Chapter 46 Atlas
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Her building looks too quiet.
Not calm.
Not peaceful.
Quiet like a lung held halfway through a breath. Quiet like the pause before something breaks. Quiet like a heartbeat waiting for an answer that’s going to hurt.
I kill the engine and sit in the SUV with the headlights off, letting my eyes adjust to the dim street. I scan left to right—windows, shadows, parked cars, alley mouths, traffic patterns.
I don’t look for people.
I look for stillness.
Stillness hides better.
If he’s here—if Adrian Frost is anywhere near this block—he won’t be pacing, or lurking, or standing under a streetlamp like some cartoon villain.
Men like him wait.
They blend.
They learn shadows.
They become the version of invisible Wren described when she spoke about him with her voice shaking like she wished she could delete the memory and the man in the same breath.
I get out only when I’m sure no one is watching.
The night air is sharp. My breath hangs in the cold as I walk toward her building, shoulders squared, keys gripped in my hand. Wren gave them to Kael, not me. But Kael handed them over without a word the second he saw my face and said, “Check everything.”
He didn’t need to explain.
I didn’t need to promise.
I’m already doing it.
The lobby is lit by one dim overhead bulb. It flickers once when I walk in. I glare at it like that alone might make it stop. My mood could probably power the whole damn building right now.
Third floor. Second door on the right.
Her door.
I stand there for a moment—listening, breathing, reading the air the way I’ve learned to do on the ice and in fights. Old instincts. Battle instincts.
Nothing.
No movement.
No sound except the radiator hiss.
Good.
I fit the key in the lock and push the door open quietly.
The apartment is dark. I don’t turn on the lights. Darkness shows its own signs—shifts, outlines, disturbances.
It smells like her.
Vanilla. Light citrus. Laundry softener. A hint of shampoo from her bathroom. Something else—paper, maybe. Or fear. I don’t know how fear smells, but I know how it feels in a room.
My chest tightens.
I step inside.
Not cautious—aware.
There’s a difference. Cautious means uncertain. Aware means prepared. I’m the second.
My boots are silent on the floor as I walk through the entry.
Living room first:
Couch slightly askew. A blanket folded over the back. Her jacket thrown there last night when she came home shaking after the texts. The sight of it makes something in my jaw clench.
I lift the jacket.
Small. Warm. Worn at the sleeves. Smells faintly like her hair.
She wore this when she told us about the calls she didn’t answer. When she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified. When she stood in the tunnel and whispered I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I close my eyes.
The urge to crush the jacket in my fist surprises me.
I lay it back down gently.
Kitchen next. I move silently around the counter, checking drawers—not for threats, but for signs of disturbance. Nothing. Everything is too neat. Too controlled. Not a woman comfortable in her space.
A woman surviving in it.
Bathroom:
Shower curtain untouched. Towels folded with military precision. Toothbrush angled perfectly in a cup. Everything lined up like she’s preparing for inspection.
It hits me harder than it should.
She’s been living like she’s waiting for an attack.
Even when she was alone.
Even before we showed up.
I move to the bedroom.
I stop in the doorway.
The bed is made too tightly. Corners tucked crisp. A book placed on the nightstand perfectly squared with the edge. No stray clothes. No clutter. Nothing personal out except a small framed photo turned face-down.
I don’t flip it over.
That’s a line I won’t cross.
But I feel the weight of it.
A memory she doesn’t want to see.
Maybe him.
Maybe before him.
Maybe the version of herself she’s scared she’ll never get back.
I check the closet.
The window.
The fire escape.
The door frame.
No scratches.
No forced entry.
No tampering.
Whoever was at the game wasn’t here.
For tonight, that matters.
I exhale, only now realizing I’d been holding my breath through every room.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
KAEL: Area’s clear. You?
ME: Her place is clean.
KAEL: You sure.
ME: Yes. Nothing forced. Nothing moved.
KAEL: Stay a little longer.
ME: She asleep?
KAEL: Finn says she’s calm.
ME: Good.
Calm.
That word slices me open from the inside.
I see her in my head—curled into Finn’s side in the car, eyes heavy, breath shaky, body finally relaxing because someone warm and soft is holding her.
Not me.
Finn.
I’m not jealous.
I refuse to call it that.
Jealousy is stupid. Weak. Pointless.
But something about that image—the way she leaned into him, the way he looked at her like she was fragile and holy at the same time—makes my stomach tighten with something sharp and bitter.
He’ll fall in love with her.
He already is.
And I’m—
I rub a hand over my jaw, trying to force the thought away.
I don’t do love.
Or softness.
Or sleeping next to someone just to keep them safe.
Except I do.
I did.
Last night, I sat on Kael’s bedroom floor and listened to her breathing soften until she fell asleep. I watched Finn and Kael watch her like she was their center of gravity.
And I felt something shift in my chest that I haven’t named yet.
I walk back to her living room.
Her jacket is still there.
Her couch.
Her scent.
Her ghost.
She left this space behind tonight.
She trusted us instead.
Trusted me.
The thought stops me mid-step.
I sit on her couch.
Slowly.
Like if I move too fast, the air will crack.
My hands rest on my knees. I look at the dark TV screen reflecting a faint outline of my body.
I don’t belong here.
Not really.
But she does.
This is where she has nightmares alone.
Where she checks the window twice before sleeping.
Where she jumped at the sound of her phone vibrating.
And she’s somewhere else tonight.
Safe.
Warm.
With Finn.
My stomach tightens again.
I hate that it matters.
I hate that I care.
I hate that part of me wishes I were the one she leaned into like that.
I stand abruptly.
Enough.
I sweep the whole apartment one more time, slower this time. I read every shadow, every corner, every crevice. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Good.
Good.
Good.
When I’m satisfied, I turn off the lights and step into the hallway. I lock the door behind me and pull until I feel the click of the deadbolt.
But I don’t leave.
Not yet.
I walk down the stairs and out onto the street, then cross to the opposite sidewalk and lean against a streetlamp where I can see her windows.
Third floor. Second from the left.
The faintest glow seeps through the blinds.
Not from her.
From the heater.
Still, I watch it.
I don’t feel the cold.
I don’t feel my phone vibrate.
I don’t feel time moving.
I just watch.
Wait.
Guard.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
Fifteen.
KAEL: Where are you?
ME: Outside.
KAEL: Her building?
ME: Yeah.
KAEL: I can take over.
ME: Not yet.
KAEL: Atlas—
ME: I’m not leaving her.
There’s a long pause.
KAEL: I’ll bring coffee.
KAEL: And gloves.
KAEL: You’ll freeze your hands off out there.
ME: Hands work fine.
KAEL: I’m coming anyway.
I huff a breath.
Almost a laugh.
Almost.
I pocket my phone and keep watching her window.
I picture her curled against Finn’s chest.
Breathing steadily.
Warm.
Safe.
She deserves all of that.
Even if I’m not the one giving it to her tonight.
Another car drives by. I shift my stance, scanning it automatically before looking back up at her window.
I whisper into the cold air, barely audible even to myself:
“You’re safe tonight.”
My breath clouds in front of me, then disperses.
“But if he comes near you again...”
The rest stays inside my chest.
It’s not a threat.
It’s a truth.
I’ll find Adrian Frost.
Before he finds her.
And I won’t be merciful.
Not even close.