Chapter 3 #2
I didn't want her.
I just... didn't like other people touching my problems. And right now, Aurelia St. James was my problem. Exclusively.
"You almost hit him," Aurelia said.
Her voice cut through the silence of the cab. She was huddled in the passenger seat, wrapped in a coat that looked like it cost more than my entire truck. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, her boots resting on the dashboard.
"Put your feet down," I said automatically. "Airbag goes off, you lose your legs."
She rolled her eyes, but she lowered her feet. "You’re diverting. You were going to hit Topher."
"He was annoying me."
"He was touching me."
"That too."
I glanced over at her. In the dim light of the dashboard, she looked less like a princess and more like a runaway. She was staring out the window, tracing patterns on the fogged-up glass with a gloved finger.
"Why do you care?" she asked quietly. "You’re getting paid either way."
I tightened my grip on the wheel. "It’s part of the job description. Security."
"Topher isn't a security threat. He bench-presses the bar."
"Anyone who doesn't understand the word 'no' is a threat," I said, my voice hardening.
She went silent at that. The word hung between us. No.
It was a word she probably hadn't heard much in her life. And it was a word I had a feeling she was desperate to use, but didn't know how.
"So," she said, shifting in her seat to face me.
The shift in tone was abrupt. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by that sharp, brittle banter she used as a shield.
"Three weeks. Just you, me, and a broken heating system. What’s the itinerary, Warden?
6:00 AM wake-up calls? Push-ups in the snow? "
"Studying," I said. "You have finals. I have game tape."
"Boring," she drawled. "I don't study."
"Then you fail."
"I don't fail," she scoffed. "My father makes a call, and the C becomes an A."
"Not this time," I said. "Arthur was clear. You pass on your own, or you get cut off."
"He won't cut me off. I'm his leverage."
"You're his liability."
"I'm his daughter!" she snapped.
"Are you?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the road. "Because from where I was standing in that office, you looked more like a bad investment he was trying to liquidate."
I heard her suck in a breath. It was cruel. I knew it was cruel. But I needed her to understand the reality of the situation. I needed to break down that arrogance before we got to the cabin, or one of us was going to end up dead.
"You're an ass," she whispered.
"I'm honest," I countered. "And right now, I'm the only person in your life who isn't being paid to lie to you."
"You are being paid!" she shouted, turning fully toward me. "You’re being paid fifty thousand dollars to tolerate me!"
"I'm being paid to keep you safe!" I shouted back, my voice filling the small cab.
The silence that followed was ringing.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my pulse to slow down. I reached over to turn down the heat. It was getting too hot in the car. The windows were fogging up faster than the defroster could handle.
"Why did you take it?" she asked softly. Her anger had deflated as quickly as it had risen. "The money. Why do you need it?"
I hesitated. My mother. The rehab center. The shame of poverty that I carried around like a backpack full of bricks. I never told anyone. Not Jax. Not the Coach.
But looking at her... seeing the way she was looking at me, stripped of her pretense...
"Debts," I said vaguely. "Family stuff."
"Gambling?" she guessed.
I snorted. "No."
"Drugs?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Life, Aurelia. Life is expensive when you don't have a trust fund."
She fell quiet again. She was watching me. I could feel her eyes tracing my profile—the scar, the stubble, the tightness of my jaw.
"You have a scar," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Observation skills: ten out of ten."
"How did you get it?"
"Hockey."
"Be specific."
"Skate blade. High stick. Lots of blood."
"Does it hurt?"
"Only when people ask stupid questions about it."
She let out a short, surprised laugh. It was a genuine sound, rusty and unpracticed. It did something strange to my chest. It made it ache.
"I have scars too," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper.
I glanced at her. She was pulling at the cuff of her cashmere sweater.
"Yeah?" I asked, softening my tone. "From ballet?"
"From being perfect," she said. "It cuts deeper than you'd think."
The atmosphere in the car shifted. The hostility evaporated, replaced by a thick, heavy tension. It wasn't the angry tension of the parking lot. It was something quieter. More intimate.
We were alone. Miles from campus. Miles from her father. Miles from my reputation.
In this car, we were just two people who were tired of fighting the world.
I reached out to adjust the vent, my hand brushing against her knee.
She didn't flinch.
She froze, but she didn't pull away.
My hand hovered there. I should move it. I should put it back on the wheel. I should keep my eyes on the road.
But I didn't.
I let my fingers graze the denim of her jeans. Just a touch. A test.
Her breath hitched. I heard it. A small, sharp intake of air.
"Atlas," she whispered. It wasn't a warning. It was a question.
"What?" I asked, my voice rough.
"Are we going to kill each other?"
I glanced at her. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the dashboard lights. Her lips were parted. She looked terrified and exhilarated.
"Probably," I muttered, moving my hand back to the gear shift. "If we don't do something worse first."
"What's worse?" she asked.
I looked back at the road, the snow hypnotizing in its endless fall.
"Likely everything," I said.
The GPS chirped. Destination ahead on the right.
We turned off the main road onto the unplowed track leading up the mountain. The trees closed in around us. The darkness was absolute.
"Welcome to hell, Princess," I said.
But as the cabin came into view, dark and looming against the snow, I knew the truth.
This wasn't hell.
This was the cage. And I had just locked myself in with the tiger.