Chapter 13 #2
My hand moves before I can stop it, fingers brushing that strand of dark hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear.
His skin is soft. Feverish. And that scent—I breathe in again, can't help it, can't stop myself.
It's stronger now, filling the room, wrapping around me like silk, seeping into my lungs with every breath.
My body responds before my brain catches up. Heat pooling low in my stomach, blood rushing south, cock stirring against the zipper of my jeans.
No. Fuck, no.
I stand abruptly and put distance between us, crossing to the window to brace my hands against the frame.
This is wrong. He's unconscious. Sick. Burning up with fever.
And I'm sitting here getting hard because he smells like—like what?
I don't know. I've never smelled anything like it, never experienced anything that affects me this way.
It's not cologne. Not soap. Not any product I can identify.
It's coming from him. From his skin. His sweat. His breath.
It's Max.
Max's eyes flutter open. I freeze and turn from the window. His eyes are unfocused, glassy, pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left—just black surrounded by a thin ring of dark brown. He blinks slow, like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice soft and gentle—the tone I use when calming spooked animals or shell-shocked clients. "You're okay. You're in my room. You collapsed in the kitchen."
I move back to the bed and sit on the edge, close enough to touch but not touching. His eyes try to find me, sweeping across my face, but they don't quite focus.
"Atlas?" The word slurs, thick, like his tongue doesn't work right.
"Yeah. I've got you."
Something flickers across his face—confusion, fear, panic. He tries to sit up. His arms shake violently, muscles straining. He gets maybe three inches off the pillow before his strength gives out, and he falls back with a soft, frustrated sound that twists something in my chest.
"Don't." I lean forward and rest one hand on his shoulder to keep him down. "You need to rest."
"No." He tries again, pushing himself up on trembling arms. They're shaking so badly I can see the vibrations. "Need to—I have to—" His voice breaks, desperate and scared.
"You have to lie down."
"Let me go." His hands come up and push weakly at my chest. There's no strength behind it, nothing I can't easily overcome. "I'm fine. I don't need—"
"You passed out."
"I'm fine." His voice cracks. "Just let me—" He tries to swing his legs off the bed, tries to stand. Like hell.
I catch him and grab his wrists before he can get anywhere.
He's so weak—there's barely any resistance at all, like trying to restrain a kitten instead of a grown man.
The thought makes my chest ache. I push him back, gently but firmly, using my weight and strength to overpower him without hurting him.
“Fuck you,” he mumbles.
His back hits the mattress, and I follow him down, pinning his wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. My body covers his, chest to chest, my hips between his thighs. Too close. Way too close. That scent floods my senses, overwhelming and intoxicating.
"Stop fighting me," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend, edged with something dangerous.
“Please…”
Then all the fight seeps out of his frame and his eyes flutter shut. Unconscious again. I slide off him and sit next to him again, watching his brows knit and his lips purse even in this state.
The door opens.
Zero comes in first with a washcloth in one hand, dripping water onto the hardwood, and a glass of water in the other, condensation sliding down the sides. Bane follows half a step behind with a bottle of painkillers rattling in his grip and my phone in his other hand.
They both stop when they see Max—still unconscious, lying exactly where I left him, but his wrists are red now. Marks from where I held him down, thin lines of color against pale skin. Evidence.
"He wake up?" Zero asks, his eyes flicking from Max to me, reading the scene and putting pieces together.
"For a minute. Tried to leave."
"Did you—" Bane gestures at Max's wrists, his jaw tight, expression carefully neutral.
"He was fighting me. I had to keep him down." The words sound wrong as soon as they leave my mouth—too possessive, too aggressive. But neither of them calls me on it.
Zero crosses the room and sets the water and washcloth on my nightstand—expensive dark wood that I had custom-made to match the bed frame. Water rings immediately form on the surface. I don't care.
"He say anything?" Zero asks.
"Nothing useful." Just let me go and fuck you and that broken little please that I'm trying not to think about.
Bane hands me my phone, his fingers brushing mine in brief contact before he pulls back quickly. "You calling Dad?"
I should. Richard and Margot would want to know, need to know.
Would be back in twenty minutes if I told them her son collapsed and won't wake up.
But something stops me—some instinct that says bringing them into this, bringing anyone into this, is wrong.
Max is mine to protect. Mine to care for.
Mine. The thought is possessive, irrational, completely insane.
I ignore it.
"Not yet," I say, setting the phone on the nightstand next to the water. "Let me see if I can get his fever down first. No point in ruining their dinner if it's just the flu."
Both of them look at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
Zero opens his mouth, closes it, and shakes his head slightly. Bane just stares, hazel eyes sharp and assessing.
"He's really sick, Atlas," Bane says quietly. "This isn't normal."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I said so." The words come out harder than I mean them to, final.
"We'll give it an hour. If he's not better by then, I'll call.
" Lie. I'm not calling anyone. Not until I understand what the fuck is happening.
Not until I figure out why Max smells like this and why every instinct I have is screaming at me to keep him here, keep him close, keep him safe.
Keep him.
"Help me sit him up," I say.
Zero and Bane exchange a look—some silent communication I'm not part of. Then they move to the bed, Bane on one side and Zero on the other, both of them careful and gentle in a way I rarely see from either of them.
I slide behind Max and get my back against the headboard—solid wood, expensive, cold against my shirt.
I pull him up against my chest, and his head lolls back against my shoulder, body completely limp and pliant.
The position puts him right against me, his back to my chest, his head tucked under my chin, his body cradled between my thighs. Intimate. Too intimate.
And that scent—Jesus Christ, it wraps around me, stronger than before, overwhelming and filling my lungs with every breath. My cock hardens right there, right fucking there with my brothers watching and Max unconscious in my arms. Fuck. I ignore it, grit my teeth, and focus on anything else.
"Hold his head," I tell Bane. My voice comes out strained.
Bane cups Max's jaw—his hand looks huge against Max's face, fingers spanning from ear to ear. He tilts Max's head forward slightly, careful and gentle.
I reach for the water glass, and my hand is steadier than I expect it to be. I press the rim to Max's lips.
"Drink," I murmur against his ear, low and soft, the tone I'd use with a lover. "Come on, Max. Just a few sips."
He doesn't respond, doesn't move. I tilt the glass and let water touch his lips, wetting them. His mouth opens slightly—instinct, the body's automatic response. I pour slowly and watch his throat work as he swallows. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Good," I say, can't help myself. "That's good. You're doing good." The words feel too intimate, too revealing.
Zero's eyes flick to me, narrow and questioning. I don't meet his gaze.
I set down the glass and reach for the pills—ibuprofen, two of them, small and white in my palm.
Getting him to swallow them is harder. I have to coax his mouth open, place them on his tongue, give him more water.
His throat works once, then twice. I wait and watch, making sure they go down. They do.
"Good boy," I murmur, can't help it. "You're doing well." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Zero's eyebrows rise. Bane's jaw tightens. But neither of them says anything.
I grab the washcloth from the nightstand. It's cold. Soaked through. Water drips onto my jeans as I wring it out slightly.
I press it to Max's forehead. His temples. The back of his neck where his hair is damp with sweat.
He makes a small sound. Soft. Almost a whimper. Like the cold is both painful and relieving at the same time.
My chest tightens.
"You're okay," I murmur. Keep my voice low. Soothing. "I've got you. You're safe."
The words are for him. Even though he can't hear them. Even though he's unconscious.
I need to say them anyway.
I dab at the sweat on his face. His neck. The hollow of his throat where his pulse flutters visibly beneath pale skin.
Each pass of the cloth reveals more of that scent.
Stronger. Richer. More intoxicating.
It's coming from his skin. From the sweat I'm wiping away. From every pore.
I can't get enough of it.
Don't want to get enough of it.
Zero and Bane are watching me. I can feel their eyes. Their scrutiny. Their confusion and worry.
"Is he always like this?" Zero asks quietly. His voice is careful. Measured. Like he's trying not to spook me.
"Like what?"
"This sick. This—" He gestures vaguely at Max's limp body. "Out of it."
"How would I know? He's been locked in his room for two weeks. We just met him." The words come out sharper than I intend.
Defensive.
"Still." Bane shifts his weight. Restless. He's standing at the foot of the bed now, hands shoved in his pockets. "This isn't normal. People don't just collapse like this."
He's right.
They don't.