Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Henrietta (Blythe)
I should feel trapped here.
I should be planning my escape, counting the days until I can slip away unnoticed.
Instead, I’m just aware that this is the fifth week in Birchwood Springs.
Five weeks.
Longer than I ever should’ve stayed.
Longer than I ever planned to stay.
And yet, I don’t feel the urge to leave.
Not in the way I used to.
Not in the way I did in all the other places where I was just passing through, watching my back and wondering when I had to run again before I felt unsafe.
Now, I catch myself wondering about this town, about what it is that makes it feel like home.
I tell myself it’s the quiet atmosphere, the sleepy streets, the quaint shops I sometimes step into just to soak up the coziness of it all.
I let myself believe it’s the stillness, the way time seems to slow here, giving me room to breathe for the first time in forever.
I refuse to think that home is him .
Atlas can’t be that.
He’s just a guy helping me while I find my footing.
A complication in an already complicated escape.
That’s all. That’s all he should be.
But then I catch myself watching him when he moves around the parlor or the apartment like we belong together.
There’s the low rasp of his voice when he asks me if I’m okay, like he actually cares about the answer.
Like I’m someone to be cherished.
That’s something I’ve never experienced in my entire life.
Not even while growing up.
In such a short time, I’ve learned to trust him.
And that’s dangerous because trust has never been safe for me.
I want to believe I’m still on my own path, that the only thing keeping me here is logistics and timing, that once Winston is no longer a threat, I’ll pack up and go.
But will I?
Will I ever be free of Winston?
Or am I just trading one impossible reality for another?
Because if Atlas is starting to feel like home, then leaving him might be the hardest thing I ever do.
That and taking care of myself during pregnancy.
I understand there’s a baby growing inside me, but the maternal instinct hasn’t kicked in yet, and I’m afraid that it never will.
Maybe I’m just as cold as my mother.
While my mind is busy thinking about my present and future, the phone rings.
“Timber & Ink, how can I help you?”
There’s no response on the other side, just a silence that stretches too long, prickling at my nerves.
I tighten my grip on the phone and clear my throat before repeating myself.
“Timber and Ink, may I help you?”
A faint rustling comes through, like someone shifting, a breath dragging too close to the receiver.
Then, finally, a voice.
Deep. Ragged. Wrong.
“I must’ve gotten the wrong number.” A hint of amusement curling at the edges of the words, like he knows something I don’t.
And then, just as abruptly as he spoke, the line clicks dead.
I stare at the phone for a second, but don’t think much about it.
The tattoo parlor is louder than usual today, music thrumming low from the speakers, the buzz of machines filling the space as Atlas works on a walk-in client.
I sit behind the desk, flipping absently through the latest pregnancy book.
Am I paying much attention?
Nope. I watch the way he moves, the way his hands glide over skin, precise and controlled, like the world outside of this moment doesn’t exist.
I tell myself I’m only watching because I’m bored.
But that’s a lie.
I watch him because I can’t help it.
And the worst part?
I think he knows.
Because at one point, mid-stroke, he stops what he’s doing, glances up, eyes locking with mine across the shop.
And he doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
Not until the bell over the door chimes, breaking whatever was happening between us.
Delilah walks in, a woman I don’t recognize following close behind.
“Hi,” Del waves, then nudges the other woman forward.
“This is Nysa. I can’t believe you two haven’t met yet.”
I arch an eyebrow.
Why do I have to meet her?
Before I can say anything, Nysa closes the distance between us.
And then—she hugs me.
She hugs me.
“I can’t believe he hasn’t introduced us,” she says like we’re old friends.
I blink, stiff in her arms, before she finally steps back.
Suddenly, the music stops.
“What are you doing here?” Atlas’s voice cuts through, even, but carrying something beneath it.
He’s wiping down his client’s skin, setting things aside as he approaches the desk.
“I came to meet your . . . wife ,” Nysa responds, all too pleased with herself.
“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me. Not even an invitation to the wedding. I thought I was your best friend.”
Atlas glares at her, jaw tight.
“Who told you?”
“Simone, of course.”
“Fuck. What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?” His voice drops, but it’s edged with irritation.
I don’t think that’s the term, but he seems so upset that I prefer not to be part of the conversation.
Nysa lifts a shoulder like it’s not a big deal.
“Well, I was at the clinic with Maddy.” She stops, glances at me, and says, “That’ll be your niece. You’re going to love her.”
My niece?
Is she related to Atlas?
I’m confused, but don’t ask questions.
Nysa returns her attention to Atlas.
“The point is that during the consult, she asked if we were excited about the new Timberbridge addition.” She does air quotes because, apparently, this is hilarious to her.
“I, of course, pretended I knew all about said addition, and—” she smirks, “—she fessed up about you having not only a wife but also a baby on the way. Fifteen weeks, huh?”
Atlas exhales, closing his eyes like he’s pulling patience from a place that doesn’t exist.
“I should’ve known you and Simone would end up gossiping,” he mutters.
“The only part I don’t understand is why?—”
“Stop, Del.” Atlas’s voice slices through, his irritation sharpening.
He turns to Nysa. “Right now, that’s not important, and I’d appreciate your discretion. You’ve been there, remember?”
Nysa’s expression sobers slightly, and she crosses her arms. “How bad is this?”
“We’re assessing everything.”
I want to ask what we’re talking about because she’s now looking at me with concern and no longer with curiosity.
Was she in an abusive relationship?
Is that where Maddy came from?
“Does Malerick know?” Nysa’s voice drags me back into the conversation.
“No. And I hope this stays between us, ladies.” There’s no question in his tone.
No plea. Just a subtle command or probably a warning.
“After I’m done here, I’ll be paying Simone a visit.”
Del sighs.
“You can’t block the sun with your finger, Atlas.”
“No,” he agrees, gaze hardening.
“But if either of you put them in danger, I’m going to get pissed.” His voice lowers, something darker weaving through it.
“And you don’t want to see me angry, Del. I’m ten times worse than my brothers.”
She studies him for a second before turning to me.
“Are you okay?”
I bob my head a couple of times, but I don’t really know the answer.
“If you need anything, come to me, okay?” she says, her voice softer now.
“The offer to keep you at Gale’s place is still open.”
“She’s safe with him,” Nysa states with certainty.
Then, turning to me, she adds, “But, yeah, I’m here if you need anything.”
They leave a moment later, the door shutting behind them, and suddenly, Atlas is right there, his hands on my arms, his touch firm but not rough, his body close.
“You will be fine,” he says, voice low.
Certain.
But there’s something in his grip, in the way his fingers curl slightly against my skin, that makes me think he’s not just trying to convince me.
He’s trying to convince himself.
I don’t think. I just react, reaching up and resting a hand over his.
And he exhales, long and slow, his forehead dropping to mine for just a second, before pulling back like he shouldn’t have done it at all.
“Why are you concerned?” I ask.
“Because I didn’t think about introducing you to the town as my wife.” He lowers his voice enough that his client won’t hear.
“They saw us arrive separately. That will bring some questions.”
“We can say that we started hooking up right away and?—”
“You’re Blythe Timberbridge,” he reminds me.
“That implies that we’re not just hooking up, sweetheart. Plus, you’ll start showing soon.”
“So . . . we need to come up with a plan?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. Let me finish with this guy, and then we’ll figure this out. I . . . have I mentioned hate small towns?”
“They’re lovely,” I respond and add, “You just have to see the bright side to them.”
“Well, don’t get too comfortable because, in a couple of years, we’re gone, sweetheart,” he says, turning toward his client.
I gawk at him, not sure what unsettles me more—the fact that in two years, he’s gone, or that he’s already folded me into his escape plan.
We. How do I fit into his life?
Do I even want to?
I choose not to dwell on it, but the thought lingers, curling around my ribs like a warning.
Because suddenly, the future doesn’t just look grim—it feels like a ticking clock, and I have no idea what happens when time runs out.