Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Atlas
The next morning, I’m at The Honey Drop, not sure what part of You need to quit that job she didn’t understand.
Blythe moves behind the counter like she’s been here forever, smiling, chatting with customers, handing out lattes like last night’s argument never happened.
Like I didn’t explicitly tell her, this wasn’t a good idea.
When it’s my turn, I lean against the counter, arms crossed.
“I thought we agreed you were done with this place.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, grabbing a cup and marking it with some complicated order before answering.
“We didn’t agree on anything,” she says, reaching for the syrup bottles.
I step closer, gently stopping her hand before she can pump whatever sugary nonsense is about to go into that cup.
Her eyes flick up, startled, but I don’t let go.
She’s so damn stubborn.
Her jaw tightens. “Seriously?”
I raise a brow.
“Dead serious.”
She huffs, tugging at the apron’s strings.
“I’m not quitting.”
I exhale, slow and controlled.
“Blythe, you can’t be out in public like this. Not when I can’t watch you.”
“People have already seen me. If I suddenly disappear, it’ll be more suspicious.” She lifts her chin like she’s daring me to challenge her logic.
“Besides, I need the money.”
“I’m not asking you to disappear, just to stick to my side—we have a plan.” I narrow my eyes.
“Plus, you have money. I paid you an advance, and your salary is pretty good.”
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t deny it.
She knows I’m right.
Yesterday, while we were discussing her living arrangements, we also talked about benefits, including a salary.
The job at the parlor pays her enough, and if she needs more, I’d hand it over in a second.
But she won’t take it.
Because she’s so fucking stubborn.
Because taking help means accepting that she needs it.
Because depending on someone might take away the little freedom she has.
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice.
“You can’t stay here, Blythe.”
“And you can’t just tell me what to do,” she shoots back.
We stare each other down, the air thick between us.
I try to keep my frustration in check, but she’s testing me.
Hard. Too fucking hard.
“You have an appointment,” I say, changing tactics.
Her eyes narrow. “An appointment? With who?”
“Dr. Simone Moreau.”
Her brow furrows.
“Who?”
“Apparently, she’s the new family practitioner at the clinic.” I pause, letting that sink in before adding, “According to my people, she knows how to be discreet.”
Dr. Moreau has been here since the Hollow Syndicate made its presence known.
The exact day was Ledger and Galeana’s wedding when the old Doherty Mansion exploded.
I had no idea that was going on in this sleepy town, but I was alerted about the second time they came to try to fuck with my family.
Probably because Nysa was part of the ordeal.
I told her to stay away from Birchwood Springs, but that woman never listens to me—or anyone.
I glance at Blythe and realize that I have to deal with her the same way I’ve dealt with Nysa.
By letting her be but just watching her fucking back.
Unless she’s putting herself in danger, which is the case while working at The Honey Drop.
Blythe crosses her arms. “And how exactly does she know how to keep her mouth shut?”
I give her a pointed look.
She exhales through her nose.
“Fine. Why this doctor? I thought we would try to go somewhere else.”
“It’s easier. If you have an emergency, she’s close by. Plus, she also happens to hate my family.” I shrug.
“So this’ll be fun for everyone.”
Her lips part slightly.
“Why does she hate you?”
I shake my head.
“Not me. My family.”
“Isn’t that the same?” she gives me a confused look.
“Nope. Some people like me because I hate my brothers . . .” I wave a hand.
“That’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
I give her a look.
“No. You have an appointment.”
She glares.
“You’re bossy, and I don’t like it.”
“It’s not about you liking it,” I argue.
“I just need you to get with the program, sweetheart.”
Her arms tighten around her waist. “I can’t just leave?—”
“Oh, you can leave.”
Blythe turns at the sound of the voice.
Delilah leans against the doorway, arms crossed, amusement clear in her eyes.
Apparently, she’s been watching us for quite some time, and I didn’t even notice.
“We’re covered. Mom should be here soon.”
Blythe’s mouth opens, then closes.
I take her silence for what it is—defeat.
“Let’s go,” I say, tossing her apron onto the counter.
“My truck is on the other side of the street.”
She mutters something under her breath but follows me out the door.
The drive to the Birchwood Springs Medical Clinic is quiet—I’m thankful that she doesn’t ask about my brothers or our dynamic.
It’s too complicated.
She’s curled against the passenger door, hood pulled up, gaze fixed on the window like she’s committing every turn to memory.
Like she’s planning an exit before she even knows the layout of the room.
Hopefully, one day, she won’t feel the need to map out her escape routes every second of the day.
I keep my grip loose on the wheel, attention split between the road and my mirrors.
No tails. No cars out of place.
Good.
I don’t expect anyone to track her this easily.
She hasn’t been here long, and this town is as remote as it gets.
You forget about this place unless you’re in desperate need of maple syrup.
I’m counting on that to buy us time.
Enough to set up the safeguards she needs, to keep an eye on anyone who comes sniffing around where they shouldn’t.
The clinic comes into view, an old building tucked between the post office and a hardware store.
I park, kill the engine.
Blythe doesn’t move.
She stares at the dashboard, her jaw tight, her fingers curled into the cuffs of her sleeves.
“Are you sure this is safe?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.
A warning. “Maybe we should come another day.”
“I promise it is fine, Blythe.” I shift in my seat to face her.
“You need to start prenatal care. And maybe . . . we need to confirm that you’re pregnant. What if you’re sick? What if it’s something else?”
Her throat moves as she swallows, the first crack in her resolve.
She stays silent for a beat too long, like she’s running through every worst-case scenario in her head.
Then, finally, she exhales.
“Fine. I’ll do this. But afterward, you’re telling me why she hates your family.”
She pushes open the door before I can answer, and I follow her inside.
Nothing has changed in this place.
Same outdated wallpaper curling at the edges, same row of dining-room chairs that look like they were scavenged from an estate sale.
The couch in the corner might be new, or maybe they just had it reupholstered.
Either way, the place still smells faintly of chlorine, antiseptic and lavender.
The receptionist glances up, recognition flashing in her eyes before she schools her expression.
“Atlas Timberbridge. It’s been a while. I had no idea you were in town. That’s . . . you’ve always known how to be discreet, unlike your brothers.”
I smile and shrug a shoulder.
“Blythe has an appointment.”
“The doctor is with another patient, but Lydia can take her vitals and bring her back now.”
A nurse steps out from the side door—mid-forties, practical haircut, kind eyes.
I’ve never seen her before.
“Come on back, Mrs. Timberbridge. Let’s check on that little one.”
Blythe freezes.
Her eyes go wide, snapping to mine, full of confusion and barely masked fury.
Fuck.
I lean in, lowering my voice like a doting husband.
“Babe, they’re waiting for you.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to Sanford’s plan.
Or maybe I should’ve, I don’t know, told her about it first.
One of the guys created a new identity for Blythe, complete with my last name, a fake marriage certificate, credit cards, even a passport—just in case we need to get her out of the country fast.
Right now, judging by the murderous look she shoots me, she’s debating whether to bolt or kill me where I stand.
After this, I’ll plan your funeral, dear, her glare practically says.
I smirk, take her hand, and try to guide her toward the door, keeping my grip gentle.
But she yanks free without a word and strides ahead.
I follow her down the narrow hall, watching the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her steps are quick but careful—like she expects someone to jump out at her any second.
Like she’s already preparing for the worst.
The exam room is small but clean.
A blood pressure cuff is on the wall, next to a scale.
Where Lydia tells her to step on first and then scribbles something.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Lydia says, keeping her voice soft.
Blythe perches on the edge of the exam table, her hands clasped in her lap.
Lydia wraps the cuff around Blythe’s arm and starts taking her vitals.
“How far along do you think you are?”
Blythe shifts, her expression unreadable.
“I . . . don’t know.”
“No worries, we’ll take a look at it. Any nausea?”
“Some,” she responds at the same time I snort.
“What?” she glares at me.
“You keep puking your brains out, you can’t call that . . . some,” I state.
She rolls her eyes.
“Cravings?” Lydia ignores our exchange.
A pause. Then, quieter, “Orange soda.”
Lydia smiles.
“Citrus tends to be a big craving. Try fresh oranges if you can find them at the market. I know it’s not the season, but . . .”
Blythe doesn’t return the smile.
I make a mental note to have citrusy stuff around, even if it has to be shipped from wherever.
Lydia finishes writing down her notes, then gestures toward the gown folded on the chair.
“Go ahead and change. Dr. Moreau will be in soon. I’ll bring the machine to see if we can find the little one while you’re visiting us.”
Blythe waits until the door closes behind her before she speaks.
“What kind of machine is she bringing?”
I shrug.
“I know as much as you do. Why don’t you change?” I step toward the door, but before I leave, I hesitate.
“You don’t have to be afraid here.”
She doesn’t look at me.
“That’s what they always say before everything falls apart.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
So I step out, leaving her with the only thing I can give her right now.
Space.
“Atlas Timberbridge,” Simone says flatly as I step outside the room.
“Hey, Simone.” I try to look casual.
“Long time no seeing you. It’s been like?—”
“Not enough time, and yet here we are, still having to deal with the Timberbridge brothers,” she growls.
“It’s like all of you decided to visit the same week, isn’t it?”
“All of us?” I arch an eyebrow because I don’t know if I have the bandwidth to deal with Keir.
“Well, Ledger was here on Monday with his wife—” she pauses and smiles, “—she’s too lovely to be with one of you. I told her that if she was being held against her will, I would help her run away, but apparently, she’s happy—with a Timberbridge.”
“Okay, so you had to deal with him?—”
“Then there was Hopper with his adorable daughter,” she growls.
“And I learned he has a fiancée? Like . . . what is with these women falling for Timberbridges?”
Should I tell her the fiancée is Nysa?
Nah, I’ll let her figure that out soon.
“Let me guess, you had to deal with the sheriff too, huh?” I cross my arms trying not to smirk.
She nods. “Yep, he needed a physical. Why is he here? I recall him wanting to go into the FBI.” Then she glares at me.
“Why are you here?”
I shrug then tilt my head toward the room where Blythe is at.
“Brought you a patient.”
Simone huffs.
“You’re the NDA, no paperwork and all that shit?” She tosses her hands up in the air.
“Why am I not surprised? I refuse to do it.”
“She’s pregnant, and we need your help,” I say in what I hope is a pleading voice.
I don’t think I’ve ever used that.
I always demand things, and it works, but something tells me that if I do that with her, I’ll lose my audience.
“Fine, but I have one condition,” she says.
“Okay . . . what is it?”
“You keep your other brother away from me,” she states.
I arch an eyebrow. This is exactly why she hates the Timberbridge brothers.
Keir. The others were also a bunch of assholes to her friends.
I wasn’t a saint, but I was never like them.
Not once did I go steady with a girl.
They knew it was a one-time thing, and I didn’t do it often.
“I will keep him away—” I pause, pressing my lips and giving her a look that says, You’re the one who fucked up— “In my defense, I told you to?—”
“Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear a fucking ‘I told you so.’” She glares at me.
“Do. Not. Fucking say it—or even mention his name.”
I salute her.
“Understood.”
“Come on, then.” she knocks on the door and waits until Blythe let us inside, as we wait, I hear Simone whisper, “I knew coming back would be a bad idea, but . . . well, I’m here.”
It makes me wonder if Nysa knows about her or if Simone is keeping to herself, avoiding the town.
She was the smart kid with the problematic mother.
That’s probably why she and Keir were close.
She believed in his charm, his promises and .
. . well, he left her without giving her a second glance.
If there’s anyone who would understand Blythe’s situation, it’ll be Simone.
I just hope she really helps us.