Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Henrietta (Blythe)
You can always tell when a man is dangerous.
It’s not just his size or the way he moves—though sometimes, that plays a role.
It’s in his presence, the sort that makes you instinctively measure the distance between yourself and the door, the space between his body and yours.
It’s in the way he watches, calculating, silent, waiting to see what you’ll do before he makes his move.
That’s the first thing I think when I meet Atlas Timberbridge properly.
Yesterday doesn’t count.
It can’t. I was feeling exhausted, puking in the trashcan .
. . it was a bad moment.
Today, though . . . I’m not sure if coming to his shop was a good idea.
When I enter, he doesn’t just look at me.
He dissects me. And just like that, I know I should have never stepped foot in this place, maybe not even the town.
Something just doesn’t add up.
People are just too nice.
This tattoo parlor is too new.
The scent of fresh paint and something woodsy—him—lingers in the air, wrapping around me in a way that’s almost suffocating.
There’s nothing warm or inviting about it.
No signs of comfort.
No clutter. No imperfections.
Just sleek efficiency and an unsettling level of control.
Atlas looks like a man who has spent his whole life perfecting that control.
After Winston, that’s the last thing I want to deal with.
Someone to tell me how my clothes have to be aligned perfectly.
The shoes placed in boxes that have to be stacked in a certain order.
Towels . . . everything had to be methodically folded to precise dimensions, edges perfectly aligned, colors arranged in a gradient that made no difference to anyone but him.
Plates had to be centered on the table, silverware set at exact angles, and glasses filled to the same level.
Even my own reflection wasn’t mine to control—he dictated what I wore, how I styled my hair, and which shades of lipstick were appropriate for a wife of his status.
Winston didn’t just want order.
He wanted obedience.
He wanted possession.
Standing here now, in this shop that feels too pristine, too .
. . perfect, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve walked straight into another cage—one I won’t escape so easily this time.
Maybe I should turn around and never come back, but what if I’m wrong?
I need this.
Atlas Timberbridge stands behind the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, completely still.
But not in the way of a man at ease—in the way of someone who doesn’t waste movement.
Someone who only reacts when necessary.
His presence fills the space, not because he tries to command it, but because he exists with the quiet confidence of a man who’s never needed to prove himself.
His gaze moves over me, assessing, but not with curiosity or interest. It’s clinical and efficient—like he’s cataloging details, filing them away for later.
Like he had a computer inside his head and was running a background check.
This guy is really something—why didn’t I notice him yesterday?
I was too tired and overwhelmed.
If I had, I would’ve just avoided coming over.
He’s not only dangerous, he’s also too attractive.
I mean, look at him.
His jawline is strong, framed by just enough scruff to add to his ruggedness, but not in a careless way.
His cheekbones cut clean lines, casting subtle shadows over the angles of his face.
They frame the intensity in his features, contrasting with the fullness of his lips.
But it’s his eyes that hit the hardest.
Ice-blue.
Piercing.
Cold.
They don’t just look at you—they strip you bare, layer by layer, down to the last secret you didn’t know you were hiding.
There’s no warmth in them, no curiosity, no invitation for a pleasant conversation.
Just quiet calculation, like he already knows what I’m doing here.
Maybe even what I’m running from.
I fight the instinct to check the exits and to actually run away.
I have to be honest with myself.
This isn’t just a casual request for employment.
I really need this second job.
Even though Galeana offered me a place to stay, I can’t rely on the kindness of strangers.
Whatever this guy can give me will help a lot more.
I barely have enough to get through the next few weeks, and babies need more than just scraped-together tips from a café.
I adjust the grip on my purse, forcing my voice to remain calm, almost professional.
After all, this is like a job interview—small-town-desperate edition.
“Hi, I came by to see when I can start working for you.” That’s assertive, isn’t it?
Atlas doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over me slowly, like he’s checking for something he hasn’t found yet.
That’s when he says, “Why are you here? You’re still sick, aren’t you?”
“Sick me?” I force a smile and shake my head.
“Not at all.”
He scoffs.
“Yesterday, you were puking your brains out.”
I wave a hand as if it doesn’t matter.
“It was probably motion sickness after the long bus ride.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but not in amusement.
More like he already knows I’m lying.
I push forward anyway.
“So, Delilah mentioned you might need someone to handle bookings. Front desk stuff. I’m here to see when I can start.”
He says nothing for a moment, just watches me with that same measured stillness as if waiting for me to break first. I hold my ground, even as something in my pulse quickens.
Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose and shifts his stance.
“I don’t need a receptionist—or anyone for that matter.”
The rejection stings more than I expect, but I don’t let it show.
I never do. This is something I can mask easily and get out of even faster.
I lift my chin just slightly.
“Are you sure? Because Delilah seemed to think otherwise.” I pause, considering my words before finishing, “She said you were going to offer me the job yesterday, but . . .” My voice trails, but I find my strength again.
“Is it because you think I’m sick? Because it’s illegal to turn down an applicant based on assumptions.”
His lips twitch like he’s almost entertained by my audacity.
Almost. “You’re feisty.”
“No,” I correct, meeting his gaze head-on.
“I only want what’s fair. The position you were giving me before I . . . you know.”
He huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh if he were the type of man who let those slip easily.
Then, finally, he moves.
Not much—just a shift, a slight lean against the counter—but it alters something.
The space between us tightens, charged with an energy I can’t name.
“You ever worked in a tattoo shop before?”
“No.”
“Know anything about tattoos?”
Only that I wasn’t allowed to get them while I was under my parents’ thumb and Winston .
. . who knows what he would’ve said if I had ever asked for one.
Probably ‘no’ just to control me.
But all I can say is, “Not much.”
“Then why are you here?”
I could tell him the truth.
That this is my only hope, that there’s no backup plan.
That in a few weeks, what little money I have is going to be gone, and I’m running away from a sociopath who’ll probably kill me if he finds me that I need this job more than I’ve ever needed anything.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift my stance, keeping my expression neutral.
“Because I need a job. And you need help,” I state, and then add, “Listen, I’m a fast learner. I have a degree in fine arts, if that helps at all. I know how to handle a computer if that’s what worries you.”
Atlas watches me for another beat, his stare too precise, too knowing, like he’s already decided what I am to him—an inconvenience or an asset.
He just won’t let me know until he believes it’s time.
See, controlling. I don’t like that one bit, but what if this is the only job I can get?
Then, with a click of his tongue, he pushes off the counter.
“Come back tomorrow at ten.”
That’s it.
No formal offer, no instructions, no expectations laid out.
Just a command.
He turns, already moving toward the back room before I can respond.
“Just like that? You don’t want me to fill out an application? I need to fill forms, don’t I?” I ask, because what if I show and he doesn’t even open the place?
“What about discussing my salary? Hours? Any benefits?”
“Nope. You’re on a trial basis. I don’t want to fill out paperwork if you’ll be dropping before noon,” he states, and this time, he doesn’t look back or say goodbye.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, all I feel is the unsettling certainty that Atlas Timberbridge is going to make me prove exactly how much I want this.