Chapter 4 Wesson
Wesson
I’d always admired Atlas. Once he’d made up his mind about something, almost nothing could deter him.
Marta hated him? Fine, he hated her, too.
Both men and women wanted to fuck him? Fine, he’d fuck them both, and screw anyone who dared look down on him for it.
I’d always lived in his enormous shadow, and no one wanted to fuck a god’s little brother.
I, on the other hand, never knew what I wanted until it was too late to do anything about it.
Decision paralysis plagued me, a result of the anxiety I felt about making the wrong choice.
One incorrect decision, one reaction a second too late, and everybody died.
My parents, my stepfather. It didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things.
Everybody left, no matter what. The only one who hadn’t was Atlas.
I did feel for Marta, though I’d never say I pitied her.
She was too strong for my pity, but if I were in her shoes, I’d curse the ancestors and damn us all to hell.
The night our parents died was a blur, and if I was honest, I’d mostly blocked it out.
I didn’t want to remember my stepfather’s screams as Atlas hauled me from the burning wreckage of that cursed house.
I didn’t want to return to that night every time I smelled roasting barbecue.
I wanted to get out of this life, before and after the incident.
But I wouldn’t leave Atlas. We were bonded by more than a legal relationship.
He was…well, the conventions of modern society didn’t have words for what he was to me, what he meant.
I never let myself wander down those twisted roads.
In my darkest moments, when the weight of my desire for freedom pressed in on me from all sides, he was the reason I stayed.
The thought of him out here, doing this alone, kept me firmly rooted to him.
Our story was a tragedy that would undoubtedly end with one of us burying the other, and knowing that still did not push me away.
Now, poor Marta had been pulled into our disaster, and she didn’t even know the destruction she’d walked into.
She didn’t deserve the weight of this. I wasn’t good enough for her, and I never would be.
If it had to be one of us, it should have been Atlas.
Just Atlas. He was more capable, more exacting, and I was just a fucking mess.
By the time we got to the motel, Isobel had already doled out the rooms. I’d be with Atlas (shocker) and Marta would stay with Bridge in the one next to us.
It wasn’t much more than two full-sized beds and a grungy bathroom, but I’d slept in worse places, so I dropped my bag on the mattress and sat on the edge to check my gun.
“Cozy,” Atlas said, taking the one closest to the door. “Reminds me of that shit-hole in Dayton.” He cracked his lips into an eager grin. “You remember the one.”
I snorted and shook my head. “Sure. When you met that stripper at that sleazy club and she brought her boyfriend back to the room with her?”
He hummed appreciatively and dug his pistol out of his duffel, checking the clip before loading the chamber. “Fuck yeah.”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t see too much of the room. I slept in the GTO that night.”
“You were invited,” he said with a teasing wink.
I sighed and shook my head. Between us and sex, things had always toed a line.
Which was understandable given how much else we shared in this life.
I’d be an idiot not to admit that Atlas was objectively attractive.
I wasn’t blind. We’d hooked up with people in the same room, hard not to when we always split a motel.
On one disastrous occasion, we’d ended up with a poly throuple where the guy wanted to watch his girlfriends fuck us both.
That night had been sweaty and complicated, and I woke up wondering if there was an edge Atlas wouldn’t hesitate to throw himself over.
Nothing had ever happened between the two of us, but if it ever came to it, I wasn’t sure if Atlas would balk or encourage it.
After all we’d been through, I didn’t know if I would, either.
We were brothers, yes, but the conventions of societal taboos had long since been thrown out the window.
In his mind, who cared what the world thought when we were constantly putting our lives on the line to save it?
I’d catch myself watching him with someone and wonder what it would be like to be the object of his affection.
I’d watch his hands as he cleaned his guns and marveled at their strength and dexterity.
Then I’d shake myself back to earth and remember he wasn’t into me like that, and I wasn’t either.
Perhaps it would have been better for him if I had left for college all those years ago. Maybe it would have been for everyone.
“Right,” I said and pushed to my feet. “We should check in with—”
The door to the room opened, and the Harlots walked in, followed by their warriors.
Isobel put her hands on her hips and glanced around while Bridge wrapped an arm over Marta’s shoulders.
Leander and Caspian hung toward the back.
The rush of Marta’s spirit raked over me, tickling my insides with unfamiliar anxiety.
Almost like she was just as nervous to be around us as I was to be around her.
I was still adjusting to the warrior bond, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it. Sensing her energy, her pain and joy, it squirmed like a phantom limb, like an itch I couldn’t scratch. How did the others deal with it? I’d have to ask Leander one night, maybe after a beer or two.
“Aradia sent us some more intel,” Isobel explained. She’d always been the type to jump right in, never wasting a moment. “There’s evidence of rituals in Biltmore Forest and a farmer who claims he lost his entire flock of sheep in one night.”
“Demon signs, sure as shit,” Leander said.
“I agree,” Bridge echoed.
“So we split up,” Isobel continued. “Marta, Atlas, and Wes, you’ll take the morgue. Check out the victims. Look for any signs of foul play.”
“You mean besides the partially digested body parts in their stomachs?” Atlas added with a smirk.
Isobel ignored him. “Caspian and I will go to the hospital to see the survivors, maybe get some clues about what actually happened. Leander and Bridge hit the forest and talk to the farmer. We’ll meet back here at 18:00.”
“Got it,” I said as more words of understanding echoed around me.
I met Marta’s gaze and tried a smile, but her cheeks flushed and she looked away, the burn of hesitation and uneasiness zigging through my chest. No, I couldn’t imagine anything about this being comfortable for her.
But, like us, she was a soldier, a trained Harlot, capable of fierce magic and immovable stubbornness. She’d see this through to the end.
My focus lingered on her silky dark hair, currently braided at the back of her head with little whisps decorating the area around her face.
Mahogany eyes gave way to delicate cheekbones and full, pouty lips that begged to be licked.
Objectively, Marta was all beautiful curves and soft, supple muscle.
And if I weren’t me, and she weren’t her, she was exactly the type of girl I’d go for.
But she’d never want me, and I understood that.
Her gaze connected with mine, and she furrowed her eyebrows, perhaps confused by my leer.
I quickly looked away. Knowing what we would have to do once we got there, Atlas and I took turns changing in the bathroom.
Our everyday jeans and T-shirts wouldn’t pass for business casual, so once I had the button-down and tie number on, I emerged and slipped on the suit jacket.
Marta let her gaze drift over me, and the weight of her appreciation zapped through my midsection. When I glanced up at her, she quickly looked away.
Atlas clapped me on the shoulder. “You ready, brother?”
“Sure,” I said, clearing my throat as I loaded up my weapons and followed them out of the room.
“We should take my car,” Atlas said, nodding toward the GTO. “It’ll be less conspicuous that way.”
Marta scoffed. “That rust bucket is about as inconspicuous as a sledgehammer in a china shop.”
I winced internally, knowing Atlas’s reaction before it happened.
“Rust bucket?” He balked, jaw gaping. “How dare you?”
She put her aviators on and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that thing get? Like two miles to the gallon?”
Atlas looked at me. “You hear this shit? She’s insulting Josephine right in front of her.”
“Josephine?” Marta shook her head. “It has a name?”
“Of course it has a name.” Atlas opened the driver’s side door and flipped the seat up, gesturing Marta to squeeze in the back. “Are you done making your comments? Any more and you’ll be taking that grandpa bike instead.”
“Grandpa bike?” Marta grimaced and stepped closer. “It would make this POS eat dust in two seconds.”
“Oh, you’re on, little witch.” To anyone else, the exchange might have sounded flirtatious, but I knew my brother, and insulting his car was the quickest way to get on his shit list. Marta ducked into the back as I squeezed into the passenger side, curling my long legs under the dash so I could move the seat up to give her more room.
She wasn’t tall, but I was nothing if not a gentleman.
Once Atlas was in, he started the beast and revved the engine, shooting her a shit-eating grin in the rearview.
“Show off,” she muttered, but Atlas reversed out of the parking lot and peeled off onto the main road like something was chasing us, rock music blasting on the radio.
Five minutes into the ride, I turned it down so we could plan our story once we got to the ME’s office.
“We have our fake IDs,” I said. “We play this like we normally do.”
“What’s that entail?” Marta asked.
“We say we’re Feds,” I explained. “We flash the badges and give them a nice smile. They usually don’t question it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Does that work?”