Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Atlas
When I said I wouldn’t ask Sanford or any of his friends for help while I handled the parlor, I wasn’t expecting Blythe Olsen to show up on my doorstep.
Actually, her name is Henrietta Marie Worthington.
Now . . . well, I simply don’t have a choice.
Of course, I need to make the call—more like send the texts—because the guy she’s running from sounds like a complete asshole and a sociopath who’s been taking advantage of her.
He’s definitely not someone I want to deal with blindly.
If I’m going to keep an eye on Blythe—or whoever she really is—I need to know exactly who I’m up against.
Once the message is sent, I wait.
In the meantime, I watch her.
She’s curled up on the couch, smaller than before, like all the fight drained out of her the second she admitted the truth.
The bravado, the feigned indifference—it’s gone.
What’s left is someone who looks like she just lost the one thing keeping her safe, like she’s waiting for me to tell her she’s out of options.
The thing is that there’s no fucking way I’ll let her husband touch her again.
He actually is going to pay for lifting a hand to the woman he was supposed to love and protect.
“You can’t stay in the hotel,” I say because there’s no way I can keep an eye on her if she’s tucked away on the other side of town.
The place has no security, and no one is watching who comes and goes.
And with the sudden influx of people passing through, I need her close.
Her head snaps up. “So, you’re kicking me out of town?”
The defiance is there, but her voice lacks bite.
She’s not fighting me—she’s bracing for the worst.
“You said that if I told you who I was, you wouldn’t . . .” Her voice trails off, the sentence unfinished, like she can’t quite bring herself to say it.
She believes I’m going to just toss her to the wolves and let them shred her to pieces.
I wouldn’t do anything like that.
Never.
“No,” I correct, shaking my head.
“I’m saying you’ll be moving upstairs.”
She blinks.
“What’s upstairs?”
“Another apartment, just like this one.” I tilt my head, studying her, because there’s still something she hasn’t told me, and if we’re doing this, she has to tell me everything.
Everything. No more lies, nothing held back.
I have to know what’s the deal with the nausea, the exhaustion, the way she barely touched the crackers I gave her.
Like she’s afraid of something.
Was this man poisoning her, and we need to take her to a hospital?
“Mind telling me what’s going on with you?” I ask.
She frowns, confusion crossing her face for a brief moment.
“I thought I already did.”
I nod because, technically, she did.
But she left something out.
“Are you sick?” I press.
“That amount of puking doesn’t seem normal. You look . . . weak.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she goes still, her fingers curling around the hem of her hoodie like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Seconds stretch, and I almost ask again—until she finally exhales, voice barely above a whisper.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
I go quiet.
“You think?” I arch an eyebrow.
She shrugs, gaze darting to the floor.
“I wasn’t when I ran away—I mean, I didn’t know. Or maybe if I had known, I wouldn’t have left him.” Her throat works around the words, like saying them aloud makes them more real.
“It was later when I started feeling . . . different. I took a test, and it was positive.”
“But you haven’t been to a doctor.”
She shakes her head.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.
This just got more complicated.
Taking her to the local clinic is out of the question.
The second someone recognizes her, it’ll spread like wildfire.
Until I have a solid plan, she has to remain almost invisible.
The last thing we need is anyone looking at her too closely, asking questions she can’t afford to answer.
I glance back at Blythe.
She’s watching me, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear like she’s waiting for me to tell her she’s on her own.
But that’s not going to happen.
No matter how messed up this situation is, I’m in it now.
And I sure as fuck don’t plan on letting her walk back into the hell she escaped from.
Because I know exactly how this ends if she does.
She’s going to end up like Therese Smith.
And there’s the child who might end up like my brothers, or worse, like me.
Twisting herself into knots trying to survive, making excuses as to why they have some noticeable bruise or a broken bone, carrying invisible scars that never really fade.
Living under the rule of a man who breaks his family down piece by piece until there’s nothing left.
I’ve seen it before.
I lived it.
The way an abusive bastard rewires someone, convincing them they’re the problem.
That they deserve every slammed door, every controlled breath, every insult disguised as concern.
That if they just try harder, love better, disappear a little more, maybe they wouldn’t have so many bruises and broken bones.
Or it wouldn’t hurt so much.
But it always does.
And if she goes back—if this man gets his hands on her again—she won’t be the only one paying the price.
Her child will grow up in the wreckage of a war they never asked for, watching, learning.
Thinking this is normal, or hiding while hoping that they don’t get used as a punching bag that night.
I grit my teeth, pushing down the bile rising in my throat.
I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
“Blythe,” I say, my voice quieter now, more certain.
“You’re not going back. That’s not even a question. I told you that if you were straight with me, I’d protect you, and I will.”
She swallows hard, blinking fast, her fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie.
“You don’t even know?—”
“I don’t need to,” I cut in, my tone leaving no room for argument.
“I’ve seen this before. I know how it could end.”
Her lips part like she wants to fight me on it like she wants to tell me I don’t know a damn thing about what she’s been through.
But nothing comes out.
Because I’m right.
She didn’t see the end, but I bet she felt it.
Felt it creeping closer every day, she stayed, pressing in on her ribs, waiting for the right moment to shatter them.
Felt it the second she ran, her pulse pounding in her throat, that sickening certainty that if she stayed even a second longer, she wouldn’t have left at all.
She knows exactly how she almost ended.
And she’s terrified it isn’t over.
That he’ll find her.
That next time, there won’t be a way out.
“We’ll figure this out,” I tell her, keeping my voice even.
“But first, we need to get you to a doctor. And we’re going to do it my way.”
Her head snaps up, the fire flickering back to life behind her eyes.
“You can’t just control me.”
Good.
There she is. I like her feisty, and I hope she’s able to find herself once all this settles.
“It’s not controlling, sweetheart.” My voice stays even, firm without pressing too hard.
“It’s helping. And I know why you’re fighting me, but believe me—I’m not the bad guy.”
She lets out a breath, short and uneven.
“How can I trust you when I just met you?”
“Blind faith,” I answer.
“The same way I’m trusting you right now.” I don’t look away, don’t let her escape the truth of what I’m saying.
“I’m offering you more than a job, more than a roof—I’m offering protection. And whether you realize it or not, I’m putting myself in danger for you.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her sleeves.
She exhales loudly, blinking fast, looking anywhere but at me.
She doesn’t believe it yet.
That she’ll be safe.
That this won’t end the way she fears it will.
It’s okay, trust takes time.
I’ll show her what I’m capable of.
I couldn’t stop what happened to Mom.
Couldn’t stop what Dad did to Therese most nights—I was too young, too small, too damn powerless to change any of it.
But at some point, I was able to stand up for Ledger and Keir.
It didn’t end well for me—I took the hits, bore the bruises—but I did it anyway.
And I’d do it again.
Because after that, I learned something.
I’m not powerless. And this time, I’m not a kid.
I know how to fight.
I know how to win. If someone comes looking for her, they won’t be the ones walking away from it. I will.