Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hopper
The farmhands who look somehow threatening call me so I can take care of some bandages. We got a foul last night that needed my help. I’m about to be done when I see him.
Fucking Atlas, standing there with murder in his eyes and his sights locked on Malerick.
I barely recognize him. He was always strong—broad, powerful, quick with his fists when he needed to be. But now? Now he looks different. Bigger. Ink covers his arms, snaking down his forearms, crawling up under the sleeves of his dark shirt. His muscles are thick, almost as solid as Malerick’s, almost as imposing as Ledger’s.
But the biggest change isn’t physical.
It’s the edge in his eyes.
The controlled fury in every step he takes toward Mal. The way his jaw clenches, the way his shoulders coil like he’s holding back a storm.
And right now?
That storm is about to break.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Atlas’s voice is sharp, cutting through the thick, humid air.
Mal doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
He just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set like he’s waiting for Atlas to make a move.
I step forward. “Atlas?—”
“Shut up, Hopper.” His eyes don’t leave Mal. “I’m not here for you.”
I glance at Mal, but his face stays blank, unreadable.
Atlas closes the distance, his fists clenched at his sides. “She’s not safe in here and you’re making her stay. You’re using her as bait.”
I know he’s talking about Nysa. She mentioned they were still friends. Did she call him? Ask for help? I don’t like that he’s here, defending what is mine. Who is mine.
Then, slowly, Mal exhales, shaking his head. “It is safe.”
Atlas snaps. “Bullshit.”
I barely register what’s happening before Atlas’s fist is flying toward Mal’s face.
Mal ducks at the last second, his muscle memory kicking in, but he’s still half a second too slow.
Atlas clips him, his knuckles slamming against Mal’s jaw, snapping his head to the side.
The sound of bone meeting bone echoes through the open space.
Mal stumbles half a step, but then he rights himself, rolling his shoulders back like he barely felt it. His eyes flash with something cold, calculating. And then he grins. “That’s all you got?”
Atlas growls and lunges again, but this time, before his fist can land, one of the agents pretending to be a farmhand steps between them. He glares at Atlas and says, “You promised to keep this professional. If you can’t, you’re out.”
His jaw tics. “One of the few people I consider my family is in danger. I just went to see her and she’s terrified. She didn’t say as much, but I could feel it. How can I keep that professional when this asshole’s?—”
“They were handling it. Once they saw things were getting out of hand, they called us,” the guy talks with a calm voice. “We’re here to neutralize them. If you can’t be professional, you’re out.”
Atlas fights against his grip, breathing hard, his body still coiled, still ready to strike. “Then why the fuck did you bring me here, Beacon?” he snaps, his gaze still locked on Malerick. “So I could watch this asshole get my family killed?”
Mal’s jaw tics. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” Atlas spits. “You’ll handle me the way you’re handling this case? I would’ve done a better job.”
Mal takes one slow step forward, his voice cold, sharp, cutting like a blade. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Atlas finally steps back. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing in a slow, frustrated circle, trying to contain himself, trying to breathe through it.
I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are still clenched into fists, the way his whole body radiates frustration, anger, something deeper. Fear. That’s what this is it, right? He’s terrified of what can happen.
Because I am too.
“This asshole just got a call—his daughter is being threatened.” He points at me. “But Nysa is working, as if it’s an average day.”
Mal exhales through his nose, crossing his arms. “She’s being protected.”
Atlas barks out a humorless laugh. “It would have been easier if she had left. Instead of keeping her to make them think you’re not onto them.”
Mal glares. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The agent, Beacon, glares at Atlas.
Atlas says, “I’m here because I want my money. But I also want Nysa out of here.”
“She’s fine,” Mal states.
Atlas steps closer. “Then tell me why she doesn’t feel safe.”
Mal doesn’t answer right away. I don’t like that Atlas is claiming some kind of knowledge over Nysa. It takes all self-control I have not to react. Because I’m the one who should be this protective toward her. Not my little brother. I do know Nysa is frightened. Would it be better to listen to Atlas, let him take her—maybe even take Maddie with him?
Atlas laughs again, shaking his head. “That’s what I fucking thought.”
Mal exhales sharply. “I don’t answer to you.”
Atlas takes a slow breath, his voice lowering, steadying. “You don’t have to answer to me. But you sure as hell need to answer to Nysa.”
Mal stares at him. Silent.
“You put her in danger. You put everyone in danger. I should be happy that Ledger has a target on the back of his head—that is not right.” His voice is shaking, not with fear, but with absolute fury.
“We can’t just finish things off quickly, or it won’t end,” Mal states. And somehow I feel like I’ve lost track of this conversation. “Not sure why you’re here, but don’t fuck with me.”
“Atlas, we’ll talk later,” one of the other agents says.
“Fine, I’ll go to my place,” he states.
“Place?” I ask. “Since when do you have a place?”
He smirks, his expression equal parts smug and mischievous. “Your mother has a room for me in the house we all own, remember?” The satisfaction in his voice is impossible to miss, and the look on his face says he knows exactly what he’s doing—and the trouble he’s about to unleash.
“You could stay here,” I suggest, though we both know he won’t. “I have plenty of room. You’ll get to hang out with Nysa.” I’m not happy with the offer, but it’s for the best.
He lets out a scoff, his tone dripping with mockery. “And miss hanging out with my favorite brother? No thanks.” His words are thick with sarcasm, loud enough to practically rattle the air around us. “While I’m here, I’ll make sure he sells everything. I need the cash.”
He turns toward his truck, his movements casual, unbothered, like he hasn’t just dropped a match into a pile of dry leaves.
“That’s going to go over great,” I mutter, my arms crossing as I watch him.
He glances back with a grin that’s too pleased with itself, one hand on the truck door. “Great? No. But entertaining? Absolutely.”
The engine growls to life, and before I can throw another retort, he’s pulling away, leaving a trail of dust and what I already know will be a complete disaster waiting to happen.
I exhale, shaking my head as his truck disappears down the road. “This is going to be a clusterfuck.”
“Nah, it’ll be good for all of you,” Beacon says. “I remember when my brothers and I were ready to kill each other. It gets worse before it gets better. Now, go back to your house, doctor. My agent can’t be babysitting too.”
“Where did you find these people?” I ask Malerick.
He glares at them, then starts walking. I catch up with him. “An answer would be nice.”
“I didn’t. They sent them to clean up,” he states. “I just don’t know where Atlas falls into this.”
“Nysa mentioned the other day that he’s a tattoo artist going from shop to shop as a guest or something—he works with famous people,” I state.
Mal turns toward the barn and then toward the road where Atlas disappears. “That might be it.”
Not sure what he means, but I don’t question. I’m more concerned about Nysa. I’m hoping she’s okay with his visit.