Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Atlas
She won.
Blythe won the whole ‘I’m cooking tonight’ argument.
Probably because I got caught up downstairs, working on my project, and didn’t realize how late it was.
Creating is the only thing that pulls me out of my own head, and maybe that’s why I’ve been pouring so much time into this comic book lately.
Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to finish it now, not when everything feels .
. . unsettled.
Is that the right word?
Probably.
Everything’s up in the air—her husband, his people, the way we’re keeping an eye on them while my lawyer figures out how to get her divorce settled without putting her at risk.
It’s going to be a challenge, but it’ll get done.
It has to get done. Though I dread that last part, because once it is .
. . then what?
She’ll leave?
And I don’t want her to go.
I don’t want to think about her packing a bag and walking away, slipping back into a world where I can’t reach her.
It’ll be best if she stays.
Maybe in two years, we could leave this town together.
Put down roots somewhere else.
Boston. Seattle. Some city where my family doesn’t exist, where there’s nothing to pull me back to a past I don’t want.
But that’s not a decision for today.
Right now . . . right now, I’m holding back.
The same way I’ve been holding back since .
. . I don’t even know when my attraction for her began.
Could it be from the day she showed up at my door, dripping in secrets and exhaustion, wearing defiance like armor?
I knew better than to let her stay.
I knew better than to get involved.
But the second she looked at me with those wide, wary eyes—the second she flinched at my voice but still squared her shoulders like she was daring me to push her—I felt like I needed to protect her like I needed to .
. . I was done for.
That was three weeks and four days ago.
And now?
Now, she’s moving around the kitchen like she belongs here.
Like this life—our life—is something real.
And I keep catching myself thinking about it in we’s and ours and .
. . what the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s standing at the counter, brow furrowed, completely focused on whatever complicated dish she’s making—something I don’t even recognize, something that probably has a million steps and will taste way better than the simple meals I throw together.
In my defense, they’re from a pregnancy blog I found while researching morning sickness.
Blythe moves like she knows exactly what she’s doing, like cooking is something that settles her, something that makes sense in a way that nothing else does.
She’s wearing one of those lounge sets she ordered against her will.
Soft fabric draped over her frame, fitting too well, like it was meant to be on her skin.
The shorts show way too much leg, and I shouldn’t be noticing that.
But I do.
Like I have all the times before.
Every day, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend I don’t want to run my hands down those legs, feel her warmth under my palms, and see how she’d react if I closed the space between us.
I need to stop.
I can’t stop.
I made a mistake when we first met.
I should have felt nothing but obligation.
Nothing but duty, protection, a sense of responsibility.
But that first day—the day she told me she was pregnant, when I realized she had nowhere else to go—something twisted deep in my gut.
I told myself it was anger.
That the burn in my chest had nothing to do with her.
That it was only because of the way Winston treated her.
I hate men who take advantage of others, men like my father who get a kick out of using their wives and children as punching bags.
My father might’ve loved me, but I hated him so much for the way he treated his family.
I wish I could say I was the one who killed him, but it was an innocent bystander who didn’t see him cross the street when my father was heavily intoxicated.
The thing is that I couldn’t not notice Blythe.
Not when she curled up on my couch, smaller than before, all the fight drained from her, and I felt it.
That pull.
That uncomfortable, undeniable realization that I didn’t just want to protect her.
I wanted her with me.
Safe. Close.
And then things began to unravel.
I moved her into my space.
She started wearing my clothes.
We started falling asleep next to each other.
And now?
Now, I’m so fucking gone for her that I don’t even know where the line is anymore.
I keep redrawing it.
I keep telling myself I won’t cross it.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
Every second of the day, I try not to think about her, but it never lasts.
Inevitably, she slips into my thoughts, into the quiet spaces in my mind, and when she does?—
It’s the most beautiful fucking distraction.
I lose myself in her everything.
The way she tilts her head when she’s trying to figure something out.
The way she mutters under her breath when she’s frustrated.
The way she hums when she’s cooking, completely unaware that I’m watching.
She’s already under my skin, and the worst part is that every day, I get closer to fucking everything up.
Because if I let myself give in—if I stop pretending I don’t want her, that I don’t already have her in every way that matters—I could fail her in the worst way.
I could get distracted.
I could miss something.
And if I miss something, Winston wins.
If I slip, if I let my guard down, she loses more than just me.
She loses the chance at the life she’s fighting for.
And fuck, if it doesn’t scare me to think about what happens to her if I fail—what happens to the baby she’s carrying.
If I let myself go there, if I let myself think about what happens to me if I lose them.
I shut that thought down immediately.
I have to remind myself that I don’t have them.
They’re not mine.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Blythe says, pulling me out of my head.
“Am I?” I frown because I hadn’t noticed.
“Yep. Too quiet.” She doesn’t look at me as she says it, just keeps chopping whatever’s on the cutting board with precise, focused movements.
“You like to cook, don’t you?” I lean against the counter, watching her, letting my voice dip just a little, pushing the edges of flirtation.
She nods, her lips pressing together like she’s considering her words.
“I should hate it because he always expected the perfect meal. It was never about what I wanted—just what he demanded.” Her hands slow, and she finally looks at me.
“But while I was in the kitchen, I felt calm. Like I could forget everything else and just be . . . me.”
Something about that hits in a way I don’t like.
Because I know what it’s like to crave escape, to find it in the simplest, most mundane routines.
“I never asked,” I say, reaching for a dish towel just to give my hands something to do.
“Did you work before you escaped?”
She shakes her head.
“No. I had a wife-schedule—things I should be doing. Early mornings at the country club, working out because I had to look good for him. It wasn’t about health. It wasn’t about me. It was about what he needed from me. There were charities I had to attend and . . . the list of things I hated to do but had to was lengthy.”
That sounds like hell.
And since she’s opening up, since she’s giving me a piece of her past, I push a little further.
“Why did you marry him?”
She exhales, the knife pausing mid-slice.
“My parents.” Her voice is quieter now like the words feel too big in her mouth.
“It wasn’t a choice—it was an obligation. Something I had to do for the family.”
She presses her palm flat against the counter, staring down at the vegetables like they hold an answer she doesn’t have.
“That’s how they raised me. Even when I didn’t like it. I was the heiress to some stupid family whose company needed a merger—I was part of the merger.”
I scrub a hand down my face.
“That’s still a thing? Marriage of convenience?”
She huffs a small laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“In my parents’ world, it is. It’s not as obvious as in other cultures, but it’s there. You’re not allowed to fall in love. You just do what you’re told, or?—”
“What would’ve happened if you hadn’t done it?” I don’t even know why I ask.
Curiosity? Maybe. Or maybe I want her response to be so cold, so shallow, that it finally breaks whatever hold she has on me.
“It wasn’t an option.” She swallows, dragging her knife through the last of the vegetables.
“When I was in college, I tried to imagine a different life. One where I had a job, an apartment, something that belonged to me. Every time I brought it up, they shut the conversation down.” Her voice drops lower like she’s letting me in on something no one else knows.
“They reminded me I owed them everything—my education, my life. That I would do what they needed me to do. I thought it would mean working for my father’s company, but instead . . . it was marrying Winston.”
I grip the edge of the counter.
“And when you said no?”
“They told me I’d regret it.”
Hate twists in my chest. “You were afraid to go against their rules?”
She nods, slowly, like she’s finally admitting something out loud that she’s never let herself say before.
“Yeah. My father had a heavy hand.” She exhales through her nose, jaw tight.
“Literally and metaphorically. You don’t want to cross that man. Especially if you’re his.”
I know that kind of fear.
I saw it, lived it. I also know what it does to a person.
I don’t realize I’ve clenched my fists until I see her eyes drop to my hands.
I force them to relax, flexing my fingers, stepping back like distance will somehow stop the slow burn in my chest.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
I shouldn’t want to fix this.
But the need is there, buried deep, thrumming through me like a second heartbeat.
She’s safe right now.
I remind myself of that.
I’m making sure she’s protected.
But is that enough? Should I be making sure it’s not just Winston, but her father, too?
Because the more I learn about where she came from, the more I realize he’s just another version of the same monster.
Then, another thought creeps in.
Is she feeling trapped here?
I clear my throat, dragging a hand down my face before saying, “When it’s safe . . . once it’s safe for you and the baby, I promise I’ll stop watching your every move.”
Blythe finally looks at me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, her smile isn’t laced with something bittersweet.
It’s small, but it’s real.
“I know why you do it,” she says softly.
“It’s hard to remember sometimes, but I know this isn’t a prison—it’s a haven. And I appreciate you putting yourself in danger for me.”
“I’m not,” I correct immediately.
Her brow furrows. “You’re not . . .?”
“I’m not in danger, sweetheart,” I tell her.
“This—what I’m doing—is something I’m trained to do.”
She lifts a brow.
“You’re a tattoo artist.”
I nod, a slow smirk tugging at my lips.
“Yeah, now.” I lean against the counter, watching her carefully.
“But before that? Let’s just say I took a different route in college. Odd jobs here and there. Some for Sanford. Some for his friends.” I pause.
“And at some point, I ended up training for The Organization.”
I tell her more about The Organization.
I don’t usually talk about this.
It’s not a safe topic to discuss with outsiders, but she doesn’t feel like one anymore.
I trust her.
Because she’s trusting me with her life.
“So that’s why there are so many cameras around this building?” she asks, tilting her head.
I nod.
Her gaze lingers on me, something unreadable passing through her eyes.
“But you wouldn’t put yourself in danger, would you?”
The worry in her voice does something to me.
I shake my head. “Not on purpose. No.”
She studies me, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the counter.
Then, out of nowhere, she says, “You’re not what I expected, Atlas Timberbridge.”
I let out a low chuckle.
“Oh, yeah? What were you expecting?”
She hums, tapping a finger to her chin, playing it up like she’s really thinking it over.
“Well,” she starts, “for starters, I figured you’d be one of those guys who broods in corners, scowls at everyone, and grunts instead of speaking in full sentences.”
I arch a brow.
“You did meet me at The Honey Drop. And I had had no sleep.”
She bites back a smile.
“True. You did look like you hated everyone and everything.”
“Because I did without any sleep.”
She rolls her eyes, tossing a dish towel at me.
I catch it easily, grinning.
“I also assumed you’d be one of those guys who thinks cooking is just heating up whatever comes in a can.”
I smirk.
“I can cook, you know.”
“Yeah, you’ve made sure to show that.”
I step closer, just enough that she has to tip her head back to meet my gaze.
“What else?” I ask, my voice lower now.
She swallows, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat.
And, fuck, I like that reaction a little too much.
“Well,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I definitely wasn’t expecting you to be good at taking care of people.”
I brush my fingers against the back of her hand, watching the way she stills, the way her breath hitches.
“Good at taking care of you, you mean?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
But she doesn’t pull away either.
And maybe I’m playing with fire, and soon I’ll let myself burn.
I just need to be cautious so I don’t fuck up.