Chapter 15 #2
Atlas: the next time you decide to fucking mouth off to me I’m going to tie you to my bed and eat your ass until you’re crying to come.
I start rubbing myself a little faster.
My phone starts ringing. I jump a little at the sound and realize it’s Atlas Facetiming me. I pick up.
“You scared the shit out of?—”
Atlas has his phone propped on his bedside table, his giant cock in his hand.
“Shut the fuck up and let me see you,” he growls.
I do as he says.
Promises and threats fall from Atlas’s mouth like he’s possessed. He tells me exactly how he wants me spread across his bed the next time I mouth off to him. I tell him exactly what I’d let him do if he stopped pretending he still wanted space.
And underneath all of it, the real thing still pulses quietly.
The affection. The hurt. The fact that neither of us knows how to step away from this anymore.
The expression on his face destroys me most—annoyed, wrecked, angry, and entirely turned on.
“This is your fault.” Atlas’s thumb rubs the slit of his dick and his head falls back. “Jesus.”
Heat crawls through me instantly, my legs spreading so he can see my fingers work. “You look desperate.”
He glares at me, his eyes dipping to my hand. “I am desperate.”
“Mm!” A bolt of pleasure rolls up my back, causing me to flex into the bed. “Tell me to come over, then.”
“Fuck, Dame.”
My pulse jumps violently. God.
His hand starts pumping faster and faster.
I squirm on the bed. “I need you inside of me.” I take two of my fingers and spread my asshole open. “I’m so ready for you.”
Atlas groans. “Oh, fuck you, baby.”
“Yes, come fuck me.”
“Come over.”
I pick up my head from the bed to glance at the screen. I smirk. “I thought you were still mad at me?”
Atlas’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his brown hair curling around his ears. “I can still be mad and want you bouncing on my cock.”
“You’re filthy when you’re mad.”
“Only with you.”
The warmth in my chest is almost worse than the arousal. Almost.
I roll over onto my knees so he can get a better view of my ass.
“You look like sin,” Atlas says.
My free hand drags up my chest to pinch my nipple. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You know what I want to do to you right now?”
I swallow hard before answering, precum and lube dripping from my dick. “Probably.”
“I want to pin you down and fuck you until you’re sobbing underneath me, begging me to forgive you.”
I turn to look at him and pout. “That’s not very nice.”
Atlas laughs. “Punishment isn’t supposed to be nice, honey. Turn around; let me see.”
I do as instructed, sitting on the edge of my bed and gripping my cock for dear life.
“Yes, yes. Keep touching yourself like that.” Atlas’s eyes stay on my crotch, never leaving. “Tell me you miss me.”
“I miss you. I need you. Atlas, fuck.” My hand is moving so fast, the lube slick against my skin, Atlas’s moans rushing through my blood. “Atlas.” My head rolls back.
“Yes?”
“Can I come now?” I bite my lip.
“No.”
My head snaps up to look at him, a wide grin stretching across his face as cum shoots from his cock onto his chest.
Oh, fuck, he’s so hot. I press my thighs together and let go of my dick.
“If you want to come, get your ass over here and beg.”
Atlas ends the call.
I decide to go to Atlas’s apartment after pouting into my pillow for twenty minutes. Not because I suddenly become emotionally mature, but because I miss him so badly my chest hurts.
I stand under the shower longer than necessary, letting hot water beat against the back of my neck while my brain spirals through everything that happened at the fundraiser.
The problem is that Atlas keeps making me want things I don’t know how to survive losing.
People like him aren’t supposed to love me—soft people, patient people, people who hold me during panic attacks and look at me like I’m worth keeping.
I scrub shampoo through my hair harder than necessary and try to stop thinking. It doesn’t work.
Nothing has worked lately. Not sleep, sex, or hockey. Not even Atlas, though he comes closest, especially now that Sebastian is back. That thought sends another spike of anxiety through my stomach.
I shove it down. Not tonight. Tonight I just want Atlas.
I finish showering and stare at myself in the mirror while steam curls through the bathroom. The bruises on my ribs look angry. There’s a hickey low on my collarbone from Atlas. My entire body looks marked up lately.
Claimed.
The thought should probably bother me more than it does. Instead, I reach for the cologne Atlas likes best—the expensive one he once buried his face into my neck over and muttered Jesus Christ, you smell good against my skin.
I spray it once.
Then twice.
I spend too long fixing my hair, which is ridiculous. Atlas has seen me half-dead after practice and sobbing at three in the morning. He doesn’t care if my curls are behaving.
Still, I want him to look at me tonight. I want him to forgive me. That realization settles heavily in my chest while I pull on a black hoodie and dark jeans.
By the time I grab my keys, my nerves are bad enough that I almost laugh at myself. I’m acting like this is a first date instead of me going over to my fake boyfriend’s apartment to apologize with sex and emotional instability. Pathetic.
I open the apartment door and nearly trip over the package sitting on my doorstep.
I blink down at it at the small brown box with no return label. I frown slightly.
Probably an Amazon order I forgot about.
I vaguely remember ordering protein powder three days ago. I pick it up and head back inside without thinking much about it. The cardboard feels oddly light in my hands.
Something about that prickles at the back of my neck. I set it on the kitchen counter slowly, then stare at it. The anxiety comes back hard enough that my pulse skips.
No, I’m being paranoid again. That’s all.
I grab the scissors from the drawer anyway. My hands shake slightly while I cut the tape open.
The second the flaps part, everything inside me stops. For a moment, my brain physically refuses to process what I’m seeing. Then it hits me all at once.
A severed finger.
Wearing my father’s wedding band.
Blood stains the tissue paper underneath it dark red.
There’s a small note folded carefully against the side.
My vision blurs before I even pick it up, because I already know. I already fucking know. My hands shake violently while I unfold it.
Sweetness.
My stomach turns so hard I nearly throw up.
I need a favor.
The box slips from my hands. It hits the floor with a wet sound that sends me back into another life. Another version of myself.
Sebastian’s hand grips the back of my neck while he walks me through a crowded bar that smells like whiskey and smoke.
“Smile,” he murmurs into my ear.
I don’t want to. I don’t want these men looking at me. I don’t want them touching me. I don’t want Sebastian selling pieces of me off like I’m some fucking prize horse he owns.
But my father owes him money.
And debts always get paid somehow.
“Don’t look scared,” Sebastian says softly, steering me toward a booth full of older men in expensive suits. “Makes people uncomfortable.”
My chest feels tight. I’m trying not to shake.
One of the men grabs my jaw when we stop beside the table. “Pretty thing,” he says.
I stare straight ahead.
Sebastian’s fingers tighten warningly against my neck. “Be polite.”
“Th-thank you,” I stutter.
The memory shifts violently after that.
The hotel room smells like cigarettes and expensive cologne. I sit on the edge of the mattress trying not to move too much, because every inch of my body hurts.
The guy who paid for me tonight left five minutes ago.
Maybe less. Time gets strange in places like this.
The room is dim except for the bathroom light still glowing behind me, casting long shadows across the ugly patterned carpet and rumpled sheets.
My shirt is somewhere on the floor near the overturned lamp.
One of my ribs aches sharply every time I breathe too deep.
I stare down at my hands instead of the mirror. I already know what I look like: bruises blooming dark along my throat, finger-shaped marks around my hips, split lip. Nothing new.
The worst part is that I don’t even cry anymore. At first, I used to. I would lock myself in bathrooms afterward and throw up until there was nothing left in my stomach because I couldn’t stand the feeling of strange hands still lingering on my skin.
Now I mostly just feel tired.
Numb.
Which is somehow worse.
The door opens quietly behind me. I stiffen automatically, and then Sebastian walks inside. Relief and fear hit me at the exact same time. He shuts the door carefully before looking at me properly, his expression changing immediately.
“Jesus,” he mutters softly.
I don’t answer.
Sebastian crosses the room slowly, until he’s standing between my knees. His hand slides under my chin, tilting my face upward into the light. The bruises must look worse than I thought.
His jaw tightens. “That asshole got rough with you.”
I shrug weakly. The movement hurts.
Sebastian’s thumb brushes carefully against my split lip. “You should’ve called me.”
I almost laugh at that. Called him for what? He’s the one who put me here. But I don’t say that, because Sebastian hates when I get difficult after jobs.
Instead I stare somewhere over his shoulder while he studies me quietly.
“You did really well tonight,” he finally says.
The praise settles heavily in my stomach.
Not comforting. Never comforting. Sebastian always sounds affectionate after nights like this. Softer. Gentler. Like he’s rewarding me for being useful. And the worst part is that some pathetic piece of me still wants that approval.
I hate myself for that.
“You hear me?” he asks.
I nod once.
“Good.”
His hand slides into my hair after that, fingers scratching lightly against my scalp in a way that almost feels caring. Almost.
“You’re making things easier for your dad,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”