Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
PHOENIX
Things are weird.
Or maybe it’s just me. I might just be the weird one.
I slip out of the nest, careful not to disturb the tangle of limbs and blankets I’m leaving behind.
Judah’s arm is wrapped around Mason’s waist, protective even in sleep.
Mason’s face is pressed into the hollow of Judah’s throat, his breathing deep and even for the first time in days, one hand still loosely curled around Judah’s wrist like he’s afraid the man might disappear.
They look peaceful. Complete. Like two puzzle pieces that finally found their way back together after a decade of being shoved into the wrong boxes.
I should feel happy for them.
I do feel happy for them.
But there’s something else coiling beneath the warmth in my chest. Something sharp-edged and uncomfortable that I don’t want to examine too closely.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom, easing the door shut behind me with a soft click. The hallway stretches before me, dark except for the thin strip of moonlight bleeding through a window at the far end. Somewhere in the depths of the house a clock ticks steadily. Old wood settles and creaks.
I have a vague memory of Atticus and Dom slipping out of the room at some point—after the second time? The third? The details have blurred together into a heat-hazed montage of skin and sounds and the overwhelming combination of scents.
God, I had sex with Mason.
The thought is sudden and disorienting.
I had sex with my assistant. My best friend. The man who has been taking care of me for three years, who knows all my secrets and schedules and medication dosages, who has never once crossed the professional line I thought was permanently etched between us.
Except now I’ve obliterated that line with a sledgehammer. Multiple times. In creative positions.
Breathe, Phoenix. Just breathe.
I press my back against the wallpapered corridor, letting the cool surface ground me. My skin still feels too hot and sensitive, possibly remnants of my own heat, but more likely the aftermath of everything that just happened. It’s impossible for me to tell the difference.
I find myself wandering around the rambling house with no particular destination in mind. Going back to the nest right now is obviously not an option.
A subtle sound distracts me that I only just realize I’ve been hearing for a while.
Piano.
The notes drift up from somewhere below, faint but unmistakable. It’s not a recording, the timing is too imperfect and the instrument itself sounds slightly out of tune.
I follow the sound down the hall to a dusty sitting room with open French doors.
Atticus sits at a battered upright piano, his back to me.
The instrument has seen better decades. The wood is scratched and faded, several keys visibly yellowed with age, and there’s a chip in the music stand that looks like it might have come from an impact rather than simple wear.
But Atticus plays it like it’s a Steinway grand, his hands moving over the keys with a fluidity that steals my breath.
The song isn’t one I recognize. A minor key, melancholy threading through every note, but beautiful in the way that sad things often are. The melody builds and retreats like waves against a shore, never quite cresting, always pulling back just when you think it’s about to sweep you away.
I lean against the doorframe and just listen.
His head is bowed, obscuring his expression, but I can read the emotion in the line of his shoulders.
The way his spine curves toward the instrument.
The slight tremor in his left hand during a particularly difficult passage.
He’s not performing. He’s processing. Using music the way some people use alcohol or tears or screaming into pillows.
The song builds toward what feels like a climax—tension mounting, notes climbing higher—and then dissolves into something softer. Gentler. A resolution that sounds almost like forgiveness.
The final chord fades into silence.
Atticus doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around.
“You can come in,” he murmurs.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You didn’t. I could smell you coming from down the hall.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I spend a split second thinking about just how many scents I must be saturated in at this point before quickly pushing the thought away.
I cross the room and settle onto the piano bench beside him. The wood is worn smooth beneath my thighs, polished by years of use. There’s barely enough space for both of us, our shoulders brushing with every breath.
“I don’t know that song,” I say quietly.
“It’s new.” His voice is barely above a murmur. His fingers rest on the keys, not playing, just touching.
“I like it.”
Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted. Heavy with things neither of us is saying.
I let out an involuntary shiver.
“Cold?”
The house isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but I left the hoodie I’ve been wearing for days in the nest. “Maybe a little.”
Atticus pulls me into his lap. One moment I’m sitting beside him, and the next I’m settled across his thighs, my back against his chest, his arms reaching around me to rest on the piano keys.
His fingers slide beneath mine, positioning them on the ivory, so when he starts to play again, it looks like I’m the one making the music.
“I think I might have really messed up here,” I finally admit.
“You think?” he asks, breath warm against my ear. His tone is neutral, neither affirming nor denying the statement.
The melody is simple this time. Something in a major key, almost playful. His fingers guide mine through the chord progressions, and I feel the vibration of each note travel up through my hands, my arms, settling somewhere behind my sternum.
“None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been so selfish,” I whisper. “Mason never would have been stuck here in heat if it wasn’t for me.”
Atticus hums, not breaking the gentle rhythm. “That is probably an accurate statement.”
The words sting, but I can’t argue with them. I took the heat inducers because I was scared of flying. I showed up at Judah’s house because I wanted someone else to deal with my mess. I dragged Mason into this situation without any consideration for what it might cost him.
“I feel like I should apologize to you.”
His fingers move beneath mine, plucking out a new set of chords before he answers. “Why is that?”
I hesitate, feeling suddenly foolish. “You were just in the room with us. You saw what happened.”
Atticus huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my spine. His breath tickles my ear, and I shiver despite the warmth radiating from his body. “Are you asking if I’m jealous?”
“Now you’re making me sound self-centered.”
“Firebird, you are self-centered. You will happily let anyone unwilling to make you the center of their universe fuck right off. It’s one of your more charming qualities.
” The chords shift again, transitioning into something minor, more contemplative.
“But if you must know, seeing you with them was…the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. ”
I twist to look at him over my shoulder. His green eyes are dark in the dim light, unreadable, but his mouth is curved in that half-smile I’ve come to recognize as genuine rather than performed. “You’re really not bothered?”
He presses a kiss to the curve of my neck, a bare brush of lips that makes me shiver.” Anyone who’s hung around you for more than five minutes could see what you and Mason mean to each other.
“I only ever stepped foot on that jet for you,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’m here for as long as you want me.”
He resumes playing, letting me sit with that.
The music fills the dusty sitting room, echoing off walls lined with faded portraits and furniture draped in white sheets.
Through the window, the first hints of dawn are beginning to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.
The house is silent around us, everyone else still asleep or pretending to be.
“I have no idea what’s happening,” I finally whisper.
Atticus doesn’t stop playing. His fingers keep moving beneath mine, guiding me through a melody I don’t know but somehow feel in my bones.
“What do you want to happen?” he asks patiently.
The words escape before I can stop them. “I’m afraid to say it out loud.”
Atticus doesn’t push. He just lets the question hang between us while his fingers coax something beautiful from the battered keys.
After a long moment, he shifts the conversation. “Have you thought any more about that movie I mentioned before?”
I huff, surprised. “You were for real about that? I figured you were just trying to distract me during my heat.”
His hands still on the keys. In the sudden silence, I can hear my own heartbeat, rapid and uncertain.
“Read the script,” he says quietly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why does it matter so much to you?”
His arms tighten around me, a brief squeeze. “Because that role was written for someone exactly like you and you deserve to be taken seriously. I want the world to see you the way I do.”
I lean further back against his chest, letting my weight settle into him. His heart beats steady against my spine. His breath is warm against my hair.
A warm and terrifying feeling blooms in my chest. “Yeah, okay. I will.”
Atticus smiles against the skin of my neck as he resumes playing.”Good girl.”
The shiver that runs through me this time has nothing to do with the chill in the air.