Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Atlas
I’m in the kitchen again, Blythe in my arms, my mouth on hers.
She tastes like something I’ll never get enough of—warm, soft, a slow-burn sweetness that sinks into me, curls around my ribs, leaves me dizzy.
The rest of the world dissolves into the press of her body against mine, the quiet, breathless sounds she makes as my hands slide down her back, gripping her hips, pulling her closer.
I should stop.
I need to.
But I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I lift her onto the counter, her legs parting, locking around my waist, her fingers twisting into my hair like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.
Her mouth is just as desperate as mine, her body just as lost in the gravity pulling us under.
Heat licks up my spine, the slow, maddening kind that doesn’t just burn—it consumes.
Her hands roam, nails skimming over my shoulders, dragging down my arms, a wordless plea that spikes through me.
She gasps when I grind against her, her body arching, meeting me like she was made for this.
“Atlas,” she whispers, voice raw, pleading.
I grip her thigh, dragging my hand higher, drinking in the way she trembles.
My lips find her neck lingering, tasting, leaving my mark because some primitive part of me wants to brand her in ways I shouldn’t.
“You taste so fucking good, Blythe,” I murmur against her skin.
“I want to taste you all.”
She pushes her hips against mine, heat pulsing between us.
“Please, Atlas, make this ache go away.”
A grin tugs at my lips.
“You want me to take it away?”
Her breath hitches as I press my hand between her legs, teasing, barely touching, feeling the fire radiating through the thin fabric.
“Yes,” she breathes, and the need in her voice makes me so fucking hard.
“Please.”
I chuckle, low and dark.
“You think you’ve been good enough for this? Are you a good girl, Blythe?”
She moans in answer, her hips shifting, chasing more.
I push her panties aside, find her slick, ready.
Her head falls back against the cabinets, lips parted, eyes gone hazy with need as she watches me.
I work her slowly, savoring every reaction—the sharp inhale, the way her breath snags when I stroke her just right, the way she bites her lip like she’s trying to keep quiet and failing.
Her nails dig into my shoulders as I push a finger inside, then another, her body clenching around me, her moans turning into something wrecked.
She’s so fucking beautiful like this—laid out in front of me, undone, trusting me to take her apart piece by piece.
I lean in, mouth covering hers again, swallowing her sounds as I curl my fingers inside her, driving her higher, higher ? —
Suddenly, I wake up in my bed.
A rush of heat, a snap of awareness, a body that’s too tight, too hard, too fucking desperate beneath the sheets.
For just a moment, the dream lingers—her taste, her sounds, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing in the world she needed.
I grit my teeth, pulse hammering.
She’s right there, inches away, lost in sleep, tangled in my sheets, easy to reach.
Too easy.
Then there it is again, the noise that woke me up.
It’s not inside the dream.
But here in the apartment.
My breath locks, my body reacting before my mind catches up.
A shift in the air. The faintest creak of wood.
A scrape just outside the room.
Adrenaline spikes, a cold shot to the system.
I listen before I react because I don’t want to make any mistakes.
Again.
Fuck.
I don’t waste time.
I move silently, sliding out of bed without disturbing Blythe.
My hand finds the knife I keep tucked beneath the mattress—old habits, old training, things that never really go away.
I barely breathe as I cross the room, my steps soundless against the floor.
Another sound—closer this time.
The door handle.
Motherfucker.
I move fast, yanking the door open just as the intruder starts to pick the lock.
Broad shoulders. A hunched stance.
Hands still on the damn handle like he owns the place.
Malerick.
He exhales hard, jerking back a step, gaze locking onto the knife in my hand.
“What the fuck, Atlas?”
I don’t lower it.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t put this through your chest.”
He lifts a hand, expression flat.
“I’m your brother?” Like that’s supposed to mean something.
Like that’s supposed to get him out of this.
“You should relax, man.”
Relax?
I step forward, voice low, sharp enough to slice through the thick air between us.
“You broke into my apartment. At one in the fucking morning. While me and my wife were sleeping, and you want me to fucking relax?” I tilt the blade, let the light catch it, let him see exactly how close I am to losing patience.
“I’m two seconds from seeing how deep I can cut before you start begging.”
Malerick sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like I’m the unreasonable one.
“I needed to talk to you. Privately.” His gaze moves toward the bedroom area.
I let out a slow, dangerous breath.
“You could’ve tried the fucking phone.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to see if I could break into the place.” He glances around.
“Too much security for a guy who just owns a fucking parlor.”
My grip tightens.
“That’s none of your fucking business.” My patience thins with every passing second.
“What do you want?”
His jaw ticks, like he knows I’m already pissed enough to throw him out.
But he still steps closer.
“You know I’m the sheriff, right?” He stares at me like he’s trying to get ahead of whatever reaction he’s expecting from me.
“That means I see everything that happens in this town. The reports. The calls. The missing persons bulletins from other counties—and states.”
I stare at him, unamused.
“And?”
His jaw locks.
“And two days ago, a report was circulated from Miami. A missing woman. Last seen fleeing her home.” He watches me closely, waiting for something.
“Henrietta Elizabeth Worthington.”
I don’t react.
Not at her name.
Malerick tilts his head, eyes narrowing.
“Her husband, Winston Reginald Worthington IV, is looking for her.”
Though his name makes my blood boil, I still don’t say anything.
I yawn, slow, exaggerated, because the faster he leaves, the faster I can call Sanford.
It’s only ten o’clock his time.
I’ll have options by morning.
“If that’s all, Mal, I have a long-ass day tomorrow. This town’s gossip? Your job? None of my fucking business.”
Malerick scoffs, but there’s something colder in his expression now.
“Well, in the report, he claims his wife is mentally unstable. That she has a history of paranoia, delusions, and violent tendencies. That she’s an addict, too. That she needs urgent medical care.” He holds my gaze, pressing in now.
“The bulletin says she might be a danger to herself and others.”
Fucking Winston.
He’s not just trying to find her.
He’s trying to erase her.
Bury her so deep the law hands her right back to him—trapped, powerless, or worse, locked away for good.
I keep my voice even.
“That’s sad, isn’t it?” I shrug, forcing the rage to stay contained, to stay where I need it.
“You need help with something, or . . .?”
Malerick studies me like he’s picking me apart like he’s waiting for a crack in the mask.
Then, he pulls out his phone, turns the screen toward me.
And there she is.
Blythe.
Not her, as I know her.
Not the woman curled up in my bed, safe.
This version of her is someone else.
Hair slicked into a bun, jewelry flashing, and makeup covering every feature I’ve memorized.
But it’s her.
Malerick crosses his arms. “Tell me why I shouldn’t treat this like a legitimate case. Why I should ignore it when I could just make a call so this poor man can recover his mentally ill wife.”
I hate asking for help.
Hate needing anything from them —my fucking brothers .
But this is for Blythe.
I shut the door behind me, lowering my voice.
“He’s lying. She’s not mentally unstable—she’s running. From him.” I don’t give him a chance to interrupt.
“He’s like our father. Controlling. Abusive. Everything we hate. She feared for her life, so she escaped.”
“She could go to a shelter?—”
“The guy is bad news,” I cut him off before he lists all the useless, too-late options that won’t protect her.
“You don’t get it. He’ll find her. She can’t just disappear.” I don’t say the other part.
The part where I could make sure Winston disappears instead.
Because then Malerick will ask questions I’m not ready to answer.
His mouth presses into a thin hard line.
“You could’ve come to me with this earlier.”
I let out a slow exhale, keeping my voice controlled.
“He’s fucking dangerous. And no offense, Mal, but you’re just the sheriff.”
His jaw tightens, his fingers twitching like he’s holding something back.
For a second, I think he might take a swing at me.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
But he just watches me, the tension between us thick, waiting to snap.
“I might be just the sheriff, but I could help you, asshole,” Malerick finally says, voice edged with frustration.
I let out a humorless laugh.
“Why would you want to help me?” My tone is low.
“You hate me just like the others. Hell, a few weeks ago, you tried to run me out of town.”
His nostrils flare.
“I don’t need someone else to worry about while we’re dealing with the fucking Hollow Syndicate.” He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to me.
His eyes burn with something deeper than anger.
Frustration. Exhaustion.
“They’re quiet right now, but when they come back, they’re not just coming for me, Atlas. They’ll take all of us down so they can get their hands on the timber company. I don’t need more people to worry about.”
Malerick watches me for a long moment, the air between us coiled so tight it might snap.
I tilt my head, voice mocking.
“Shouldn’t you be calling your friends in the FBI?” Because, seriously, where the fuck is their help?
Last time, it wasn’t him handling shit—it was Crait Quantum Shield.
The same people who came when Nysa had a stalker.
I heard The Organization stepped in when he was dealing with Galeana’s property, too.
He exhales, gaze darting away.
“It’s complicated.”
I step closer, letting the question drag between us.
“Try me.”
His jaw clenches.
“I can’t. But I need to know what we’re doing here, Atlas. You might be bringing another fucking syndicate to my doorstep. Are you aware of that?”
I nod, unbothered.
“Which is no problem at all. I’ll take them down if needed. And hopefully, that fucker will be here so I can take him down too.”
Malerick lets out a dry laugh, disbelief flashing across his face.
“You’re just a fucking artist. Are you going to draw them to death?” His voice dips lower.
“Unless you’d like to share why you have a state-of-the-art alarm system and a security setup more advanced than my department’s.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is when you have someone who might become a?—”
“Blythe is mine. Mine to protect, to cherish.” My voice is pure steel.
I step in, close enough that he gets the message loud and clear.
“And I’m not giving her away. Do you understand me?”
Malerick lifts his hands in surrender, but his eyes stay on mine, measuring.
“I get it. But I need more than what you’re giving me, Atlas. I’m not your enemy. I’m your brother.”
I scoff.
“Please. You’ve seen me as your enemy since the moment I stepped into this town. And I was six.”
“It was a different time, Atlas. I was a kid trying to survive. I hated my life. Hated our parents.” His voice lowers, rough at the edges, as if he’s letting the past and the regrets talk instead of him.
“If anything, I’m grateful for what you did for my mother. While she was lonely in this town, you visited her more than any of us. You took care of her when she was sick. You still visit her in the cemetery whenever you come to town—even when she wasn’t yours.”
“Therese was cool.” I shrug, keeping it casual.
But Malerick doesn’t let me off that easy.
“I’ll help you keep Blythe safe, but you need to tell me what you’re hiding.”
I scoff.
“What can you do?”
Malerick scrubs a hand through his hair, exhaling.
“First, I’m going to slow things down. A missing persons case from another state doesn’t automatically give him power here. I’ll tell my contacts the case is being reviewed locally. That buys us time.”
Time.
I nod. “And after that?”
“Oh, I don’t fucking know, because you haven’t told me what the fuck you’re hiding, little brother.”
“Let me make some calls,” I tell him, keeping my tone even.
“Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow.”
Malerick doesn’t move.
His gaze stays locked on me, assessing, weighing whatever calculations are running through his head.
Then he shakes his head.
“Those guys. The agents from CQS.” His voice is low, measured.
“They aren’t just your friends, are they?”
I don’t react.
It’d be so simple to just tell him the truth.
That Sanford and his people don’t work for CQS, but The Organization.
That the only reason they stepped in last time was because the owner of CQS is his brother-in-law.
That this runs deeper than he knows.
But I don’t.
I lean against the wall, playing with the knife, keeping my expression blank.
“Not sure what you’re talking about.”
Malerick lets out a slow exhale, but there’s something knowing in his eyes.
He doesn’t press, doesn’t push for more.
Just studies me, like he’s already made his own conclusions and he’s waiting to see if I’ll confirm them.
“You talk to your people,” he says finally, voice rough with something I can’t quite place.
“When you have the green light to tell me, I’ll be in my office.”
And then he turns, shoulders tight as he stalks down the hallway.
Doesn’t look back.
I watch him go, my fingers twitching at my side, the tension in my chest coiled too tight.
Will he help? Or is he going to turn into another problem?
Because if Malerick becomes an obstacle, I’ll have to deal with him, too.
And I really don’t want to do that.
After all, he’s my fucking brother.