Chapter 22
Atlas
Ipace barefoot across the hotel bathroom tiles wearing nothing except boxer briefs and exhaustion.
The mirror above the sink catches me every time I turn around, and honestly, I look like shit—bloodshot eyes, dark circles, hair sticking up in all directions from running my hands through it all night.
I slept maybe forty minutes total after Damien finally passed out, tangled against my chest. The rest of the night I spent researching lawyers, federal sports betting laws, witness protection possibilities, and organized crime investigations.
How the hell do you keep a thirteen-year-old girl safe from a psychopath?
My phone is wedged between my shoulder and my ear while I pace another lap through the bathroom.
“Yes,” I say sharply. “I don’t care how discreetly you have to do it. I want protection at the hospital.”
On the other end of the line, Joanna exhales slowly. “We’re working on it, Atlas.”
Beside her, the Tigers’ lawyer murmurs something I can’t fully hear.
My free hand twitches with nervous energy. “Grace can’t be left alone.”
“She won’t be,” Joanna says firmly. “We’re already contacting federal authorities.”
The word federal still feels surreal, like this escalated into another universe overnight. But Sebastian threatened Grace, and this stopped being private the second he involved a child.
“The FBI won’t move instantly,” the lawyer cuts in carefully. “But given the gambling manipulation angle tied to professional sports?—”
“I don’t care about the hockey part,” I snap.
Silence.
I drag a hand down my face. “Sorry.”
But I’m not. Not really. Because hockey feels microscopic compared to Damien shaking in my arms last night and confessing he thought I’d see him as disgusting.
My chest aches just remembering it.
Joanna’s voice softens slightly. “How’s Damien?”
I glance toward the bedroom. He’s still asleep.
Thank God.
“He’s exhausted.”
That feels like the understatement of the century. Damien looked half-dead by the time he finally fell asleep against me. I don’t think he’s genuinely rested in weeks.
“Okay,” Joanna says carefully. “Listen to me. We handle this quietly. No team statements. No media. Nothing that tips that dickhead off before law enforcement is ready.”
I nod before realizing she can’t see me. “Okay.”
“We’ll increase private security around Grace immediately without making it obvious,” she continues. “And Atlas?”
“Yeah.”
“You cannot confront Sebastian yourself.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. It’s scary that she even had to say that out loud. Because honestly? I’ve thought about killing him at least twelve times since last night.
“You hear me?” Joanna presses.
“Yeah.”
The lawyer jumps back in. “We’ll likely need Damien cooperating if this progresses into a federal investigation.”
My stomach twists because that means he’ll have to relive all of it.
I lean against the bathroom counter. “He’ll do it.”
He’ll do anything if it means protecting me and Grace. Damien would walk directly into hell if it meant somebody else survived.
Joanna sighs. “Just stay with him today.”
The softness in her voice catches me off guard. Joanna’s always polished and composed and mildly terrifying, but now she sounds genuinely worried.
“I will.”
“We’ll call again this afternoon.” The line disconnects.
The bathroom suddenly feels too quiet. I set the phone down and brace both hands against the sink before looking at myself properly in the mirror. My eyes look dead and defeated.
Now that I know the truth, every memory of Damien from the last few months feels different.
Every flinch.
Every nightmare.
Every moment he pulled away after tenderness like he didn’t deserve it.
I briefly close my eyes.
I see the mugshot again. Seventeen years old. Bruises around his throat.
Rage rolls through me so violently that my stomach turns.
I grip the sink harder.
How long did he carry this alone? How many years did Damien genuinely believe he was ruined because somebody abused him? And God…how close was I to abandoning him completely?
The thought makes nausea curl in my stomach.
I almost ended things. I almost walked away while he was being blackmailed and retraumatized. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes hard enough to hurt.
Get it together. Damien needs you functional. Those thoughts straighten me out faster than anything else could.
I lower my hands and force myself to breathe slowly. The bathroom door creaks open. Damien stands there half-asleep, wearing my old Tigers hoodie and boxer briefs, curls sticking out messily in every direction.
For one disorienting second, he just blinks at me sleepily.
Then he asks quietly, “Why are you hiding in the bathroom?”
The softness of his voice nearly kills me.
I force a small smile. “I had to make a few calls. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Damien squints slightly. “You look stressed.”
I blow out a sigh and smooth his curls back. “You look tiny in my hoodie.”
That startles a laugh out of him. Actual laughter. Small and rough from sleep, but real.
The sound hits me straight in the chest.
Damien leans against the bathroom doorway, watching me carefully.
There’s still exhaustion sitting heavily beneath his eyes, but some of the panic from last night is gone.
That alone feels miraculous.
“You didn’t sleep,” he says quietly.
I shrug one shoulder. “I did a little bit.”
“Atlas…”
I look away.
“You’re spiraling.”
The accuracy of that statement is honestly offensive. “I’m planning.” I sigh and lean back against the sink.
Damien studies me for another long moment before padding fully into the bathroom. The hotel lighting casts a soft golden glow across his skin, and suddenly all I can think about is how close I came to losing him forever.
Damien stops directly in front of me. His thumb gently touches the dark circles under my eyes.
“You can’t save everybody by yourself,” he murmurs.
I catch his wrist before he can pull away. “I’m going to protect you.”
Something complicated flickers across Damien’s face. “You already are.”
My chest tightens painfully. I don’t think he understands yet how much I would destroy for him now that I know the truth.
Damien looks down briefly before asking quietly, “Are you disappointed in me?”
The question hits like a knife, and I stare at him in disbelief. “Baby.”
“I’m serious.” He tries to say it casually, but I can hear the fear underneath it. The shame. The expectation that eventually I’ll see him differently.
I step closer to him. “Damien.”
He keeps his eyes down.
I gently hook two fingers beneath his chin until he looks at me. “You gotta believe me when I say that I’m so proud to be with someone like you.”
His expression cracks slightly. “You don’t think I’m ruined?”
Jesus Christ. I pull him against me.
Damien melts into my chest with a shaky exhale, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed the reassurance.
“You survived,” I murmur into his hair.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. I just hold him while morning light slowly fills the bathroom around us. Then Damien’s stomach growls loudly enough to echo off the tile.
We both freeze, and then I burst out laughing.
Damien hides his face against my chest in horror. “Oh my God.”
“Proof of life.”
“Shut up.”
I hold him tighter while laughing harder. “That might actually be the best thing I’ve heard all week.”
Damien groans dramatically into my shoulder. “You’re so annoying.” He pulls back just enough to glare at me sleepily. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
Relief crashes through me so suddenly it almost hurts. This teasing version of Damien is the healthiest I’ve seen him in weeks.
I brush messy curls away from his forehead. “Come eat breakfast with me.”
Damien makes a face. “Atlas?—”
“You promised you’d try eating.”
“I promised I’d try soup.”
“You’re getting pancakes.”
His expression turns genuinely scandalized. “I just survived organized crime, and now this?”
I grin despite everything. “Yes.”
Damien sighs dramatically, like I’m deeply unreasonable, but then he quietly slips his fingers through mine.
The knock on the hotel room door comes at exactly three in the afternoon. Damien tenses beside me on the couch.
I squeeze his hand once before standing. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “It’s probably Joanna’s contact.”
Damien nods, but his shoulders stay tight.
I check through the peephole before unlocking the door.
A man in a dark suit stands in the hallway, holding a folder beneath one arm. Mid-forties maybe. Calm face. Sharp eyes. Definitely federal.
I open the door.
“You Atlas Connors?”
“Yes.”
The man holds up a badge. “Special Agent Matthew Anthony.”
I let him inside. Damien rises from the couch slowly when Agent Anthony steps into the room. He looks nervous again, despite trying to hide it.
I move closer to him automatically. The agent notices, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he sets the folder down on the table near the window and gets straight to business.
“Ms. Williams filled me in on the broad strokes,” he says.
I blink once. “Joanna.”
The corner of the agent’s mouth twitches slightly. “Right.”
Damien almost smiles beside me, but it disappears quickly.
Agent Anthony opens the folder. “We believe Sebastian Monroe is operating an interstate illegal gambling and sports manipulation scheme tied to organized criminal activity. Based on the information you provided this morning, we also believe there may be coercion, extortion, trafficking, and witness intimidation involved.”
Damien shifts slightly beside me, and I take his hand.
“I’m going to need both of you to walk me through this from the beginning,”
So we do.
The next two hours feel exhausting. Damien explains while I fill in details where I can, especially regarding betting irregularities connected to Damien’s performance drops. Agent Anthony writes almost everything down.