Chapter 4
Margot and Richard are supposed to arrive at six.
I'm downstairs by five-thirty. Sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, hands clasped between my knees, watching the front door like it might disappear if I look away.
I tell myself it's because I want to help with anything they might need. Carry bags. Make coffee. Be useful.
The truth is, I just need to see her. Need to know she's real. That she came back. That she didn't leave me here alone with people who hate me.
I'm running my hands down my face when Zero finds me. I don't hear him approach—he moves too quietly for someone his size. Just suddenly he's there, a presence in my peripheral vision.
"Waiting for mommy?"
I look up. My neck cricks from the angle. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking.
That same dangerous smile from the wedding.
That same look that says he knows something I don't. Zero.
I remember him from the wedding—the dangerous one.
He looks even more dangerous now in the casual light of day.
Without the suit, without the formal setting, there's nothing to soften the edges. Nothing to hide what he is.
Lean and built like a weapon. Six-one, maybe.
Black hair that looks like he doesn't give a shit about it, falling across his forehead in a way that should look messy but somehow doesn't. Pale skin that makes his ice-blue eyes even more unsettling.
Like chips of glacier. Like winter sky. Like something cold and sharp and merciless.
The tattoos on his left arm are intricate, dark—I can't make out what they are from here, but they crawl from his wrist up past his bicep, disappearing under the sleeve of his black t-shirt.
Now that I'm closer, I can see they're not random.
There's a pattern. Something deliberate.
Runes, maybe. Or symbols. Dark against pale skin like ink on paper.
The shirt's tight enough that I can see he's all lean muscle and hard edges. The fabric clings to his chest, his shoulders, his abs. Nothing soft. Nothing gentle. Just violence wrapped in skin. No softness anywhere.
He's wearing black jeans and boots, heavy black combat boots that thud against the marble when he shifts his weight, and there's a scar through his left eyebrow that makes him look like he's been in fights.
A thin white line that bisects the dark hair.
Recent enough that it's still visible. Old enough that it's healed clean.
He probably has.
"She's my mom," I say evenly. Keep my voice level. Don't let him see he's getting to me.
"Cute." He pushes off the doorframe and walks closer. "You know, most twenty-year-olds don't sit by the door like a puppy waiting for their owner to come home."
"I'm not—" I start to stand, but he's already there, looming over me. I'd have to crane my neck even further back. So I stay sitting. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of making me move.
"Relax, Carter. I'm just messing with you." He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets. The stance is casual, but there's nothing relaxed about the way he's watching me. Like he's waiting for me to do something. "But seriously. You're laying it on a little thick with the devoted son routine."
"It's not a routine." My jaw clenches. I feel my teeth grind.
"Sure it's not." He rocks back on his heels, that smirk widening.
I grit my teeth. Force myself not to respond. Not to give him what he wants.
Zero grins, like he knows exactly how much he's getting under my skin. Because of course he does. That's the point. That's the game.
"Word of advice?" he says. He leans down, bracing one hand on the banister beside my head.
Too close. Way too close. I can smell him—black coffee and cigarettes and something sharper, like ozone before a storm.
"If you're trying to score points with dear old Dad, the whole 'good boy' act isn't going to work.
Richard's not stupid. He knows a suck-up when he sees one. "
"I'm not trying to score points." I lean back, putting distance between us even though there's nowhere to go. My spine presses against the stair edge.
"Then what are you doing?"
"Waiting for my mom." Each word comes out clipped. Hard.
He laughs. Low and rough, the sound scraping against my nerves. "Right. Well, enjoy your reunion, little brother. I'll be upstairs if you need me."
He turns and walks away, and I sit there, fists clenched, trying not to let his words burrow under my skin.
Suck-up.
Routine.
Good boy act.
Fuck him. Fuck him and his smirk and his tattoos and the way he looks at me like he can see right through me.
Margot and Richard arrive twenty minutes later. I hear the car before I see it—tires on gravel, engine cutting off, car doors opening and closing.
The front door opens, and I'm on my feet before I can think about it. Muscle memory. Need. The desperate pull of someone who's been drowning and just spotted land.
"Max!" Margot's face lights up, her whole expression transforming from tired to joyful in an instant, and she drops her suitcase to pull me into a hug.
I hold on tighter than I should. My arms wrap around her, squeezing, burying my face in her shoulder like I'm five years old and not twenty. She smells like her perfume and airplane recycled air and home.
"Hey," I say into her shoulder. "How was Italy?"
"Amazing. Exhausting. I missed you." She pulls back and cups my face, studying me. Her eyes search mine—looking for cracks, for breaks, for anything wrong. "You okay? How was your first night here?"
"Fine. It was fine."
"Liar." She says it soft. Knowing. With a small smile that's equal parts sad and amused.
I smile despite myself.
Richard clears his throat. A pointed sound. A reminder that he's here too. "Max. Good to see you."
"You too. Welcome home." I step back from Margot, creating space. Being polite.
He claps me on the shoulder—gentle, paternal—his hand heavy and warm, the grip measured, and I manage not to flinch this time.
Progress.
"Boys!" Richard calls up the stairs. His voice booms, echoing off the high ceilings. "We're home!"
Footsteps. Voices.
Atlas appears first, dressed down in dark jeans and a gray t-shirt, looking composed and controlled as always. His silver-streaked hair catches the light from the chandelier. Gleaming. Sharp. Perfect. He moves like someone used to command—smooth, confident, deliberate.
Bane follows. I barely got a good look at him at the wedding, but now I can see him clearly.
Six-two, athletic build like he spends serious time in the gym.
Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. Arms that strain against his sleeves.
The kind of body that comes from dedication and discipline and probably a personal trainer.
Golden-brown hair that's styled perfectly, warm hazel eyes that aren't warm at all right now.
Cold. Assessing. Looking at me like I'm something unpleasant he found on his shoe.
He's wearing expensive casual—designer jeans, a fitted navy henley that shows off his build.
Classically handsome in that all-American way.
The kind of face that gets what it wants.
He looks like Richard. Same bone structure. Same easy confidence that comes from never being told no. Same way of standing like he owns the ground he's on. Like the world exists to serve him.
Zero's last, taking his time, hands in his pockets like he can't be bothered. That same smirk on his face.
He looks at me from across the foyer, and I look away. Focus on Margot. On Richard. On anything else.
"Dad," Atlas says, shaking Richard's hand. "How was the trip?"
"Perfect. Your stepmother spoiled me rotten." Richard's arm goes around Margot's waist, pulling her close.
Margot laughs. Light. Happy. The sound fills the foyer. "You spoiled me."
They're disgustingly happy.
I should be happy for them.
I am happy for them.
I'm also exhausted just watching them. The performance of it. The effortless affection. The ease.
"Listen," Richard says, glancing at his watch. "I know we just got back, but I ordered a ton of Chinese food. Should be here in about twenty minutes. I figured we could all sit down together. First official family dinner."
My stomach drops. Plummets. The bottom falls out.
"Sounds great," Atlas says smoothly. No hesitation. Perfect. Of course.
Bane says nothing. Just stands there, jaw tight, eyes on his father. Not looking at me. Deliberately not looking at me.
Zero smirks at me from across the foyer. Catches my eye. Holds it. That sharp smile that promises trouble.
"Max?" Margot touches my arm. "That okay with you, honey?"
"Yeah. Of course." My voice sounds normal. Steady. It's a miracle.
No.
The dining room is too big for six people. The table could seat twenty. Maybe more. The chandelier overhead is massive, dripping crystal, casting prismatic light across the walls.
We sit at one end of the table—Richard at the head, Margot beside him, then me. The brothers spread out on the other side. Like a firing squad. Like judges at a trial.
Atlas across from me, perfect posture, spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded on the table, those gray eyes watchful even when he's relaxed.
He doesn't blink much. Doesn't fidget. Just watches.
He's rolled up his sleeves now, and I can see his forearms are built, corded with muscle.
Veins visible under tan skin. The kind of arms that could break someone in half. Everything about him screams control.
Zero next to him, sprawled in his chair like he owns it, legs spread, one arm draped over the back, taking up more space than he needs. The scar through his eyebrow catches the light when he tilts his head. His ice-blue eyes flick to me every few seconds, like he's waiting for me to fuck up.