Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Atlas
What the fuck was I thinking, bringing her to the cemetery and telling her about Therese?
The answer is simple—I wasn’t thinking at all.
Everything I said, everything I unearthed, are things I keep locked so deep inside me that only a handful of people know.
And yet, I handed it over to her like it was nothing.
Like she hadn’t earned it.
Like she wasn’t a stranger.
Why?
Was it her fear?
The way she spoke about the kid like he was a problem she didn’t know how to solve?
Or was it the heartbeat, that small, rhythmic sound that already carried the sting of rejection?
For a second—just a second—I wondered.
If my mother had known the truth about my father before I was born, would she have hated me for it?
Would she have looked at me and seen nothing but a mistake?
But that thought didn’t last long.
Because I know she loved me.
And that’s why I had to say something to Blythe before it was too late.
Before, she let herself believe there was no space in her heart for this child.
Before she let the fear decide for her.
Because if she doesn’t choose him now before he even gets here, what chance does he have?
The drive back is quiet.
Too quiet.
Blythe stares out the window, hood pulled up, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to make her body disappear.
Like if she curls in tight enough, stays still enough, she might slip through the cracks and escape whatever’s clawing at her from the inside.
She hasn’t said a word since we left the cemetery.
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t be watching her out of the corner of my eye, tracking the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.
But I do.
And that’s the problem.
This was never supposed to be personal.
Helping her was supposed to be almost like a mission, a favor—something I could walk away from when it was over.
I’ve handled black-market deals, tracked criminals, and taken out people who needed to disappear.
I’ve infiltrated human traffickers, pulled women and children out of situations most people pretend don’t exist. I’ve walked through abandoned buildings, back alleys where one wrong move meant a bullet to the head.
I know how to survive in those spaces.
I know the rules, the risks, the exit strategies.
But this?
There’s no protocol for this.
No extraction point.
No end date.
And the moment I heard that heartbeat—the moment I saw her crack under the force of it—I realized something I wasn’t ready to admit.
I can’t just walk away from this.
From her and this innocent baby.
Fuck.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles aching from the force of it.
This isn’t who I am.
I don’t settle. I don’t build.
I move. I fight. I protect.
And when it’s over, I leave.
Lately, it’s been different—I tattoo, stay for a while, then find another place to call home.
Temporary. Always temporary.
So why the fuck am I sitting here, feeling like if I let her go, I’ll be making the biggest mistake of my life?
Blythe exhales beside me, shifting in her seat.
I glance at her, catching the way she tucks into herself, hood pulled low, body curled inward like she’s trying to disappear.
Like if she stays small enough, still enough, she can slip through the cracks, escape whatever’s closing in on her.
She looks exhausted.
Not just physically—something deeper, something that seeps into a person’s bones, makes them forget what it’s like to breathe without waiting for the next hit to land.
I recognize that look.
I used to see it every time I looked in the mirror.
She thinks I don’t understand what she’s feeling.
That I don’t know what it’s like to be stuck, trapped, counting the seconds between disasters.
She’s wrong.
I grew up in a house where breathing too loud could get you hurt.
Where silence wasn’t peace—it was a fucking warning.
My father wasn’t just a bastard.
He was a man who found joy in breaking things—people, bones, spirits—and acted like it was his right.
And Therese?
She let him.
Maybe she didn’t have a choice.
Maybe she was just as trapped as Blythe.
But I remember what it felt like to live that life.
If my mom had survived, would she have ended up the same?
Would she have stayed?
Would she have lived in fear the way Therese did, the way Blythe does now?
I don’t know.
I only know that she didn’t leave.
She just didn’t wake up one morning.
And that was it.
She was gone.
And I was left with a man who barely acknowledged my existence unless it was to remind me what a mistake I was.
A walking, breathing consequence of his own sins.
I wasn’t wanted.
Not by him.
Not by my half-brothers.
I should’ve run. I should’ve disappeared.
But I didn’t.
Because what else do you do when no one is coming to save you?
I learned fast. Learned how to make myself useful, how to fight, how to blend in when I needed to.
How to survive.
That’s what Blythe is doing now.
Even sitting next to me, she’s calculating her next move.
Figuring out how to run.
And it makes me want to slam on the brakes, grab her shoulders, and shake her until she understands she doesn’t have to do this alone.
That she doesn’t have to keep running.
But I don’t.
Because I know what it’s like when someone tells you you’re safe when you know you’re not.
She’s not ready to hear it.
So, instead, I just drive.
I pull into the lot behind the shop, cut the engine.
The silence stretches between us, thick and unmoving.
Blythe reaches for the door handle.
I beat her to it.
“Wait.”
She freezes, her fingers hovering over the handle.
Doesn’t turn.
I sigh, pressing my knuckles against the steering wheel before exhaling.
I’m no good at this.
At talking. At saying the right thing.
At not trying to control the situation around me.
But I try anyway.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” I tell her.
“Not about the baby. Not about staying. Not about me.”
She doesn’t react, but I catch the way her shoulders tighten, the way her hands curl into fists.
“But you do need to sleep. Eat. Breathe.”
A soft, humorless laugh escapes her.
“That easy, huh?”
“No.” I look at her then, waiting until she meets my gaze.
“It’s never easy. But it’s a start.”
Something shifts in her expression.
Doubt. Hope. Maybe both.
She nods. Once.
I step out first, moving around to her side to open the door.
She doesn’t fight me on it.
Doesn’t roll her eyes or make some sarcastic remark.
She just slides out, her movements slower than usual, like she’s still processing everything.
We walk in silence to the apartment above the shop.
I unlock the door, step aside.
“Go in. Get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs.”
Blythe hesitates in the doorway.
For a second, I think she’s going to argue.
Demand an explanation for why I’m still doing this.
But she doesn’t.
She just nods, like she’s accepting something.
Then she steps inside and closes the door behind her.
I stare at it for a long moment, my pulse uneven, something restless clawing under my skin.
This was supposed to be temporary.
So why the fuck does it feel like I just crossed a line I can’t come back from?
Fuck.
I should leave.
I should let her deal with this on her own, the way she’s convinced herself she has to.
Even better, I can let her leave.
Sanford can find a good location for her.
I heard Finnegan Gil runs a private witness protection program.
I could send her there.
But I don’t.
I step back, lean against the wall across from the door, and wait.
Because I’m not built for this.
But for her? I’m willing to try.
I have no fucking idea why, but I’m willing to do it.
After all, how long will this take? Two years tops?