Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Atlas used to warn me.
Every time I got too big for my britches, our pack alpha simply shook his head, tutting about how the universe would “deem fit to humble me, one day.”
Well. Goddamn.
I collapse onto my half-naked ass, panting from exertion. Who knew cleaning the entire kitchen would be such a motherfucking bitch?
As I drop my scrub brush into the bucket of sudsy water, my body aches in ways and places I’ve never experienced before. And one that’s way too familiar.
Because, seriously? How am I still hard after all that?
Atlas hears my frustrated growl and peers over the rim of his laptop. He’s been sitting at our small breakfast nook for the last two hours, doing research and writing a zillion emails while I worked myself half to death.
Typical Daddy. I made the mess, so, of course, I have to clean it up.
He doesn’t normally micromanage like this, though. I wonder whether his presence has less to do with me and more to do with the fact that this area is directly under Violet’s borrowed bedroom.
Ryker set her up in there before he left, wrapping our girl in his comforter and fluffing his pillows behind her head before nuzzling her forehead with his. He still can’t talk, really, but Violet doesn’t seem to need him to.
I watched the way a hundred unspoken words flew between their gazes when they looked at one another. And my stomach is still burning with a mixture of envy and sadness.
Whatever he did—or didn’t—say, Violet must have gotten the message that he wanted her to rest, because Atlas and I haven’t heard a peep from her since.
I let my hands fall to the checkerboard floor, leaning my head against the wall. Dozens of half-thoughts tangle in my mind, weaving a web of anxiety.
Will Violet still want to leave after her heat? If she does, can I go with her? Will I make a pack with just Ryker, then? Will Gideon be okay with us going, as long as he gets to have—
Suddenly, Atlas jerks in his seat. I frown at him, opening my mouth to ask if he’s alright. Before I can, a deep, dark snarl rends the air.
Uh… Daddy?
Atlas grunts and presses his palm over his diaphragm.
Tense seconds pass, but he doesn’t relax.
Another jolt moves through him. He bends halfway over the small table with his head hung.
His hands curl around the rounded sides of the surface, gripping it hard enough for the wood to creak.
His shoulders and back bounce on quick, labored breaths, each one lined with a low, dangerous rumble.
Oh fuck.
I can barely breathe to ask, “Are you in a rut?”
Atlas shakes his head and gasps in pain. “No—” he grits out. “No, it isn’t me. I think it’s—”
Violet.
I clamor to my feet, automatically whirling toward the stairs before I trip on my own steps, barely catching myself on the kitchen island.
Like I said.
The universe wants my ass humbled.
Atlas doesn’t even get to witness me stumble, though. He’s clearly fighting for his MFing life, sucking in wheezes while he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes the whole table with his juddering.
I realize I might need to get us some real help. “What is it?” I demand, shouting. “Is she hurt? Sick?”
I’ll call an ambulance. And Ryker. And Gideon. Hell, I’ll call Cillian Fucking Blackwood and let his henchman feed my balls to Maximus if it will stop whatever the fuck is happening right now.
Atlas crashes back into his seat, flashing his teeth on a groan. “Heat-spike.”
Oh.
OH.
His reaction makes sense, now. He took sedatives last night, but he’s unmedicated this time. So he can feel her. But he won’t go to her.
Didn’t the doctor say something about this? Violet having more frequent, intense heat-spikes? Needing more because of the half-bond? And something about unbearable pain for our pack leader if he resists?
That must be what this is, because Atlas grimaces, snarling again. “Finn,” he rasps, his eyes wild as they flash to the ceiling. “Please. You have to”—he pauses to suppress another moan—“You have to go to her. Help her. Please.”
Because he can’t.
He won’t.
Atlas barks, but it sounds more like a plea. “Finn, go.”