Chapter 24
I wake up Friday morning with last night’s dinner still burned into my brain.
The way all three of their heads snapped toward me. The hunger in their eyes. The way I fled the table like a coward while Margot's chocolate lava cakes sat untouched.
I can't face any of them today.
I don’t want to face any of them ever.
I leave for campus before anyone's awake, grab coffee from the student center instead of the kitchen, spend the day hiding in the library between classes.
My phone buzzes twice—once from Margot: Feeling better today, sweetheart?
and once from an unknown number that turns out to be a group project reminder.
I text Margot back: Yeah, just needed sleep. Busy with studying today. Love you.
Two lies. Not my worst.
Around six, another text: Richard ordered Thai for dinner. Want me to save you a plate?
The thought of sitting at that table again—of facing them—makes my stomach clench.
Grabbed food on campus. Don't wait up!
Three lies now. The count keeps climbing.
I stay at the library until it closes at ten, then sit in my car in the parking lot for another hour, dreading going home. When I finally creep through the front door at eleven-thirty, the house is dark and quiet. Everyone's in their rooms.
Safe.
I made it through another day.
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten anything since a granola bar at lunch—my body too knotted with anxiety to register hunger until now. The Thai food Margot mentioned should still be in the fridge.
I heat up a container of pad thai and take it to the kitchen island, pulling out my tattered notebook while I eat. Writing always helps. Gets the chaos out of my head and onto paper where I can look at it, analyze it, pretend I have any control over what's happening to me.
Thursday was a disaster, I write. They all smelled me. They all LOOKED at me. And I ran like a—
The front door slams open.
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth, as footsteps stagger through the foyer. Heavy. Uneven. Then Zero appears in the kitchen doorway.
He looks like hell.
Blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. A bruise already purpling along his cheekbone. His knuckles are split and raw, and there's a tear in his black t-shirt that exposes a slice of pale, muscled torso beneath.
"Holy shit." I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. "What happened to you?"
Zero's eyes find me in the dim light. They're glassy. Unfocused. Drunk, I realize. He's drunk.
"Nothing." He pushes past me toward the fridge, leaving a waft of whiskey and copper in his wake. "Go to bed, Max."
"You're bleeding."
"Observant." He yanks open the freezer, stares into it like he's forgotten what he was looking for. "Got any more brilliant insights?"
I want to tell him to fuck off and pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s what he deserved. It’s honestly more than he deserves. But something—some stupid, self-destructive instinct—makes me reach past him and grab a bag of frozen peas.
"Here." I hold it out. "For your face."
Zero looks at the bag. Then at me. Something dark flickers behind his eyes.
"You think I need your help?"
"I think you need ice. Your cheek is swelling."
He takes the bag from my hand.
Then he smacks it against the edge of the counter, hard, and the plastic tears. Frozen peas explode across the kitchen floor, skittering under cabinets, rolling beneath the island, scattering everywhere.
I stare at the mess. At him.
Zero smiles. It's not a nice smile.
"Oops." He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the blood on him, the whiskey, the gunpowder-and-winter scent underneath that makes my hindbrain light up despite everything. "Looks like you've got some cleaning up to do."
"I'm not—"
"You're not what?" He tilts his head. The bruise on his cheekbone makes him look dangerous. Unhinged. "Not going to clean up the mess? That's funny. Because you're the reason everything's a mess in the first place."
The words hit like a slap.
"That's not—"
"Not fair? Not true?" Zero laughs, low and bitter. "You walked into this house and everything went to shit. You know it’s true, don’t play the innocent act. We’re not in front of my brothers.
” He leans in, breath hot against my ear.
My stomach flutters. "I can't close my eyes without seeing you bent over that bench, making those pretty little sounds while I—"
"Stop." My voice cracks.
"Stop what? Telling the truth?" He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something in his expression that might be pain if I didn't know better. "You ruined us, Max. You ruined all of us. The least you can do is clean up the fucking peas."
He shoulders past me and disappears up the stairs, leaving me standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by frozen vegetables and the shattered remains of a halfway peaceful evening.
I debate leaving the mess, but if I don’t deal with it, Margot will have to.
So I clean up the peas.
It takes twenty minutes to find them all—under the fridge, behind the trash can, wedged in the gap between the counter and the wall. By the time I'm done, rage is rolling through my veins and I hate Zero so much I can barely see straight.
Except I don't.
That's the worst part.
Even now, even after that, some sick part of me is still thinking about the way he smelled. The heat of his breath against my ear. The memory of his body pressing mine into green felt.
I throw the ruined peas in the trash, throw the leftovers back in the fridge, grab my notebook, and retreat to my room.
I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling and try not to think about any of them. The heat of Zero's breath against my ear. The way Atlas's forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up at dinner. The way Bane's collarbone peeked out from his henley.
I can't close my eyes without seeing you bent over that bench, making those pretty little sounds while I—
My hand drifts toward my waistband.
I yank it back. Clench it into a fist against my chest.
No. Not again.
I lasted four hours last night before I broke. Four hours of tossing and turning, of sheets that felt like sandpaper against my oversensitive skin, of that hollow ache throbbing between my legs until I couldn't stand it anymore and jerked off again.
Tonight, I'm going to do better.
I make it until midnight before my hand is wrapped around my cock again, stroking desperately in the dark, biting my pillow to muffle the sounds.
When I come, it's with Bane's name on my lips.
I hate myself a little more.
∞∞∞
Saturday morning. I wake up hard and aching–again–the sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling on my skin.
The heat is getting worse.
I can feel it now as a constant presence—a low hum of need thrumming through my body like a second heartbeat. It spikes at random intervals, leaving me breathless and flushed, but even when it ebbs, it never fully disappears. It's always there. Waiting. Building.
My true heat–the first I’ll ever experience–must be days away.
I take another cold shower. It helps for about twenty minutes.
By the time I make it downstairs for coffee, the sizzle is back under my skin, and I'm praying the kitchen is empty.
It's not.
Atlas is at the island, laptop open, coffee cup steaming beside him. He's wearing reading glasses I've never seen before—silver-rimmed, slightly professorial—and something about them makes my stomach flip.
He looks up when I enter. "Max."
"Hey." I head straight for the coffee maker, keeping my back to him. "Didn't know anyone was down here."
"I could say the same." I hear his laptop close. "You've been hard to find lately."
"Busy. Midterms."
"Mm."
The coffee maker gurgles. I stare at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, hyperaware of Atlas's presence behind me. I can smell him from here—cedar and leather and that hint of bourbon that never quite fades.
God, he smells so fucking delicious. It makes my mouth water. Makes other parts of me react in ways I desperately try to suppress.
"How are you feeling?"
The question is soft. Careful. I risk a glance over my shoulder and find him watching me with those gray eyes, concern etched into the lines around his mouth.
"Fine."
"You don't look fine." He stands, and I tense, but he just moves to the sink, rinses his cup. Puts distance between us instead of closing it. "You look exhausted. And you've lost weight."
"I'm fine," I repeat, sharper this time.
He's quiet for a moment. Sets the cup in the drying rack with deliberate precision. Then: "What happened last night?"
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Zero came home drunk. Bloody." Atlas turns to face me, leaning back against the sink, arms crossed. "And this morning there's a bag of frozen peas in the trash and a bruise on his cheekbone that wasn't there yesterday."
I look away. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Max." His voice is soft. Dangerous. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He pushes off the sink and crosses toward me. I back up instinctively, but the kitchen island is behind me and there's nowhere to go. "Tell me what he did."
"Nothing. It was nothing."
"Was it like the basement?" His voice drops. "Did he hurt you again?"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "He just—he said some things. It's fine. It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
He's in front of me now. Too close. My traitorous body responds immediately. Heat flooding my cheeks. My cock stirring in my sweatpants.
I try to sidestep. "I should go—"
His hand catches my arm. Not rough, but firm. Unbreakable.
"Max. Look at me."
I don't want to. Looking at him means seeing those gray eyes, that concerned expression, the barely-leashed want underneath. Looking at him means admitting how badly I want him to close the distance.
"Look at me." Softer now. Almost pleading.
I look.
His jaw is tight. His pupils are dilated, the gray nearly swallowed by black. There's a muscle ticking in his cheek, like he's holding himself back through sheer force of will.