his seat, tosses back his drink, and sets the empty tumbler on the small table next to the couch. “Speaking of which, do you think the girls are having a good time at their dress fitting?”
Sure hope so.
Even now, I have to fight the urge to pull out my phone and text, but I know I’ve been annoying her with my constant hovering and overprotectiveness.
I clutch the edge of the bar to keep myself from doing just that. “I hope so. To be honest, I’m a little worried about Wren. She’s still really nauseous. I don’t know how she’s still teaching so many classes every day. I don’t want her to burn herself out.”
Isaac nods, shrugging off his tux coat to return it to the provided hanger. “I understand. I was the same way when Jack was pregnant with Giovanni, but we both know neither of them is the type to slow down for anything. Even a parasite growing inside them.”
Cass releases a deep laugh that carries around the opulent room. “A parasite?”
One of Isaac’s shoulders rises and falls. “I mean, that’s what it is—technically speaking.”
“Jesus Christ, man.” Pope shakes his head, laughing. “You certainly have a way with words, Counselor.”
He shrugs. “But am I wrong, Dr. Clarke?”
Pope scowls at him, offering an incredulous look. “I mean, no. There are certainly ways a placenta and fetus could be compared to a parasite, but I don’t know any doctors who would actually call it that.”
Isaac scoffs and tosses him a dismissive hand. “Regardless, the girls will take care of Wren. I’m sure she’s fine.”
I’m sure she is, too.
Despite the constant agitation being away from her and the baby causes, deep down, I know nothing will happen to her with Bishop watching her back and the rest of the girls there, too. But since the moment I realized she was pregnant, it’s like my whole world has shifted.
Opening night and the fight have been my sole concern for so long that thinking beyond that single point in time, to the future, to our baby finally arriving, has thrown me off my usual laser focus on what I have to do in the ring.
And that could be deadly.