Chapter 2
I don't own a suit.
Margot buys me one two days before the wedding—charcoal gray, tailored to actually fit my frame instead of hanging off me like a kid playing dress-up.
The fabric is soft, expensive. Wool that doesn't scratch.
The kind of thing I'd never buy for myself.
She tears up when I try it on. Her hand covers her mouth, and I watch her eyes go glassy in the dressing room mirror.
"You look so handsome," she says, adjusting my collar. Her fingers are gentle, smoothing down the lapels, fixing the way the jacket sits on my shoulders.
I look like an imposter.
But I smile and let her fuss, standing still while she circles me like a bird checking her nest, because this is her day. Her happiness. And if wearing an uncomfortable suit and pretending I belong in Richard Graves's world makes her happy, I'll do it.
The wedding is small. Intimate, the invitation said. Just family and close friends.
I am neither.
The venue is some historic mansion overlooking the water, all sweeping lawns and white columns and the kind of elegance that makes me want to hide.
The grass is so green it looks fake. The columns are so white they hurt to look at in the afternoon sun.
Margot looks beautiful in her dress—simple, cream-colored, nothing flashy.
It flows when she walks, catches the light, makes her look like she's glowing from the inside out. She doesn't need flashy. She glows.
Richard looks at her like she hung the moon.
I stand off to the side during the ceremony, watching. My hands are clasped in front of me, fingers twisted together hard enough that my knuckles ache. Margot asked me to walk her down the aisle, but I said no. Too much attention. Too many eyes.
Too much risk.
The suppressants are working. I took one this morning, right on schedule.
Dry-swallowed it in the hotel bathroom while Margot knocked and asked if I was ready.
But I still feel exposed. Like everyone here can see through my skin to what I'm hiding underneath.
Like they can smell it on me even though I know they can't. They're all betas. Normal people. Safe people.
The ceremony is short. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Vows exchanged. Rings slipped on. A kiss that makes the small crowd applaud. I don't cry.
The reception is worse.
I've been to exactly two weddings in my life, and both were quiet courthouse affairs for foster parents I barely knew. Nothing like this.
The reception hall is all floor-to-ceiling windows and crystal chandeliers, overlooking the water as the sun sets.
Gold and pink and orange bleeding across the sky, reflecting off the water in rippling columns of light.
There are maybe forty people here—small by rich people standards, I guess—but it feels like hundreds.
Everyone's dressed like they walked off a magazine cover. Designer labels. Expensive jewelry.
I find a corner near the bar and try to blend into the wallpaper. Press my back against the cool wall, champagne glass in hand that I'm not drinking, just holding for something to do.
It works for about ten minutes.
"You must be Max."
I turn. Nearly spill my champagne. Catch it at the last second.
The man standing beside me is tall—six-three at least—with dark hair that's going silver at the temples and sharp gray eyes that feel like they're cataloging everything about me.
The exact shade of my suit. The way I'm standing.
The death grip I have on my glass. His suit probably costs more than a semester of tuition.
Navy blue, perfectly tailored, not a single wrinkle despite the summer heat.
He's handsome in that cold, controlled way that makes you stand up straighter without meaning to.
Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. The kind of face that belongs on a billboard.
"Yeah," I say. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "Hi."
"Atlas Graves." He extends a hand. Long fingers. Clean nails. A watch on his wrist that gleams gold.
I shake it. His palm is warm, dry. Mine is probably clammy. His grip is firm. Confident. Not crushing, but strong enough to make a point. Strong enough that I feel small in comparison.
"Richard's told us about you," Atlas says, releasing my hand. He doesn't wipe his palm on his pants, but I wonder if he wants to. "Welcome to the family."
The words sound practiced. Polite. Empty. Like he's said them a hundred times to a hundred different people and none of them mattered.
"Thanks." I take a sip of champagne I don't want. The bubbles are too sharp, too sweet.
He orders a drink from the bartender—whiskey, neat—his voice low and authoritative, the bartender jumping to pour it immediately, and I feel him watching me from the corner of his eye. That assessing gaze. Calculating. Measuring.
"You look uncomfortable," he observes. He takes a slow sip, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"I'm fine."
"Liar." He says it without heat. Almost amused.
I blink. Stare at him.
He takes a sip of his drink. The ice clinks against the glass. "You don't have to pretend. Weddings are uncomfortable for everyone. Especially when you're the odd man out."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He says it matter-of-factly. Not cruel, just honest. He turns to face me fully now, one elbow on the bar, body angled toward mine. "Margot's son. Richard's new stepson. You don't fit into any of the boxes people expect."
My throat tightens. I swallow hard, and it feels like swallowing glass.
"But that's not necessarily a bad thing," Atlas continues. "Richard's happy. Margot's happy. That's what matters."
He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"Are you happy?" I ask before I can stop myself. The words just tumble out, unfiltered.
His eyes cut to me. Sharp. Assessing. Gray like storm clouds. Like steel.
"That's a bold question."
"Sorry. I didn't—" I look away, stare at my champagne, feel heat creep up my neck.
"No." He tilts his head slightly. "I like it. Most people don't ask real questions."
He doesn't answer, though.
Just takes another sip of whiskey—a longer one this time, like he needs it—and turns his attention to the dance floor, where Richard and Margot are swaying together, lost in their own world. Her head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her waist. They look happy. They look right.
"They're good together," Atlas says quietly. There's something in his voice I can't name. Something that sounds like loss.
"Yeah."
"My mother died when I was twelve. Cancer.” He doesn't look at me when he says it. Just stares at the dance floor. “It's been just us and Dad for a long time." He pauses. His jaw tightens. The muscle jumps. "This is... an adjustment."
I don't know what to say to that.
"I'm not trying to replace anyone," I offer.
"I know." He finally looks at me again. Something in his expression softens. Just barely.
But the weight in his voice says otherwise.
Before I can respond, someone calls his name. He sets down his glass—the ice rattling, the last swallow of whiskey abandoned—and gives me a nod.
"I'll see you around, Max."
Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd. I watch him go—watch the way people part for him automatically, the way he moves through the room like he owns it.
I exhale.
One down.
I make it another twenty minutes before the second brother finds me.
I've relocated to the terrace—fresh air, fewer people, space to breathe—leaning against the railing, staring out at the water as the sun finally dips below the horizon, when I hear footsteps behind me. Deliberate. Unhurried. The scrape of dress shoes on stone.
"Hiding?"
The voice is rougher than Atlas's. Sharper. Like gravel. Like smoke.
I turn.
The man leaning against the doorframe is leaner than Atlas, all hard edges and danger.
He's not as tall—maybe six-one—but he takes up space like he's twice that size.
Black hair, long enough that it falls into his eyes, messy in a way that looks intentional, pale skin, ice-blue eyes that pin me in place.
Cold. Calculating. The kind of eyes that see too much.
Tattoos crawl up his left arm, disappearing under his rolled shirt sleeves.
Dark ink. Intricate patterns I can't make out from here but want to.
He's not wearing a jacket. His tie is loose.
Hanging around his neck like an afterthought, top three buttons of his shirt undone.
He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Just getting some air," I say. I straighten, turning to face him fully, hands gripping the railing behind me.
"Right." He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, his gait lazy, predatory, hands in his pockets. "Zero."
"Max."
"I know." A smile ghosts across his lips. Sharp. Dangerous.
He stops a few feet away and lights a cigarette, the flame from his lighter briefly illuminating his face—sharp cheekbones, a scar through his left eyebrow I hadn't noticed before, taking a long drag. The smoke curls between us. Gray wisps that catch the last of the fading light.
"You're not supposed to smoke here," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. Stupid. Defensive.
"And yet." He blows smoke toward the sky. Tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. "Here I am."
I don't know what to do with that.
"You don't look like you want to be here," Zero says, studying me with those unsettling eyes. He takes another drag, never breaking eye contact.
"It's my mom's wedding."
"Stepmother." He takes another drag, never breaking eye contact.
"Adoptive mother," I correct. My voice hardens. "She's my mom."
His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth curves up. Just barely. Almost a smile. "Defensive. Interesting."
"I'm not—"
"Relax, Carter.” He waves a hand, dismissive. “I don't give a shit about the semantics." He takes another drag. Exhales slowly, the smoke drifting between us like a barrier. "But you still look miserable."
"I'm fine."