Chapter 24 #2
"I want to help you." The words come out strained. Like they're being dragged from somewhere deep. "Whatever's happening—your heat—I can..." He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I can be there. If you want me to. If you'll let me."
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"Atlas—"
"I can protect you from Zero." He steps closer, and my back hits the edge of the counter. His hands come up to grip the granite on either side of me, caging me in. "I can ease what you're going through. I can—"
His voice breaks. He blinks, and I see the effort it takes to hold back, to keep himself from just taking.
"I can claim you." The words are barely a whisper. "Make you mine. Keep you safe. If that's what you want."
I should say no. Should push him away. Should remind us both that this is wrong, that he's my stepbrother, that Margot is upstairs probably still sleeping and Richard is somewhere in this house and any of them could walk in at any moment.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Atlas..."
It's not a yes. It's not a no. It's just his name, broken and wanting.
Something shifts in his expression. The restraint cracks, just a little.
His hand comes up. Cups my jaw. His thumb traces over my lower lip, slow and deliberate, and I shiver at the contact.
"Open."
It's a command. Low and rough and brooking no argument.
This is so wrong. So dirty… and yet, I part my lips and let his thumb press inside.
"Suck."
I close my mouth around his thumb. Taste salt and skin and something else, something that makes my omega hindbrain purr with satisfaction. I suck gently, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling around the pad of his thumb, and Atlas makes a sound—low, guttural, barely human.
"Fuck." His hips press forward involuntarily, and I feel him—hard, thick, straining against his slacks. "Max, you have no idea what you—"
His thumb pushes deeper. I take it. Suck harder. My eyes flutter closed and I hear myself moan around him, a desperate, needy sound that I'd be embarrassed by if I could think straight.
"That's it." His voice has dropped to a growl. "Just like that. Good boy."
The praise shoots straight to my cock. I'm fully hard now, tenting my sweatpants, and there's slick gathering between my cheeks and I don't care. I don't care about anything except his thumb in my mouth and his body pressing me into the counter and the promise of more, more, more—
Footsteps on the stairs.
Atlas yanks his hand back like he's been burned. Steps away. Puts three feet of distance between us in the span of a heartbeat.
I'm left gasping against the counter, gripping the edge so hard my knuckles go white, every muscle in my body tensed against the intense throbbing in my cock, the aching emptiness in my ass.
My dick is so hard it hurts, straining against my sweatpants, and if I move—if I so much as shift my weight—I'm going to come or scream or both.
"Good morning!"
Margot's voice floats into the kitchen, bright and cheerful, as she appears in the doorway wearing a floral robe and fluffy slippers.
"I was just about to make cinnamon rolls. Anyone hungry?"
"I'd love some." Atlas's voice is perfectly steady. Perfectly controlled. Like he wasn't just finger-fucking my mouth thirty seconds ago. "Max was just telling me he has a study group to get to. Isn't that right, Max?"
I can't speak. Can barely breathe. But I manage a nod.
"Oh, on a Saturday?" Margot's brow furrows with concern. "You're working so hard, sweetheart. Make sure you're taking care of yourself."
"I will," I croak.
Then I'm moving. Walking—not running, don't run, that would be suspicious—out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, into my room.
Door closed. Locked.
I barely make it to the bed before my hand is in my pants, stroking myself hard and fast, the ghost of Atlas's thumb still burning on my tongue.
I come in under a minute, muffling my cry against my pillow, and it's not enough. It's not nearly enough.
When the aftershocks fade, I lie there staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, shame creeping in at the edges.
Good boy.
I can claim you.
Make you mine.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and try to remember all the reasons why that can't happen.
∞∞∞
By Monday morning, I'm a wreck. But I have classes. I've already missed too many.
The lecture hall feels like a furnace.
I'm in the back row, as far from everyone as I can get, notebook open, pen in hand. My professor's voice drones on about market analysis, but the words blur together into meaningless noise.
Atlas's thumb pressing past my lips. The command in his voice. Suck.
I blink hard. Focus on the PowerPoint slide.
Supply and demand curves intersect at the equilibrium point where—
A wave of heat rolls through me. I grip the edge of my desk, breathing through my nose, willing it to pass. My skin feels too tight. My head is pounding—a dull, relentless throb behind my eyes that won't let up.
—marginal utility decreases as consumption increases, leading to—
Zero's breath hot against my ear. You ruined us, Max. You ruined all of us.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The professor's voice fades to a distant hum. All I can feel is the fire under my skin, the ache in my joints, the way my thoughts keep circling back to them no matter how hard I try to focus on something—anything—else.
Bane's mouth on mine. The groan that rumbled through his chest. The way he looked at me after, like he'd done something unforgivable.
My pen slips from my fingers. I don't pick it up.
The heat passes. Barely.
I make it through the lecture by sheer force of will, then practically run to my car to sit in the parking lot with the AC blasting, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, waiting for my next class.
Another lectures. Same story. I sit in the back, keep my head down, and count the minutes until I can escape.
My notes are gibberish—half-formed sentences that trail off into nothing, doodles I don't remember drawing, the same three words written over and over in the margin: stop thinking about them.
By the time my last class ends at four, I'm exhausted, strung out, and dangerously close to the edge.
My phone buzzes.
Margot: Richard's grilling tonight! The weather's perfect. Please come—we miss having you at dinner.
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Another night alone in my room sounds like torture. At least at dinner there will be witnesses. At least the presence of Richard and Margot will force everyone to behave.
Be there, I type back.
The drive home takes forty minutes. I spend every one of them with the AC on full blast, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying not to think about what I'm walking into.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun is starting to dip toward the horizon. I can smell the grill before I even get out of the car—charcoal and lighter fluid drifting through the evening air.
The backyard is already set up when I come through the side gate.
Richard is at the grill, apron on, tongs in hand, looking almost normal.
Almost like a regular dad doing regular dad things.
Margot is setting the patio table, humming to herself, arranging napkins and silverware with the careful attention she gives everything.
For a moment, I let myself pretend. Regular family. Regular dinner. Regular life.
Then the brothers arrive.
Atlas first, coming down from his office, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened. Our eyes meet and the memory slams into me—his thumb in my mouth, suck, good boy—and I look away so fast my neck aches.
Zero next, emerging from the house in all black, the bruise on his cheekbone faded to sickly yellow-green. He doesn't look at me. Hasn't looked at me since Friday night, since the frozen peas and the cruel smile and you ruined us, Max.
Bane last, looking tired in a rumpled button-up with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, like he just got back from a long day. He catches my eye and something flickers across his face—guilt, want, frustration—before he shuts it down.
Richard looks up from the grill. "Steaks are almost ready. Medium-rare for everyone?"
"Medium-rare for me," Atlas says, loosening his tie another inch.
"Same," Bane adds.
Zero just nods, not looking up from his phone until Richard clears his throat pointedly. He pockets it with a scowl.
We spread out around the patio table. Richard stays at the grill a moment longer, flipping meat, while Margot passes around a bowl of salad, then a basket of rolls.
"So, Max, how were classes today? You've been working so hard lately."
"Fine." I take a small portion of salad. Push a cherry tomato from one side of my plate to the other. "Just lectures."
"Anything interesting?"
"Not really. Economics stuff."
The silence stretches. Margot soldiers on.
"Atlas, how's the Carrington merger coming? Richard said it's been keeping you busy."
"Tricky, but on track." Atlas tears a roll in half, methodical. "Should close by end of month."
"That's wonderful." Margot beams like he's just announced he's cured cancer. "And Bane, honey, how was your day? You look tired."
"Long." Bane reaches for the wine bottle, pours himself a generous glass. "Vendor issues. Had to spend three hours on calls sorting out a shipment delay."
"That's so frustrating. Did you—"
"It's handled."
Another silence. Richard flips the steaks, the sizzle filling the gap.
"Zero," Margot tries, her voice determinedly bright. "Any plans for the weekend?"
"No."
"Nothing at all? Maybe you could—"
"I said no."
Richard's jaw tightens. "Zero. Your stepmother asked you a question."
"And I answered it."
The tension ratchets up a notch. I stare at my salad, willing myself to disappear.
"The–uh, the weather's been lovely," Margot says, a little too quickly. "Perfect for grilling. I was telling Richard we should do this more often. Family dinners outside. It's so nice when we're all together."
No one responds. The clink of silverware fills the void.