Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Atlas
I lean over the workbench, dragging the stylus across my tablet, refining the delicate lines of the design.
The first tattoo I’ll ink in this shop.
The start of something I never planned for, but I have to adapt to really fast.
Tattooing has always been mine.
The one thing I could carry from place to place, no matter how many times I picked up and left.
It’s precision and instinct, art and permanence.
My wrist moves, the design coming together in clean strokes, but my mind?
It’s somewhere else.
Or rather—on someone else.
Blythe.
I exhale, pressing my tongue to the inside of my cheek.
There’s so much that worries me.
At least while she’s in this building, I know she’s safe.
However, I realized she doesn’t have a phone.
No way to contact me if she needs to.
Not that she would—but still.
The thought digs at me, irritating me in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
It’s not like I should care.
She’s temporary. Passing through.
A complication I didn’t ask for.
Yet, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I should do something.
By the time my break rolls around, I give in to whatever the fuck this is and head upstairs.
Sanford stocked my fridge with meal prep containers because, apparently, he thinks I can’t function without someone making sure I eat.
He’s not wrong, but still.
It’s annoying.
I heat one up, throw some utensils on the tray, and head toward the bedroom.
She’s curled up on her side, deep in sleep, the blanket pulled up to her chin like she’s trying to disappear into it.
The room is dim, with just enough light spilling in to catch the strands of hair sticking out in every direction.
For a second, I just stand there.
I should wake her. Make sure she eats.
Make sure she’s okay.
Instead, I set the plate down on the nightstand and get the fuck out as if something is on fire.
Leaning against the wall across from the apartment, I rub my hands down my face, exhaling slowly.
I don’t know why I’m doing this.
This isn’t me.
I’ve saved people before—pulled women out of hellholes, dragged kids away from places they never should have been.
But when the job was done, it was done.
I didn’t stay. I didn’t wait.
But this? This is different.
Because this isn’t just about pulling Blythe out of danger.
It’s about what happens after.
Making sure she’s okay when it’s over.
Making sure she recovers from years of being controlled, broken down, treated like she was nothing.
And the thought of waiting for that moment—waiting for the other shoe to drop—scares the fuck out of me.
I push through the apartment door and head downstairs, my boots hitting the worn steps harder than necessary.
I need to clear my head, to focus on something I can actually control.
But the moment I step into the shop, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sanford.
I swipe the call open.
“Yeah.”
His voice comes through low and tense.
“We’ve got movement from Miami.”
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline spiking.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Winston’s people are in New England. They landed in Boston, and I’m sure they’ll be sweeping the city before moving to the next place.”
I glance out the shop window, scanning the street, tracking the cars parked along the curb.
Everything looks the same, but my gut tells me that won’t last.
“You think I have enough time to get her out of here?”
Sanford exhales hard.
“I don’t think he’ll get there anytime soon. But he’s looking.” A pause.
“His people hit up a few places in Connecticut—her parents, old contacts, friends. The usual.” Another pause, heavier this time.
“He’s getting desperate.”
Desperate men do stupid things.
I scrub a hand down my face, considering my options.
If Winston’s digging through her past, that means he’s running out of patience.
And patience is the only thing keeping him from making a real move.
“Tell me what I don’t want to hear.”
Sanford’s voice drops.
“He put money on the table, Atlas. Big money.”
The muscles in my jaw tighten.
My fingers flex at my side.
He’s not just searching anymore.
He’s hunting.
And if Winston’s willing to throw cash at this, it means he’s not just trying to bring his wife home—he’s making an example out of her.
She didn’t just run.
She humiliated him.
And men like Winston don’t handle humiliation well.
A slow, lethal burn coils in my chest. I know exactly how this plays out.
A man like him doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants—or until someone stops him first.
“What should be my next move?” I ask because leaving isn’t an option.
Not yet.
“Wait,” Sanford says.
“Boss thinks we might be able to take out a few rats while we deal with him. Make it look like a deal gone bad when we eliminate him.”
I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to keep my head clear.
“Fine. But let me know the second they get closer.”
Sanford is quiet for a beat, then sighs.
“Just so you know, my brother-in-law is stepping in. He’s got a few assets nearby, and they’ll keep an eye out in case you need backup.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“Good. Thank you for . . . this. I might be calling for a few more favors.”
“That’s what family is for, kid. You got us, okay. Don’t let that fucking pride get in the way,” he says before ending the call.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, my gaze still locked on the street.
Waiting isn’t my style.
But if Winston thinks he can just take her back like she’s something he lost, if he thinks I’ll stand by and let it happen .
. . he’s about to learn the fucking hard way that I don’t wait forever.