Chapter 4 #2
Atlas stomped the snow off his boots. He looked exhausted. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes shadowed. But the moment he saw me, he straightened up. The armor clicked back into place.
"Water's boiling," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I'm making tea. Do you want some?"
He paused, mid-zipper. He looked at me suspiciously. "Tea?"
"Yes. Earl Grey. It's... calming."
He stared at me for a long second, trying to figure out the angle. Trying to find the trap.
"Sure," he said cautiously. "Tea."
We sat at the small pine table. The silence wasn't predatory anymore. It was awkward. Thick.
Atlas held the delicate ceramic mug in his massive hand, looking like he was afraid he might crush it. He stared into the dark liquid.
"So," I started, needing to break the tension. "The rules."
He looked up. "The rules?"
"The arrangement," I said. "We're stuck here. In this... shoebox. If we don't set ground rules, one of us is going to end up buried in the woods."
He took a sip of the tea. He didn't grimace. "Okay. Rule one: No alcohol."
"Fine," I said quickly. "Rule two: You don't treat me like a prisoner. I'm allowed to go for walks. I'm allowed to breathe."
"Within sight of the cabin," he countered. "You get lost in these woods, they don't find you until the spring thaw. And I'm not explaining that to your father."
"Deal."
"Rule three," he said, leaning forward. His eyes locked onto mine. "You study. Arthur wants you to pass. I get paid when you pass. So, from 9:00 AM to 1:00 PM, and 4:00 PM to 7:00 PM, you are at this table. No phone. No whining."
"Seven hours a day?" I choked. "I'm a dance major, Atlas. I need to move, not sit."
"Then we add gym time," he said. "There's a cleared space in the garage. You do your... whatever you do. Pirouettes. But the books happen."
"Fine," I said. "But I need help."
He blinked. "Help with what?"
"Kinesiology," I admitted. It was hard to say. I hated admitting weakness. "I'm failing Anatomy. I can dance it, but I can't name the insertion points of the muscles to save my life. And the textbook reads like stereo instructions."
Atlas set his mug down. He looked at me, really looked at me. "You're failing Anatomy?"
"Yes."
"I got an A in Anatomy," he said.
I stared at him. "You? The Enforcer?"
"Knowing how the body breaks helps you break it efficiently," he said dryly. Then, a ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "And knowing how to fix it helps you stay on the ice."
"Will you..." I hesitated. "Will you quiz me? Flashcards? I can't do it alone. My brain doesn't work that way."
He looked at his hands—those massive, scarred hands that I now knew had signed away his freedom for his mother.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'll quiz you."
"Okay," I said. "Rule four."
"There's a rule four?"
"Yes." I took a deep breath. This was the dangerous one. "We stop fighting. The snark. The insults. It’s exhausting. Can we just... exist? For three weeks?"
Atlas looked at the fire, then back at me. The shadows in the room made his eyes look even darker, endless pools of obsidian.
"I can stop fighting," he said. His voice dropped, becoming rougher. "But I can't promise I'll stop watching you."
My heart skipped a beat. "Why?"
"Because you're dangerous, Aurelia," he said. "You're a hazard."
"I'm five-foot-three."
"That doesn't matter," he murmured.
He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the wood floor. The intimacy of the moment was getting too heavy, too real.
"I'll take the couch," he said, turning his back on me. "Lights out in ten."
He walked over to the sofa and started stripping off his layers. First the jacket. Then the flannel.
I sat there, frozen, my tea growing cold in my hands.
He pulled his t-shirt over his head.
My mouth went dry.
I had seen hockey players before. I had grown up around them. But Atlas was different.
His back was a landscape of muscle and ink. A sprawling mural of black lines—Nordic runes, geometric shapes—covered his skin from his shoulders to his lower back. And beneath the art, the muscle moved like fluid steel. He was scarred, battered, and beautiful in a terrifying, brutal way.
He tossed the shirt onto a chair and turned to grab a blanket.
He caught me staring.
He didn't cover up. He didn't shy away. He stood there, shirtless in the firelight, letting me look. His chest was defined, heavy pectorals dusted with dark hair, a stomach ridged with muscle that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.
"See something you like, Princess?" he asked softly.
It wasn't a taunt. It was a question.
I should have looked away. I should have made a snide comment.
"Yes," I whispered.
The word hung in the air.
Atlas went still. His eyes darkened, the pupils blowing wide until the black swallowed the iris. He took a step toward me. Just one.
Then he stopped. He clenched his jaw so hard I saw the muscle feather.
"Go to bed, Aurelia," he commanded, his voice strained. "Now."
I scrambled up the ladder like the devil was snapping at my heels.
I dove under the heavy quilt in the loft, pulling it up to my chin. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might explode.
Below me, I heard the fire crackle. I heard the rustle of Atlas settling onto the too-small couch. I heard him let out a long, shaky breath.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the wooden ceiling, and realized two things.
First, Atlas Thorne was not the villain I thought he was.
And second, three weeks in this cabin wasn't going to be a prison sentence.
It was going to be a seduction. And I wasn't sure which one of us was going to be the victim.