Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Atlas
Blythe is still in my arms.
Her body is soft against mine, her breath warm where it skims my collarbone.
I feel every small shift, every hesitant release of tension.
She hasn’t pulled away yet, and I don’t fucking dare move, don’t risk breaking whatever fragile thing is holding us together right now.
This isn’t just about keeping her here.
I need her to want to stay.
Her fingers twitch against my back, just slightly, like she’s testing the pull of this—of me, of us.
My grip tightens just enough for her to know I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.
If she lets me, I’ll be the ground beneath her, the thing that stays firm when the world tilts.
After a long moment, she exhales, the sound uneven, catching just before she speaks.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
My throat tightens.
“Do what?”
She hesitates, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, barely there, like she’s testing the reality of this—of me, maybe even us.
“Not be afraid of being with someone else. Trust. Not run.”
Fuck.
She says it like she thinks I have the answer as if I can help her.
Like I know how to do any of those things.
I don’t.
I learned at a young age how to build walls so high no one bothers to climb them.
How to keep people at a distance until they stop trying.
How to pretend that solitude is a choice, not a habit I never learned to break.
But this? Letting her in—letting myself want to be let in—feels like stepping off the edge of something big.
A huge cliff where I can just die, and I’m unsure if I’ll crash or if she’ll be there, catching me before I fall too far.
I’m afraid, too.
Afraid of wanting more than what I know how to hold.
Afraid of needing her.
Afraid of the possibility that she’ll leave anyway.
And yet . . . I want her to stay.
I want her to choose me.
The contradiction burns through me, raw like white fire that could kill us both, but I don’t let go.
I close my eyes for a second, memorizing the way she feels against me, how right it is even when nothing else is.
“We can figure it out together.”
She tilts her head slightly, her forehead pressing against my chest like she’s hiding.
Or maybe like she’s trying to believe me.
“You think it’ll be easy?”
I let out a quiet breath, my fingers tracing slow circles against the small of her back.
“No. It’ll be hard. Too fucking hard. But I want to learn how to stay. How to stop being afraid of loving someone . . . and letting them love me.”
If love is meant to be something we fight for, something we bleed for, then maybe—just maybe—she’s the battle worth losing everything for.
Maybe that’s not what I should say.
She doesn’t have the luxury of time, of ease, of making this choice on her terms. Winston’s coming, and no matter how much I want to keep her safe in a crystal box, that reality isn’t changing.
She doesn’t need that reminder.
Not now. Right now, she just needs to know she’s not alone.
“But we have to focus on the now.”
She snorts.
“The now sucks, and what if he wins?”
I tilt my head down, my lips brushing against the top of hers before I can think better of it.
“You’re not doing any of this alone. I’m with you, and he’ll have to kill me before he takes you.”
Her breath hitches.
Just slightly.
And then—she leans in, hugging me.
Not too tight. Just enough that I feel it.
Just enough that I know she’s making this choice.
Her hands slip higher, her fingers tracing over my shoulders, slow and tentative, like she’s memorizing the shape of me.
And, fuck, I feel it everywhere.
The heat of her touch, the slow unraveling of the distance between us.
I tighten my hold, my nose brushing hers as I tip my head down, waiting—giving her the space to decide.
“Blythe.”
She blinks up at me, her pupils wide, her lips parting like she’s on the edge of something she doesn’t know how to name.
Then, quietly, like it’s just for me, she says, “Kiss me.”
And I do.
I don’t hesitate, don’t overthink it.
I just close the space between us, my mouth pressing against hers, slow at first, testing, waiting for her to push me away.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she presses closer, her hands sliding up my neck, fingers threading into my hair.
And that’s all it takes for me to sink into her, for restraint to slip, for my hands to tighten around her waist, pulling her against me.
Her lips part, a quiet sound escaping—something wrecked, something raw—and, fuck, it does something to me.
I deepen the kiss, slow but unrelenting, drinking her in like I can make this last forever.
Like if I kiss her the right way, she’ll stay.
She’ll love me. She’ll accept me as hers.
Her fingers tighten, nails scraping lightly against my scalp, and I groan against her mouth, my hands slipping lower, gripping the soft curve of her hips, holding her exactly where I want her.
She gasps against my lips, and I swallow the sound, kissing her deeper, letting her feel exactly how much I want her.
Maybe I should stop here, maybe .
. . there’s a knock at the fucking door.
It’s not loud, not aggressive, but it shatters the moment all the same.
Blythe goes still, her breath catching, her fingers frozen where they rest against my jaw.
“Do you think it’s Malerick again?”
He better not be, because I swear I’m not going to be nice this time.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to pull back to press my forehead against hers instead.
“Stay here,” I murmur, brushing my lips against her cheek before I step away.
She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just watches as I cross the room, my body already tense.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time, and for a moment, I wonder if I should reach for the knife I keep in the drawer before pulling the door open.
Cassian, one of my former teammates from The Organization, stands on the other side.
He looks casual as fuck—hands in his pockets, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—but I know better.
Cassian doesn’t show up at people’s doors unless he has something to say.
“Morning, Timberbridge,” he drawls.
“Thought I’d stop by. See how you’re settling in.”
I don’t move.
“You never just stop by, and why do you make it sound like you live in town?”
He grins and enters the place as if I had just invited him.
“True. But I figured since the bar doesn’t open until five, I might as well check in. Make sure you’re . . . handling things.”
I keep my expression blank, even though I want to ask about the bar he just mentioned.
“Things are fine.”
Cassian tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking just over my shoulder—toward Blythe.
“That so?”
I don’t take the bait.
“What the fuck do you want, Cass?”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw before leveling me with a look.
“Sanford called. He said things are moving faster than expected. You might not have the time you think you do.” He glances at himself.
“Hence, I’m here to check on you.”
My stomach knots, but I don’t react.
“What changed?”
Cassian lifts a shoulder.
“I don’t know. I’m here to help. You should know what changed.”
I clench my jaw, my mind already racing through what that could mean.
Cassian studies me for another second, then lets out a short sigh.
“Look, I know you don’t like people getting in your business, but if you want her safe, you need to be ready.”
I hold his stare.
“I’m always ready.”
His smirk is slow, edged with something knowing.
“Sure. But just in case . . . you might want to remind yourself what it feels like to be in a fight.” He nods toward my hands.
“You don’t want to be rusty when it matters.”
I exhale loudly.
What’s with these guys and their obsession with me being rusty?
“Noted.”
Cassian gives me one last look, then steps back.
“I’m at the bar, but if you need me, I still have the same number.”
And then he’s gone.
I close the door, locking it behind me before turning back to Blythe.
She’s still standing where I left her, arms wrapped around herself, her expression unreadable.
“Atlas,” she says quietly.
“What did he mean?”
I run a hand through my hair, my pulse still pounding.
“It means things are moving faster than expected. Sanford and his team are closing in on ways to cut Winston off before he gets here. But Winston’s people aren’t waiting around. They’re spreading out.” I pause, taking a long, deep breath.
“Looking for you.”
She swallows hard.
“And are we ready?”
I step toward her, letting my hands settle on her hips.
“For you? Always.”
But am I really ready?