Chapter 21
21
ATLAS
T he moment I step through the door into the condo, let it close, and drop my bag to the floor, Wren’s soft footsteps sound upstairs.
Shit.
I haven’t thought this through. As soon as Satriano dropped me back at the gym, all I wanted to do was get home, to get back here, to get back to Wren. But I never considered what I would say when I saw her or figured out how to explain that I’ve been thrown into this quicksand with no foothold.
What the fuck do I tell her?
The bedroom door swings open. She steps out onto the landing, staring down at me, concern furrowing her brow. “Where have you been all day? Astrid texted. She said she talked to you at the gym, and it looked like you were done hours ago.”
I was…
Then I lingered far too long, going through Jenkins’ desk and office, staring at the photos on the wall of all the people he’s trained over the years. Some taken there at the gym. Some ringside. Including ones of Jimmy with my grandfather when he won his first belt and with me at my first professional fight. And so many of him with Wren when she was living here.
The same bright smile and joy radiated from her then as it does now.
Which only made me want to head home more.
But Satriano intercepted me and set me on the twisted road I now find myself on. One with a massive fork in it. And nothing good seems to wait at the end of either.
“Atlas…are you okay?”
Her soft question floats down to me, threatening to tear me open with her sweetness and genuine concern.
“Fuck…” I mutter under my breath and stalk into the living room toward the wet bar without answering either of her questions, but I can’t ignore them forever.
Or her.
Definitely not her.
Nor do I want to.
None of this is her fault, and the longer I remain silent, the longer I push her away, the harder it will be on her.
Swallowing the truth, I glance up to the landing when I reach the well-stocked bar on the far side of the condo. “I had something I had to take care of after training…”
Wren slowly descends the steps, wearing tight yoga pants that hug her thin frame and an oversized sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder, exposing the twisted scars across her collarbone and up her neck. And while she looks better—stronger, not as pale or unsteady—her eyes still remain puffy and red.
All I want is to go to her, to take her in my arms, to pull her close and hold her tight, to breathe in that almond and cherry scent and just pretend everything’s okay, but it’s so far from it.
So fucking far.
I pour myself a double Blanton’s neat and down it in one swallow, watching her approach.
Wren narrows her eyes on me. “Something’s wrong.”
Tightening my grip on the glass, I turn to face her fully. My grip on that control I always pride myself on slips, and while I manage to keep the truth contained, I can’t lie to her. “ Everything’s fucking wrong.”
She recoils slightly, and regret immediately slams into my sternum for lashing out at her…and for my choice of words. While everything else is wrong, Wren and our baby are the shining lights, the only good things that aren’t wrapped in pain and uncertainty.
“Fuck, Little Bird.” I set down the glass, close my eyes, and rub my temples, where a pounding headache has suddenly decided to form. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to direct that at you. I love you…this isn’t about you or the baby or…I’m just…”
I look back up at her in time to see Wren wrap her arms around herself, crossing them over her stomach as if she and our child need to be protected.
From me.
Jesus, I’m an asshole.
Tentatively advancing toward her, I give her time to move away if she wants to. And I couldn’t blame her if she did. I’m not sure I would want to be around me if I were in her shoes right now, but she stands her ground, waiting for me to offer an explanation that I don’t think I can.
She levels me with an intense gaze filled with a mix of so much love and uncertainty. “Where were you? Whatever happened, just tell me.”
If only I could.
I want her advice.
Her insight.
Her support.
I want her to help me talk through this shitstorm I’ve found myself in.
But standing here, looking into her tear-soaked eyes, knowing how miserable she’s been and how hard every minute of every day is for her, I can’t put this on her.
It would draw her farther into Satriano’s sticky web, and I want her and the baby as far away from him as possible.
“It’s better if you don’t know, Wren.”
She shakes her head, fisting her hands at her sides, her frustration starting to show. “No, it’s not. Don’t you think there have been enough secrets?”
I want to argue with her about that, but she isn’t wrong.
From the beginning, I promised to be honest with Wren, and I always have been up to this moment. I’ve never had any reason to lie to her, nor would I ever keep anything important from the woman I intend to spend the rest of my life with. But this is Satriano we’re talking about. And a request— no, a demand —that could destroy everything her grandfather, she, and I have bent over backward to accomplish.
“I’m sorry, Little Bird.”
My voice catches, and I swallow the boulder that seems to have lodged in my throat, retreating. Needing to put some distance between us before I do or say something I can’t take back and put her in even more danger.
Wren takes a step toward me, her hands tightening at her sides, not letting me run. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
Too many things to count.
That she spent all this time helping me when she could have been concentrating on continuing to grow her business…
That I monopolized her since she arrived back in New Orleans when she could have spent time with her grandfather before he died…
That I have snapped at her and taken out my own frustrations on the best thing in my life…
She has kept me going through all the times the pain got so bad that I wanted to quit, and now, that man is asking me to do just that. To throw away everything I’ve worked for, that she has worked for, that Jenkins did.
I release a long sigh, closing my eyes and dropping my head forward. “I’m just sorry for everything.”
Wren’s arms wrap around me, and she presses her face to my chest. I lower my face into her hair and hold her tightly. Each breath I take, I inhale her calming scent, taking it deep into my lungs, trying to let it soothe away the agony I’ve felt since Satriano said those words.
“I want you to throw the fight.”
A shudder rolls through me.
She squeezes me, then lifts her head, staring up at me through thick, black lashes. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
I palm her cheeks, dragging my thumb across the scars along her left jawline. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Little Bird. I swear. If it were, I would tell you.”
It’s a lie.
A huge one.
And I never want to lie to this woman.
But I can’t tell her the countless hours and pain have been for nothing because Coen made a stupid fucking decision that could bury us all.
It isn’t about the money for Satriano. If it were, this would already be over where my cousin was concerned. I would have paid him in the backseat of that SUV today with one simple bank transfer. Coen’s bet is nothing, a drop in the ocean if the Hawkes needed to pony it up to protect him.
Satriano knows that all too well.
The bastard reveled in knowing I could pay it but that he’d never take the offer—because it isn’t about the ten million; it’s about the power the debt will give him over Coen.
I’m sure the man doesn’t want to lose billions from other wagers made when he set the odds, but when it comes to the Hawkes, having leverage is worth more than any dollar signs.
He kills two birds with one stone by making me take a dive—protects his businesses from a huge loss and gets power he’ll certainly use over someone he otherwise could never sink his claws into.
Fucking Coen…
Wren stares up at me, soft amber eyes searching my own for the truth of whatever I’m holding back from her. “You look exhausted.”
“Fuck…” I kiss her forehead. “I am.”
“Have you eaten today?”
I pull back and shake my head. “No.”
She frowns. “You can’t do that—starve yourself seven days before a title fight.”
A grin pulls at my lips.
“You sound like your grandfather right now.”
Warmth floods her gaze, and she gives me the tiniest smile. “I hope so.”
“I’ll eat. I promise.” I scan her face, scouring for any signs of her still feeling weak or sick to her stomach. “How are you doing? My mom said she stopped by and checked on you.”
She nods. “She did. I’m actually really good.” The smile she gives me reaches deep into my chest and warms it from the inside out. “She made some sort of soup that she swears is your grandmother’s cure for stomach aches and nausea.”
I chuckle at her description. “Penicillin soup?”
If anyone asked, I couldn’t even count the number of times I’ve eaten that over my thirty-plus years on the planet. Every time I got a sniffle, had tummy trouble, or was just feeling down, a bowl of it always appeared—either on Nana’s table or Mom’s.
The ultimate remedy for anything that ails anyone—according to Nana.
Wren grins. “I was terrified of the name, but it was delicious. I kept it down, and I’ve honestly felt great since then.”
I want to be relieved at that, to take her at her word, but I brush my fingers under her puffy, red eyes and the thin streaks I can still see on her cheeks. “But you’ve been crying, Little Bird.”
She sniffles, her bottom lip trembling, letting her eyes close for a moment, like she’s trying to gather her thoughts or stop herself from crying again. “Sometimes, I’m fine. And then other times…I just…” A heavy sigh fills the air between us. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Me, either.”
And being back in the gym training every day makes that so much worse.
It would be so easy to give in to the pain and loss, to stay here, wrapped up with Wren every day, wallowing in those heavy feelings. But it isn’t what Jenkins would want.
Not for me when he put so much work into training me for this fight.
Not for her when she’s just started her business and it’s thriving.
Wren’s fingers curl into my T-shirt, and she stares at the fabric without really focusing on it. “Before you got home, I was thinking about going to his place and cleaning it out…”
She hiccups a little sob.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Wren. We can pay people to do it. We’ll have everything boxed up and put in storage until you’re ready to go through it. There’s nothing in there that can’t wait.”
Other than going into his place to grab a few things for the funeral, we’ve stayed away. Mostly because the thought of being there, surrounded by everything he owned in the world, made both of us want to break down even harder.
Neither of us was up for it then—nor do I think we could handle it now.
Her wet eyes flick up to meet mine. “You don’t know that. What if—”
“I knew your grandfather, Little Bird. He was a simple man. My guess is he didn’t even have a will. You’re his only living relative, so whatever’s in there belongs to you. There’s nothing that can’t wait until after the opening and fight and after the wedding, when life hopefully calms down.”
Another lie.
This one almost more painful than the last.
Things are not going to calm down.
A cataclysmic explosion will go off when everybody realizes what Coen’s done, the position he’s put me in, and what I’ve done to protect him.
I tighten my grip on her, wishing the bastard would call me back so I could tear him a new fucking asshole and find out what the fuck is going on with him that he would place a bet like that—let alone against me.
But his phone keeps going to voicemail.
Over and over again.
At least two dozen times since Satriano dumped me back at the gym.
And he isn’t replying to texts, either.
Intentionally or not, Coen has gone underground again.
Maybe because he understands he’s fucked when it comes to my fight, that he’ll have to sit there ringside and watch me win, knowing he’s going to lose and be in debt up to his eyeballs.
Only he has no idea how serious it is. No clue that Satriano is the one pulling the strings, that the same black SUV that has snatched Pope and me is going to pick him up and make demands of him that he isn’t going to want to fulfill.
Satriano will use Coen to get what he wants from the family.
Information.
Cooperation.
Assistance in his sinister plans.
He’s already done it with Pope, and now, he’s got Uncle Stone’s youngest son under his thumb. And me, by association.
Wren gives me another squeeze and slips from my arms. “Your mom left some of the soup. Let’s heat some up and get you fed.”
“Okay.”
I don’t want to eat—especially something that holds so many memories and is supposed to make me feel better.
All I want to do is drink the rest of that bottle, pass out, and pretend the world isn’t what it is.
I would, if that were an option.
But Wren won’t let me.
Just like she never let me quit over the last three months. Just like she wouldn’t let me quit and throw this fight if she knew what was happening.
Which is why I can’t ever tell her.
WREN
Atlas lies awake, staring at the ceiling, like he has been for hours. His hand aimlessly trails up and down my back, a slow caress meant to soothe and quiet me, to lull me to sleep.
Anyone else might think he’s relaxed, calm even, but I can feel the tension in his body under mine. The way his heart won’t seem to settle into its normal rhythm beneath my cheek. How heavy his breaths are, filled with something that just won’t allow him to still his mind.
Mine won’t quiet, either.
Even his gentle, loving touch isn’t enough to keep worry from gnawing away at me. Wondering what has him so shaken. Terrified it’s something I can’t fix.
He needs sleep—badly.
This insomnia wouldn’t be good at any time, but especially so close to a fight, it could be catastrophic. He should be getting as much sleep as he can, resting his body to prepare for what he must do this week, leading into the weigh-in and the showdown in the ring.
It will be brutal on him under any circumstances. Worse because of whatever he’s holding in that seems to be eating him alive. And after almost two hours of holding my tongue, of waiting for him to say something, I finally push up onto my elbow.
His eyes immediately dart to mine in the mostly dark room, lit only by filtered moonlight sneaking in the unshuttered windows. “Are you okay?”
I trail my fingers across his stubbled cheek. “Are you?”
He tries to steel his expression, but I catch the muscle tic in his jaw before he can hide it. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I spread my palm across his chest, right over his rapidly beating heart and rigid muscles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tense.”
And that’s saying a lot, considering everything that’s happened since I returned to New Orleans.
His hand stills on my back. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I do, though.”
This has to end.
He has to relax, or he’s going to burn out before he even gets to the ring.
Atlas already made it clear that he isn’t going to tell me what happened. While I’d much rather he unload what’s bothering him and get that off his mind, there’s one other thing I can do to help relieve his tension…
I slide up over him until I’m straddling his hips and press my belly against his crotch.
His breath hitches for a second, his cock stirring to life between us. He offers a dubious look, his brows drawn low. “What are you doing, Little Bird?”
As I rub along him intently, he hardens almost instantly. “Helping you relax.”
He slips his hands to my hips and grips them, trying to stall my movements. “Don’t, Wren.”
“Why not?” I feather my lips over his, loving the way his breath hitches again. “You’ve done nothing but take care of me since we got together. Every day. Every night. Why can’t I take care of you for once?”
One of his brows rises. “Because you’re pregnant, and you’ve been sick for weeks.”
I push up to ensure my eyes meet his uncertain ones. “I’m not sick now. This is the best I felt since I found out I was pregnant. That soup really works wonders.”
He chuckles lightly, some of his doubt melting away, and when I grind my hips against his length, it turns into a groan and his fingers dig into my flesh.
“Please, Atlas.” I kiss the corner of his mouth, then slowly work my way down his tattooed neck, across his rock-hard pecs, and down his eight-pack to where the athletic shorts he sleeps in barely contain his cock. “Let me take care of you .”
His body tenses more and more the lower I get, and I slip my fingers under the waistband.
He twitches. “Little Bird…” A barely contained heat shimmers in his gaze. “You’re playing with fire.”
Atlas seems to have forgotten I’ve been burned before.
I’m not afraid of the flames, of the heat and passion he offers. I welcome them all, the opportunity to give him what he’s given me so many times over, to watch him experience the same searing pleasure I have at his hands.
Grinning, I slide backward so I can tug his shorts down to his knees and free his cock. It bobs up, hard and ready in front of me, and I straddle his thighs and take him in a firm grip.
His chest rumbles, and his hips arch into my touch as he tips his head back, his eyes drifting close. “Fuck.”
It’s been so long.
The last thing either one of us has been thinking about is sex.
Between my morning sickness and Gramps’ death, we’ve just been trying to survive and make it through each day. But now, my pussy aches, that dull throb of need for this man centering between my thighs as I dip my head and glide my tongue along the underside of his shaft.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Little Bird…”
He tunnels his fingers through my hair, and I lick again, this time swirling around his head and capturing the bead of pre-cum and flicking the tip of my tongue on that sensitive spot just underneath it. His hips buck so hard he almost pushes me off, his hands tightening in my locks.
The sharp bite of pain eggs me on, making me want to see him lose that control he’s clinging to so tightly.
And I know just how to do it.
By giving him the same treatment he does me.
I continue to play with him, licking and kissing and sucking, without fully taking him into my mouth until he is vibrating under me. His whole body is a coiled, trembling mess, muscles drawn tight in anticipation. Locking eyes with him, I slowly take the head of his cock into my mouth and suck.
“Fuck!”
His single muttered, guttural word washes over me, adding fuel to the fire blazing through my core. I clench my thighs together against the throb as I twist my hand around the base of his shaft and glide it up to meet my mouth.
He groans, his grip tightening on my strands, and I adjust my position, shifting up to support myself better so I can reach between his legs and cup his balls while I take him all the way to the back of my throat.
His body freezes. “Jesus, Little Bird—”
Whatever he was going to say dies as I suck hard on my retreat while I massage him. He moans, a deep, rough sound that crackles across my skin, raising goosebumps, and he pushes on my head, urging me to keep going.
All the times he did this to me, that he made me fall apart against his mouth, that he demanded my compliance and submission, he never let me do it to him.
He never let me take that control over his pleasure.
And fuck does it feel good to know I can do this, that I can make him turn to putty in my hands, that I can make him feel as good as he makes me feel.
His trembling intensifies the longer I work him over. Alternating soft kisses and long glides of my tongue along his length. Over the head. Eliciting a gasp and a low, animalistic noise that makes my pussy weep.
I need him and this as much as he does.
Maybe more.
By the time his balls draw up tight in my hand and I know he’s close, my entire body shakes along with his. Wanting him inside me. Frantic for it.
I swallow him all the way down my throat again, over and over, letting the head hit the soft, wet flesh there, suctioning around him each time I glide back.
“Wren…”
My growled name is the sole warning he gives me before his hips arch and he comes. Hot, urgent spurts. Salty splashes I swallow down eagerly as I squeeze my hand around him and stroke, dragging out his release.
Fuck, yes.
That’s what I needed.
Seeing him like this.
So free—even if only momentarily.
Atlas finally sags back against the mattress, his hands loosening in my hair, and I slowly withdraw from him, sitting back against his thighs and licking my lips.
His eyes flutter open to meet mine. “Fuck, Wren.”
Calloused fingers brush along my cheek, and he watches me, so much love and reverence in his gaze. Mine drops to his still-hard cock resting against his stomach. My pussy throbs, what started as a dull ache becoming a desperate plea that radiates from my core and out through my entire body.
I need Atlas.
More now than ever.
Shifting over him, I grasp his length, tug my thong to one side, and drag the head through my arousal. His eyes widen, his hips bowing to meet mine, offering himself to me to take whatever I want.
I sink down on him without preamble. His hands find my hips again as his hard length spreads me wide, inch by glorious inch. The thick head dragging inside me and fitting perfectly to the hilt.
It’s my turn to release a satisfied groan. “God, I needed this.”
He laughs low, his body shaking beneath me, and he reaches up with one hand around the back of my neck and drags me down to kiss me deeply. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, along mine, still coated in his release. “God, I taste good on you.”
Hell…
Why is that so hot?
My pussy ripples along him.
He bucks up, driving himself impossibly deeper until he stills. His body goes rigid again. Tugging on my hair, he draws my head back, worry marring his brow. “I’m not going to hurt the baby, am I?”
Laughing, I dip my head again and feather my lips to his. “You’re big, but you’re not that big.”
Atlas smacks my ass with his free hand, the sharp sting making me squeeze him even tighter. “Smart ass.”
I push up, grinning, bracing my hands against his chest as I start to ride him. Gliding up and down his slick shaft. Lost in the way he fills me and completes me so wholly. How being like this with him can erase the world around us.
Already, the lines have disappeared from his forehead, his body more relaxed as he watches me with rapt attention. Like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“I need to see you, Little Bird.”
He grips the hem of my T-shirt and sits up to tug it off, tossing it over the side of the bed. My breasts hang free between us, and he dips his head and sucks one nipple into his mouth.
“Fuck!”
Each flick of his tongue and gentle pull of his lips is like a direct line to my clit, sending bolts of electricity sizzling through my nerve endings. Heating every inch of me with the flames of ecstasy only he can light inside me.
He glances up as he releases it, now glistening and hard. “Does that feel good, Little Bird?”
I nod on a little gasp. “So good.”
I’m so much more sensitive now, my body already preparing itself for the baby to come, even though it won’t be anytime soon.
A grin plays at his lips. “Good.”
He ducks again and performs the same torture on the other breast. My hips stutter, losing the rhythm the longer he gives attention to the other parts of my body.
It’s impossible to keep moving, to keep riding him while he does this.
My brain can’t process all the pleasure.
Sensing my struggle, Atlas braces his feet on the mattress and shoves his hips up, meeting my down thrusts, driving himself deeper. Strong hands grip my hips, helping me move, taking some of the pressure off me to do all the work.
His lips ghost across me. My chest. My shoulders. My neck. Everywhere he can reach. And just like every time we’re together like this, he doesn’t shy away from my scars. He pays special attention to them, worshipping them, ensuring I don’t feel any need to try to hide any part of me.
I never could from him, not even if I tried.
Atlas would never allow it.
Tears burn in my eyes the longer our bodies move together. That tight, twisting coil of bliss so close but just out of reach. Taunting me. Reminding me how elusive it can be.
He shifts forward, changing the angle until my clit rubs against his pelvis in just the right way.
My mouth falls open on a gasp. “Oh, God, right there…”
“That’s it, Little Bird.” He kisses his way to my ear, grazing his teeth along the shell in a way that makes me shudder on his cock. “You’re going to come for me. You’re going to give me that after I just gave you my cum.”
Low, hot pressure builds in my core until it’s almost painful, and I whimper, wanting to reach out and capture it.
Unsure if I can.
“Think about how much you love having me inside you. How much you love having my baby there. How good it’s going to feel when you come and clench down on my cock, making me come again so fucking deep…”
Oh, God, there he goes again.
That foul mouth of his that always sends me over the edge.
His words somehow manage to untangle the tethers that keep me grounded and throw them free, letting me soar.
Two more thrusts and a perfect roll of his hips are all it takes for me to do just that.
I cry out as my orgasm ripples through me.
He unleashes a guttural grunt and flips me over onto my back, pumping into me and finding that perfect spot for the head of his cock to catch that keeps the pleasure bubbling through every nerve of my body. Each thrust abrades my clit. Beautiful lights flash against my closed lids. My pussy clenches his hard length, trying to draw it deeper and keep it when he withdraws, until he roars my name and comes again.
Atlas sags onto me, his chest heaving, heart thundering against my own, making sure to keep his weight mostly supported so he doesn’t crush me.
I release a heavy, labored breath, wrapping my arms around his neck and turning my face into his neck, kissing him there as we both come down, praying he finally finds his peace tonight.