Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Henrietta (Blythe)
The air is cooler up here, crisp with the hint of rain that never quite comes.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, staring out over Birchwood Springs, the rooftops scattered below, and the sleepy glow of porch lights flickering in the distance.
The town is quiet at this hour, but I can’t sleep.
It’s been three weeks since that night at the lake.
Three weeks since Atlas gave me the bracelet, since he kissed me like he was willing to fight for me before I even knew if I could fight for myself.
I’m still here. I haven’t run.
I should be scared that I’m still waiting for the right moment to leave.
But what terrifies me more is that I’m not.
In the last three weeks, everything has shifted.
Atlas hasn’t trapped me.
He hasn’t forced me to stay.
And yet, I wake up in his bed every morning—wrapped in his warmth, his arm draped over my waist like he fears I’ll disappear but doesn’t want to say the words.
I’ve stopped thinking of it as his bed.
It’s ours now—the sheets tangled with the imprint of both our bodies, the pillows carrying the scent of him and the ghost of my sleepless nights.
Even in this strange limbo, where our touches are fleeting, and our kisses feel like stolen moments, we exist here together.
But we don’t talk about us.
Not really.
How can we, when everything is so uncertain?
I’m still married. I’m still hiding.
And if I’m being honest, I’m barely holding myself together.
Any conversation about us feels like tempting fate—like cracking open a door we might not be ready to walk through.
Winston’s reach has tightened.
Sanford’s team intercepted two of his men trying to slip into town.
They weren’t here to grab me—not yet—but they were asking questions, and that’s enough to make my stomach knot.
Atlas has been training again.
Cassian dragged him back into it, hauling him to a private gym every morning, pushing him until every movement became instinct again.
Lethal, efficient. Some nights, I catch him in the living room, moving through drills like it’s muscle memory, his focus unshaken.
He fights like a man who’s had to survive before.
A man who knows he might have to again.
Malerick checks in more now.
Not just for Atlas. For me.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
With the careful ways he makes room for me, the quiet gestures that make it feel like I belong here, like I’m not just passing through.
Delilah and Nysa do it too.
They bring food, invite me to their dinners, and let me linger on the edges of their easy conversations.
Simone, Nysa, Galeana, and Delilah have formed a tight friendship—almost like a sisterhood.
I watch them, wishing I could step inside that space.
But I don’t let myself.
If I get too comfortable, if I let my guard down even a little, I know what will come next.
My divorce is still tangled in legal hell.
But our lawyer thinks we have leverage.
Winston won’t let this turn into a scandal—he’s too controlled for that.
He’ll try to handle me the way he always has.
Quietly. Privately. Like something to be dealt with behind closed doors, out of sight, out of mind.
The key is that we can set up the divorce process without him catching me.
They have found enough documentation to show he was abusing me.
That’s a win for us.
In these three weeks, there’s been a lot of progress.
I even started therapy.
It’s been only three sessions.
I confess that I haven’t opened up completely.
Not about the worst things.
But I’m trying. There’s a lot I have to unload, and then I need to understand the difference between what’s fear and what’s survival.
Figuring out what I want when this is over.
If this is ever over.
But the biggest shift?
Atlas and me.
We move closer without acknowledging it, drawn by something we don’t name.
Maybe we don’t need to.
I feel it in the way his hands linger when he touches me, in the quiet moments that stretch a little longer than they should.
He kisses me like he means it, like he’s memorizing something only we understand.
At night, we tangle together, his arm draped over me, his breath warm against my skin.
But that final line?
We haven’t crossed it.
And I doubt we will anytime soon.
Not when there’s so much happening.
Winston still looms over us, a threat we can’t ignore.
We have to be focused, careful.
Now isn’t the time to get lost in whatever this is between us.
Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself.
Maybe I’m still afraid.
Afraid of trusting this.
Afraid of believing I could have something real without it being ripped away.
A creak from the rooftop hatch pulls me from my thoughts.
Footsteps follow, unhurried, familiar.
Atlas steps through, his hair damp, his hoodie hanging loose over broad shoulders, his sweatpants low on his hips.
He looks at me, then at the blanket I’ve wrapped myself in, and his mouth tips up just slightly.
That almost-smile. The one I’ve started collecting, tucking away like something rare.
“You stole my favorite blanket.”
I lift my brows.
“It’s not your favorite if I steal it all the time.”
His smile deepens, just a little.
God, he’s so beautiful.
He walks over and eases down next to me, stretching his long legs out.
Close, but not touching.
Waiting, like he always does.
I should say something.
Ask him if there’s any news.
If Sanford and his team have found anything while scouting the town.
Maybe I should keep the conversation safe.
Ask him if we’re going to the sonogram tomorrow or if he found a way to have Simone come with the equipment.
He doesn’t want me going to places where there’s a chance people can break into the CCTV.
His team can hide me, but what if they don’t hide my face on time?
What if I’m detected before they can erase the footage with me on it?
Instead, I say, “Do you ever think about what will happen after?”
Atlas turns his head, watching me.
“After?”
“When this is over.” I keep my eyes on the town below, lights scattered like tiny beacons against the dark.
“When Winston’s gone. When I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just charged with something I can’t name or describe.
He’s thinking, turning over the words the way he does when he wants to be sure.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.
Certain. “The most important question is: What do you want to happen?”
His answer pulls my gaze to him, catching me off-guard.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
What do I want?
Why did I ask that?
The sonogram would have been a safer subject.
Not this. Not us. Because that’s what I’m really asking, isn’t it?
It’s about our future, my future.
For years, all I thought about was survival.
Getting away. Breaking free.
And now that I have .
. . now that I can finally breathe without looking over my shoulder .
. . what do I do with that?
“I think about it,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper.
“But it’s hard to believe in something I’ve never had.”
Atlas shifts beside me, turning just enough that his knee brushes mine.
A touch that feels intentional.
His voice is softer now, threaded with something I can’t name.
“You’ll have it. Anything you want, you’ll get it, Blythe.”
I search his face.
“How do you know?”
His gaze never wavers.
“Because you deserve it.” Then, he says, “And because I’ll make it happen.” It sounds like a promise.
His words don’t just land—they sink.
They settle somewhere deep, lodging in my chest like they’ve always belonged.
My throat tightens, something swelling behind my ribs.
I blink hard, fighting the sting.
Because I believe him.
Atlas moves first. His hand finds mine, our fingers threading together—warm and sure, like he means it.
I squeeze, and he squeezes back.
It feels almost like a promise, like .
. . and then as I’m trying to figure out the meaning, I feel it.
A flutter.
I freeze.
Atlas stills beside me.
My breath catches, and I yank my hand away, pressing both palms to my stomach.
There. Again. Faint movement, like a light kick.
Atlas’s brows pull together.
“Blythe?”
I can’t speak.
I can’t breathe.
Without thinking, I grab his hand and press it against my stomach.
Waiting. Feeling. Seconds stretch.
Nothing. My pulse pounds.
Then—there it is. Another flutter.
Atlas inhales, like the air just punched into his lungs.
His fingers tighten against me, his whole body going still.
I watch him—watch the moment hit him, just like it’s hitting me.
The baby.
His throat bobs.
His palm stays pressed to me, waiting, feeling.
His eyes lift to mine, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this expression on him before.
Awe.
Fear.
Wonder.
“That’s a kick,” I whisper.
“She’s kicking,” he murmurs, voice thick.
Something swells between us.
A shift. A tether that wasn’t there before.
This isn’t just about running anymore.
It’s not just about escaping Winston or fighting to stay safe.
It’s about this life.
This future.
A tear slips free, streaking warmth down my cheek.
My hands tighten over my stomach, over her.
I want this. This baby.
This moment. Him.
Atlas exhales, slow and deep, his hand never leaving me.
“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s real.”
And then he moves.
One moment, I’m sitting there, drowning in the weight of it all, and the next, he’s pulling me into him.
His arms band around me, his forehead dropping to mine.
His breath skates over my lips.
“You’re not alone in this,” he says, voice low, reverent.
“You never will be.”
The words undo something inside me.
They unravel years of fear, of loneliness, of thinking I had to do this alone.
I close the distance, pressing my lips to his, tasting everything.
His promise. His devotion.
His love. Atlas kisses me like he’s giving me something back—like he’s replacing every broken thing with something whole.
And I wish I could give him something in return, anything.
I just don’t know if I have what he needs, but how much I wish I did.