Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Henrietta (Blythe)
I wake slowly, warmth wrapping me in a way that feels familiar when it shouldn’t.
It takes a moment to register why—Atlas.
And this time, there’s no space between us.
No wall of pillows. No careful distance.
Just him, his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I don’t know how it happened.
We went to bed the same as always, so how did we end up like this?
This isn’t normal. It should jolt me awake, send me scrambling for distance.
But I don’t move. Sleep still clings to me, stretching the moment, softening the edges of reality.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel safe with someone beside me.
The thought sinks deep into places I don’t usually allow myself to go.
Then, piece by piece, last night comes back.
The kiss.
The way his hands gripped me like he wasn’t willing to let go.
The way I melted into it, into him.
The way neither of us hesitated.
We said we didn’t regret it.
But now, wrapped up in him, the question circles back.
Is it too soon to . .
. to what?
To let myself want this?
To reach for something I’m not sure I can keep?
To believe, even for a second, that this feeling—this safety—won’t be ripped away the moment I start to trust it?
My fingers twitch against the sheets, but I don’t pull away.
Not yet.
Atlas shifts behind me, his inhale slow and deep, pressing warm against my back.
His arm tightens just slightly, fingers grazing over my stomach before stilling.
A second later, his breathing evens again.
I let myself have this moment.
Just a little longer.
Then, carefully, I slip out from under his arm.
He doesn’t wake, but he stirs, exhaling low—like even in sleep, he knows something is different.
I grab one of his sweatshirts from the chair and pull it over my head.
The fabric hangs loose, draping over my thighs, swallowing me whole.
It smells like him—warm, clean, something deeper beneath that twists low in my stomach.
I need to get out of this room.
The kitchen is quiet, the soft glow of morning filtering through the window.
I go through the motions on autopilot—setting the kettle, pulling out the tin of peppermint tea, placing a mug on the counter.
A routine I’ve fallen into since I got here, which I usually do while he’s cooking or during my breaks.
Once the tea is ready, I drop in a couple of ice cubes.
The easiest way to avoid burning my tongue on the first sip.
The sound of the bedroom door opening sends a ripple of awareness down my spine.
A second later, Atlas steps into the kitchen—barefoot, hair messy, looking like sleep hasn’t fully let him go.
His eyes find me instantly.
Something flickers in his expression.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me, unreadable.
Then, finally, he nods toward the mug in my hands.
“You okay?”
I force a small smile.
“Yeah. Just needed tea.”
His gaze narrows.
“Sure, but you usually sleep longer.”
I lift a shoulder.
“Maybe I slept too well and didn’t need more?” It sounds better than ‘I felt you, and it freaked me out, so I had to leave the bed.’
Atlas moves toward the counter, reaching for ingredients to start breakfast. It’s our usual routine, but something is off.
The way he moves—controlled, contained—makes my stomach knot.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, testing the air between us.
He hesitates just for a second before pouring his coffee.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
I hear it in his voice, see it in the way tension sits heavy in his shoulders.
Something is wrong. But I don’t ask.
I’m not brave enough.
What if it’s about me?
About Winston? The idea grips me hard.
I don’t want to run.
Not yet. I’m not ready to leave this place—or Atlas.
But maybe I should.
I have enough money to disappear anywhere.
Maybe Canada. It would be harder for Winston to find me, right?
I take another sip of tea, forcing the thought away.
Atlas leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
“What’s on your mind?”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“That’s my line.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just keeps looking at me like he’s searching for something.
My pulse stumbles.
Before I can say anything, the doorbell rings.
Atlas stills. Every muscle locked tight.
Then, just as quickly, he moves.
The spatula clatters onto the counter—abandoned mid-motion—before he strides toward the front door without a word.
I watch as he checks the peephole, his jaw tensing before he unlocks the door and pulls it open.
Malerick stands on the other side, this time in uniform.
Atlas doesn’t step aside.
Doesn’t invite him in.
Just leans against the frame, crossing his arms. “What now?”
Malerick exhales, hands braced on his hips.
“We need to talk.”
Atlas flicks a glance over his shoulder, unreadable.
“Not now,” he says, glancing at me.
Malerick’s gaze shifts—to me.
“But we do.”
Something changes.
It’s small. Subtle. But I feel it, like a crack in the air.
Atlas moves—just slightly—stepping in front of me, his voice dipping low.
“Mal.”
Malerick drags a hand down his face.
“Does she even know?”
Does she know what?
I want to say, “Are you talking about me?” But I can’t.
The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I can’t seem to force them past my lips.
My fingers tighten around the mug, unease creeping under my skin like something alive.
Atlas doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t move.
Malerick exhales, his voice quieter now.
“She deserves to know, Atlas. You can’t keep her in the dark.”
The world slows.
Carefully, I set my tea down.
My hands suddenly don’t feel strong enough to hold it.
“Know what?”
Atlas’s jaw tightens, something flashing through his eyes.
He doesn’t look at me.
Just keeps his focus locked on his brother.
Malerick meets my gaze then.
And the look he gives me says everything before he even speaks, “I received a missing persons report from Florida.”
My breath stops, but Malerick isn’t finished.
“They’re looking for Henrietta Worthington. The report says she’s mentally unstable. That she’s a danger to herself.” A pause.
“And to others.”
Silence crashes into the room, heavy and suffocating.
My pulse slams in my ears, vision narrowing, edges blurring.
The walls feel closer.
The air thinner. Like something is closing in before I can even take a breath.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t happening.
I look at Atlas.
He’s quiet, pressing the bridge of his nose, tension carved into every line of his body.
And suddenly, I wonder—was that why he held me last night?
Was he protecting me?
Or watching me?
My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Atlas?”