He mumbles an apology he doesn’t mean, grinning around his mouthguard. That should be the signal to stop for the day, but all it does is add fuel to the fire burning in my chest.
The second I feel like I’m not going to fall over, I lunge at him with an aggressive combination, but he manages to pull me into the clinch, stopping me from doing any real harm. He shoves me back, and I circle around, ensuring I never put my back to the corner because that’s where Atlas is at his best, where he can pummel you and put you in a place you have no means of escape from.
I’ve watched enough of his fights to know that, even if I’m still relatively new to sparring with him. But being prepared does nothing against a man like Atlas—a lesson I am learning this morning along with the fact that I may have been a decent fighter in WCAP but facing a world middleweight champ, I feel like a novice.
The man is a machine.
Lightning fast.
Strong.
Determined.
With a literal chip on his shoulder.
Desperate to prove his impossible comeback win after being shot when he wasn’t expected to ever fight again wasn’t just a fluke.
It absolutely wasn’t. Even now, when he’s spent months only doing light training and mostly spending time with Wren, he’s still a powerhouse.
His ego and willpower fuel him.
My frustration fuels me.
After almost a week of working for the Hawkes and having Bishop avoid me in every way, shape, and form possible, including handing me off to any other member of the family or security teams she can find to help me get my bearings, my aggravation has only grown.
With her. With the situation. With the fact that what I want may be out of reach no matter what I do.
Bishop has buried her head in her work rather than face what happened between us.
It’s not that she doesn’t have a legitimate excuse. The situation with Satriano and the family is tenuous, at best, and knowing that someone is out there shooting Satriano’s men means there’s another player, too. Someone the Hawkes haven’t been able to pinpoint yet.
And unknowns are something the Hawkes—and especially Bishop—aren’t fans of, with good reason.
But it doesn’t make what she’s doing any less frustrating.
Pushing me away. Leaving rooms when I walk in. Ensuring we’re never truly alone so I can’t say or do what I really want to—talk to her and force her to admit what we both felt that night.
She hasn’t even been back to her condo, instead spending the nights at one of her cousins’ places with the excuse of them needing “extra” security when it was really about her needing somewhere to hide—from me.
If she knew how I’ve sat outside on my bike waiting for her to come back out each night, she would throw that “stalking” word at me again.
I hope today will be different, but I’m not holding my breath. Just like I’m not holding out any hope whatsoever that I’m actually going to beat Atlas.
My ears are still ringing, my head still spinning from his blow and the flurry of activity after it when I sense her enter the gym.
Hellcat…
Even with my back to the door, it’s unmistakable the way my skin heats and my body starts to prime. Her jasmine scent somehow trickles to me, even over the smells of sweat and leather that permeate the air in the gym.
God, she smells good.
I’ve been living with that scent for days, unwilling to wash it away from my sheets in case she never comes back. I don’t want to lose those memories. I’m not ready to give up on her or us. Not yet.
Somewhere, deep down, in a place she’s not ready to face yet, she wants what I’m offering her. She needs it to survive what’s going on around her. The weight of it all will crush her without it. And eventually, she’ll realize I’m right about that.
It might not be now. It might not be tomorrow. It might not even be anytime soon. But one day, Bishop will see what she’s doing to herself and what she can have with me.
I don’t dare look behind me at her now, though.
