Chapter 14
I wake up different.
That's the first thought that cuts through the fog—something is different. The bed is too big. Too soft. The sheets are expensive—high thread count, smooth against my skin. The pillow smells like cedar and leather and expensive bourbon, masculine and overwhelming.
I feel surprisingly… safe.
But–
Not my room.
Not my bed.
Not my scent.
Panic flares sharp and immediate in my chest. I force my eyes open, blinking against the darkness.
The room swims into focus slowly—navy walls that absorb light instead of reflecting it, heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against what must be morning sun, expensive furniture that looks like it belongs in a catalog.
Everything is shadowed and unfamiliar and wrong.
Where the fuck am I?
I try to sit up and immediately regret it.
Pain lances through my skull—duller than before, not the splitting agony that made me collapse, but still there.
A persistent throb at the base of my neck that radiates up into my temples.
My body aches like I've been hit by a truck, every muscle sore and tense, pulled tight like a wire about to snap. Even my joints hurt.
And I'm hot. Too hot. The sheets are sticking to my skin with sweat, clinging to my chest and back. My t-shirt is damp. My hair is plastered to my forehead. It's like I'm burning up from the inside out, fever coursing through my veins and settling deep in my bones.
"Don't."
The voice comes from my left—deep and controlled and achingly familiar. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fever.
I turn my head too fast. The room spins, tilting on its axis. I grab the sheets to steady myself and wait for the world to right itself.
Atlas.
He's sitting in a leather chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees.
He looks like he hasn't slept—five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw, hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
His white dress shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his forearms revealing tanned skin and the hint of a tattoo I've never seen before. His tie is gone. Collar unbuttoned.
Those gray eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. Like he's been watching me sleep. Like he hasn't looked away once.
"What—" My voice comes out rough. Raw. Like I've been screaming. I swallow hard and try again. "What happened?"
"You collapsed." He reaches for something on the nightstand—a glass of water, pills rattling in a prescription bottle. "In the kitchen. You've been out all night."
All night?
My brain struggles to process that. I remember coming downstairs. Remember the headache getting worse. Remember my legs giving out and the cold tile against my face.
And then nothing.
I look around again, taking in the details more carefully this time. The expensive dark wood furniture. The king-sized bed that could fit three people comfortably. The scent that's everywhere—in the sheets, in the air, soaked into the walls.
Cedar. Leather. Bourbon.
Atlas's scent.
"This is your room," I say, and it comes out more accusatory than I mean it to.
"Yes."
"Why am I in your room?"
His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath stubble. "You needed help."
"You could've put me in my room." My voice is steadier now, gaining strength even as my body protests every movement.
"No." The word is flat. Final. Brooking no argument. "I couldn't."
I don't know what to do with that. Don't know what it means or why it makes my pulse spike. So I ignore it, pushing it down deep where all my other unwanted feelings live.
"I need to go," I say, and I start to push myself up. My arms shake with the effort, muscles trembling. The room tilts again and I have to stop, pressing my palms flat against the mattress to keep from falling over.
"Not yet." Atlas stands in one fluid movement and crosses the space between his chair and the bed. He sits on the edge, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. The mattress dips under his weight, and I have to fight not to roll toward him.
He holds out the pills. "Take these first."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice drops lower, taking on an edge that's almost a command. "You have a fever. You passed out. Your mother and Richard are downstairs eating breakfast and have no idea you collapsed because I didn't call them. The least you can do is take the fucking pills, Max."
I blink. He doesn't curse often. Doesn't let his control slip.
But there's something in his voice now—something raw and frayed at the edges. Like he's been holding it together by sheer force of will and that will is starting to crack.
"Atlas—"
"Take. The pills."
It's not a request. It's a command, delivered in that tone that makes my body want to obey before my brain catches up. That alpha authority I've spent my whole life learning to resist.
I hate that it works on me. Hate that my first instinct is to do what he says, to be good, to please him.
But my head is pounding and my body feels like it's on fire, so I take the pills from his outstretched palm. Our fingers brush—just a whisper of contact—and electricity shoots up my arm.
I pull back quickly and dry-swallow the pills. They scrape down my throat, bitter and chalky.
"Water," Atlas says, and he's already pressing the glass into my hands.
The cold liquid soothes my throat. I drink half the glass before I realize how thirsty I am, how dry my mouth is. When I lower it, Atlas is watching me with those intense gray eyes that seem to see everything I'm trying to hide.
"Good," he murmurs, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest at the approval in his tone.
No. No, I don't want that. Don't want to care what he thinks. Don't want this feeling that's spreading through me like honey—slow and sweet and entirely unwelcome.
I set the glass down on the nightstand with more force than necessary and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "I'm leaving."
"Max—"
"I'm fine." I stand, and immediately the world tilts sideways.
My vision grays at the edges. My legs don't want to hold me—they're shaking, weak, made of something less substantial than bone and muscle. I sway dangerously to the left, and then strong hands are there, catching me before I can fall.
Atlas grabs my hips, fingers digging into the bone, steadying me. Grounding me.
We're standing chest to chest now. So close I can see the darker gray flecks in his eyes, the way his pupils are slightly dilated.
Can smell that scent that makes my head spin for entirely different reasons—cedar and leather and something darker underneath, something that speaks to a part of me I've spent years trying to suppress.
His hands are warm on my hips. Firm. Possessive. His thumbs rest against the sharp jut of my hipbones, and I can feel the heat of them through my thin t-shirt.
"Easy," he says, and his voice has dropped to something low and rough. Almost intimate. "You're still weak."
"I'm fine," I repeat, but the words come out breathy. Unconvincing. Betraying me.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Linger there for a heartbeat too long.
The air between us thickens, charged with something I don't want to name. Something dangerous and electric that makes my skin prickle and my heart race.
His thumbs brush against my hip bones—just a small movement, barely there, but it sends heat licking up my spine like a match struck in the dark.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
He's my stepbrother. He's Atlas Graves. He's an alpha who could break me without even trying.
And I want—
No.
I put my hands on his chest and shove. Hard.
He lets me. Steps back immediately, dropping his hands like I've burned him. But those gray eyes stay locked on mine, burning with something I can't read and don't want to understand.
"Let me leave," I say, and my voice is steadier now. Firmer. Reclaiming some of the control I lost the moment I woke up in his bed. "I need to go."
For a moment—just a moment—I think he's going to argue. Going to step forward again, grab me, keep me here. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself.
But then he nods. Once. Sharp. Final.
"Fine."
I don't wait for him to change his mind. Don't give him time to reconsider.
I turn and head for the door, willing my legs to cooperate. They're steadier now—not great, but functional. I can make it to my room. I can lock the door. I can pretend this never happened and that I didn't just feel whatever the fuck that was between us.
I reach for the door handle, fingers closing around the cool metal.
"Max."
I stop. Don't turn around. Can't.
"If you need anything—"
"I won't."
The words come out colder than I intend, but I don't take them back. I pull open the door and step into the hallway, and—
I nearly collide with Zero.
He's right there. Right outside Atlas's door, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed. Like he's been waiting. Listening.
We both freeze.
Zero is shirtless. His skin is still damp, hair wet and dark and falling across his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.
Water droplets trail down his chest, following the hard lines of muscle, the sharp cut of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans that hang dangerously low on his hips.
I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look.
But I do.
My eyes trace the path of those water droplets like they're a roadmap I'm compelled to follow.
The broad expanse of his chest, defined in ways that make my mouth go dry.
The dark ink of his tattoos wrapping around his ribs—some design I can't make out in the dim hallway light.
The sharp V of muscle that cuts down from his hipbones and disappears beneath worn denim.
Heat floods through me. Sharp. Sudden. Undeniable.
Want.
The word echoes in my head, primal and insistent and entirely unwelcome. It's not just attraction—though fuck, it's definitely that. It's something deeper. Something that makes my skin feel too tight and my blood run too hot and my body react in ways I can't control.
My body reacts before my brain can stop it. Blood rushing south. Heart rate spiking. That pull low in my belly that I've been trying to ignore for weeks intensifying into something that feels almost like pain.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Zero's eyes are on me—ice-blue and sharp as broken glass. Tracking every micro-expression on my face, every tell I can't hide. Reading me like I'm an open book written in a language only he understands.
He looks me up and down slowly. Deliberately. Taking in my rumpled clothes, my messy hair, the fact that I'm walking out of his brother's room wearing what I slept in. His gaze is heavy, weighted with implication.
Then he breathes in. Deep. Deliberate.
His nostrils flare. His pupils dilate, swallowing the blue until only a thin ring remains. His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin, can hear the faint grind of his teeth.
And I know.
He can smell it. Whatever's happening to me. Whatever's wrong with me. The fever, the heat, the thing that's been building in my body for days.
He knows.
"Zero—" I start, but I don't know how to finish that sentence. Don't know what I'm asking for or what I'm trying to say.
"Go." His voice is harsh. Sharp enough to cut. "Go back to your room."
I blink, taken aback. "What?"
"You heard me." He pushes off the wall and steps closer, crowding me back toward Atlas's door. His presence is overwhelming—all barely leashed aggression and predatory focus. "Get the fuck back in your room and don't show your face outside it if you know what's good for you."
The words are a snarl. A warning. Practically vibrating with threat.
But there's something else underneath them. Something that sounds almost like—
Fear?
No. Not fear. Zero doesn't do fear.
Control. He's fighting for control. Fighting something inside himself.
And losing.
I can see it in the way his hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. In the rigid set of his shoulders. In the way he's breathing too hard, chest rising and falling like he's just run a marathon.
He's holding himself back. Barely.
From what, I don't want to know.
"Move," he growls, and there's something feral in his voice now. Something that makes every survival instinct I have scream at me to run. "Now."
I move.
Not because he told me to. Not because I'm afraid of him—though maybe I should be.
But because the way he's looking at me right now—eyes dark and hungry, body tense like a coiled spring about to snap—makes something dangerous and reckless coil in my gut.
Makes me want things I shouldn't want. From someone I definitely shouldn't want them from.
I slip past him, keeping as much distance as I can in the narrow hallway. I don't look at him. Don't breathe. Don't do anything that might trigger whatever predator instinct is clearly riding him hard right now.
I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk down the hallway toward my room. Can feel the tension radiating off him in waves so thick I could choke on them.
My hands are shaking when I reach my door. I fumble with the handle, finally get it open and slip inside.
I close the door behind me. Lock it. Lean against it and slide down until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chest.
And I try to breathe.
Try to slow my racing heart. Try to stop my hands from shaking. Try to ignore the way my body is still reacting—still hot, still wanting, still pulled toward something I can't have.
My heart is racing. My skin feels too tight, like I'm going to crawl out of it. That heat that's been building is worse now—hotter, more insistent, spreading through my body like wildfire through dry brush.
And I can still smell them.
Atlas's cedar and leather clinging to my clothes from his bed, soaked into my skin.
Zero's rain and gunpowder lingering in my lungs from standing so close to him in the hallway.
Both of them burned into my senses like a brand. Like a claiming I never asked for.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. Press hard enough that it hurts, grounding myself in physical pain because at least that's something I can control.
And I try very, very hard not to think about the way Zero looked at me.
Like he wanted to devour me.
Like he was holding himself back by a thread.
Like that thread was about to snap.