Chapter 8
Atlas
I can't sleep.
Neither did we.
Fuck. I rake my hands through my hair, grip tight enough to hurt, pull until my scalp burns.
That came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that. Didn't mean to make him feel unwanted. Didn't mean to add to whatever weight he's already carrying. Didn't mean to be cruel. Didn't mean to make him feel like a burden.
But the kid's so goddamn defensive. Every conversation is a battle.
Every question is an interrogation. Every attempt to connect gets shut down before it begins.
Every word is a fight. Every conversation feels like walking through a minefield.
One wrong step and everything explodes. One wrong word and he disappears.
One wrong look and I lose whatever tenuous connection we might have built.
He's hurting. I can see that. It's obvious in every line of his body.
In the way he holds himself. In the shadows under his eyes.
In the careful way he moves through the house like he's trying not to disturb the air.
But he won't let anyone close enough to help.
Puts up walls. Deflects with sarcasm. Changes the subject. Runs. Always running.
I stop at the window, staring out at the grounds. My palm pressed flat against the cold glass, my breath fogging it, obscuring my view.
The pool is lit up—soft blue glow reflecting off the water.
Perfectly still. No wind tonight. The reflection is like a mirror.
The gardens are dark. Shadows upon shadows, the carefully manicured hedges forming shapes that look almost ominous in the darkness.
Everything's quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels wrong. That feels like a held breath.
Except—
Movement. There. By the back wall. Something small. Someone.
I lean closer to the glass. Squinting. My breath stops fogging the window as I hold it, watching.
Someone's outside. Down by the patio. Moving erratically. Purposefully but without purpose. Agitated. Near the back wall.
I recognize the build. Small. Slim. Too small to be either of my brothers. The height. Short. Maybe five-seven. Definitely not Zero or Bane. The way he moves. Tense. Coiled. Like every muscle is locked tight.
Max.
What the hell is he doing outside right now? At midnight. In the cold. Without a jacket.
I watch as he approaches the brick wall. Watches him stop. Stand there. His silhouette dark against the lighter stone.
Then he punches it. Hard. Fast. His whole body behind it.
What—the fuck?
He does it again. And again. His arm drawing back, snapping forward, the impact visible even from here. And again. Driving his fist into the brick like he's trying to break through it. Like he's trying to destroy something. The wall. Himself. Both. Or break himself.
"Jesus Christ." The words come out sharp. Alarmed. I'm already moving.
Instinct. Training. The need to intervene when someone's hurting themselves.
When someone's spiraling. Out of my room, down the stairs, taking them two at a time, my hand sliding along the railing, my bare feet silent on the carpet then loud on the marble, through the kitchen.
The lights are off. I don't bother turning them on. The glow from outside is enough.
The back door's already open. I see it immediately. Hanging slightly ajar. Cold air spilling in. He didn't even close it behind him.
By the time I reach him, he's on the ground. Collapsed. Crumpled against the wall like he's been discarded there. Back against the wall. Hands cradled against his chest. Protective. Wounded. Broken.
Even in the dim light, I can see the blood. Dark. Wet. Too much. On his hands, on his shirt, on the ground around him. Dripping. Pooling.
"Max." My voice comes out harder than I intend. Sharper. Concerned disguised as authority.
He doesn't look up. Doesn't react. Just sits there. Staring at nothing. Or at something I can't see.
I crouch in front of him. My knees hit the cold patio stones. I can smell the blood now. Copper. Iron. Fresh. "Let me see your hands."
"Go away." His voice is wrecked. Raw. Like he's been screaming. Or crying. Or both.
"Not happening. Let me see." I reach forward. Slow. Non-threatening. Like approaching a wounded animal.
"I said—" He pulls back. Tucks his hands tighter against his chest. Defensive.
I reach for his wrists and he flinches. Jerks back like I've hit him. Like he expects me to hit him. Actually flinches. Like I'm going to hurt him.
Something twists in my chest. Sharp. Painful. Unexpected. Like a knife between ribs. Like something breaking that I didn't know could break.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say quietly. Keep my voice soft. Even. The way I talk to Bane when he has nightmares. The way I talk to Zero after bad jobs. "But you're bleeding all over the patio. Let me see."
He doesn't move. Just sits there. Breathing too fast. Shaking. Blood dripping from his clenched fists.
I wait. Patient. Still. Let him make the choice. Let him come to me.
After a long moment, he slowly extends his hands. Uncurls them from his chest. Holds them out like an offering. Like a surrender.
Fuck.
Both of them are destroyed. Worse than I thought.
Worse than I imagined when I saw him hitting the wall.
Knuckles split open, the skin peeled back in strips, some hanging like torn fabric, skin torn, flayed, some areas down to the bone, blood everywhere.
Fresh and old. Wet and drying. Dripping and crusted.
His fingers are already swelling. Puffing up, turning purple, the joints disappearing under inflammation.
He can barely flex them. They move wrong. Stiff. Limited. Painful.
"What the hell did you do?" I try to keep the judgment out of my voice. Try to just assess. But it's hard. This is bad. This is really bad.
"Just leave me alone." He tries to pull his hands back. I don't let him.
"Too late." I stand —my knees protesting, my muscles tight from the sudden movement— and offer him my hand. "Come on. We need to clean this."
"I'm fine." The lie is so obvious it's almost insulting. He's not fine. He's the furthest thing from fine.
"You're not fine. You can barely move your fingers." I keep my hand extended. Waiting. Palm up. Non-threatening.
"Atlas—" His voice wavers. Breaks on my name.
"Inside. Now." Command. Final. No room for argument. I don't give him a choice. I reach down, grip his elbow —gently, carefully, mindful of how he flinched before— and pull him to his feet.
He's lighter than I expected. Almost weightless.
I could pick him up with one hand. The realization is startling.
I tower over him by almost a foot, have to look down, way down, to meet his eyes, and when I guide him toward the house, my hand on his lower back, feeling the knobs of his spine through his shirt, feeling how insubstantial he is, he doesn't resist.
He doesn't have the energy to resist. Doesn't have the fight left. He moves like a puppet with cut strings. Like someone who's given up.
I close the back door behind us—the click too loud in the silent kitchen, the cold air cut off, replaced by warmth that makes the blood smell stronger.
I guide him to the island, my hand still on his low back.
I can feel him breathing. Fast. Shallow.
Panicked. He’s shaking. I'm not sure what comes over me, but as he turns to face me, I grab him by the hips —narrow, almost delicate, my fingers span them easily— and lift him onto the island.
He's so light, absurdly light, worryingly light, his hips so narrow.
Like someone who doesn't eat enough. Like someone who's wasting away and no one's noticed.
His eyes don't meet mine once. He stares at his hands. At the blood. At the marble beneath him. Anywhere but at me.
He perches on the edge like he's ready to bolt at any second. His body angled toward the door. His muscles tensed. His weight forward. Flight mode activated. Blood drips from his hands onto the white marble. Dark drops spreading. Staining. The white is ruined. I don't care.
I only care about him.
"Stay there," I say. Firm. Doctor voice. The voice that expects to be obeyed.
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink —tucked behind cleaning supplies, the plastic box is dusty, I pull it out, set it on the counter— and bring it back.
Antiseptic. Brown bottle. Warning labels.
Gauze. White rolls. Sterile packaging. Medical tape.
Everything I need. Except maybe a hospital. He probably needs a hospital.
Max is staring at his hands like he doesn't recognize them. Like they belong to someone else. Like he's watching himself from outside his body.
"This is going to sting," I warn. I uncap the antiseptic. The chemical smell fills the space between us.
I take his right hand first. He lets me.
Doesn't pull away. Just watches with those dark, empty eyes.
Turn it palm-down. The damage is worse up close.
So much worse. I can see tendons. I can see bone.
I can see where the skin has been scraped away in layers, revealing the architecture underneath.
Deep cuts across the knuckles. Skin peeled back.
Like he was trying to disappear one piece at a time.
I pour antiseptic over the wounds. The liquid is cold. Clear. It runs into the cuts, over them, carrying away some of the blood, making everything worse before it gets better.
He hisses through his teeth —a sharp intake of breath, his body going rigid— but doesn't pull away. Doesn't move. Just sits there and takes it. Like he thinks he deserves this. Like pain is normal. Like this is what he expects.
"Why were you punching a brick wall?" I ask, keeping my voice even. Conversational. Calm. Like we're discussing the weather instead of whatever breakdown he just had outside.
"Bad day." Two words. Flat. Meaningless. Deflection.
"That's an understatement." I dab at the blood with gauze. The white turns red immediately. I use another piece. And another.