Chapter 6
Aurelia
The morning light filtering through the A-frame window was cruel. It was bright, sharp, and interrogating, exposing dust motes dancing in the air and the tangled disaster of the sheets in the loft.
I lay still for a long time, listening.
The cabin was quiet, but not empty. I could hear the rhythmic thwack... crack... thwack of an axe splitting wood outside. It was a violent, repetitive sound. A sound of controlled aggression.
Atlas.
I rolled onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow that still smelled like him—cedar, woodsmoke, and the darker, muskier scent of a man who had spent the previous afternoon unraveling me on a frozen pond.
My body felt different. Heavier. Hummed with a strange, low-frequency vibration that hadn't stopped since his hands left me.
I squeezed my legs together, a phantom ache pulsing between my thighs.
The memory of the cold air, the hot friction, the way he had commanded me to let go...
it washed over me, heating my skin instantly.
We have to cool it, he had said.
I groaned, pulling the quilt over my head. Men were idiots. They thought they could compartmentalize everything. They thought desire was a faucet they could just turn off because the water bill was getting too high.
But I knew better. You couldn't un-ring a bell. You couldn't un-feel the way your soul snapped back into your body after shattering in someone’s arms.
The axe stopped.
Heavy boots crunched on the snow. The door downstairs opened, letting in a draft of freezing air that drifted up to the loft.
"You up?" His voice was rough, gravelly. It sounded like he hadn't slept either.
I pushed the quilt down, peering over the edge of the loft railing.
Atlas stood in the center of the room, brushing snow off his shoulders. He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were flushed red from the cold and rippling with exertion. He looked massive. He looked dangerous. He looked delicious.
He looked up. Our eyes locked.
For a second, the air between us crackled. I saw the flash of heat in his dark eyes—the recognition of what we had done, what we were.
Then, the shutter came down. The Enforcer mask slid back into place.
"We're going to town," he said flatly, turning away to stoke the fire. "I found the part number for the furnace. Hardware store in Hardwick might have it."
"Town?" I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. "Like... civilization?"
"Don't get excited. It's a hardware store and a gas station. But we need food, and I need a thermocouple."
"I need coffee," I mumbled, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
"Coffee's made. Get dressed. Wear something warm. And for the love of god, Aurelia, not the Gucci boots. It's mud season down in the valley."
"They're not Gucci, they're Prada," I corrected instinctively, climbing down the ladder.
He didn't look at me as I descended. He kept his back turned, aggressively poking the fire. "Whatever. Just cover up. We leave in twenty."
I stood in the middle of the room, watching the muscles in his back shift under the flannel. He was ignoring me. He was actively, physically ignoring me.
Rule Four: Just exist.
If this was existing, I hated it.
The drive down the mountain was a masterclass in tension. The cab of the truck felt smaller than it had the day we arrived. The air was thick with things unsaid, pressing against the windows like the snowdrifts outside.
Atlas drove with one hand on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the winding, icy road. He had the radio on low—some classic rock station that crackled with static. He didn't speak. He didn't look at me. He just drove, radiating a wall of "Do Not Disturb" energy.
I sat in the passenger seat, picking at the cuticle of my thumb until it bled.
Say something, I screamed internally. Tell me I was good. Tell me it was a mistake. Tell me anything.
But I said nothing. I just watched the trees blur past, a endless loop of gray and white.
We reached the town of Hardwick forty minutes later. It wasn't much—a Main Street that looked like it had been frozen in 1950, a few pickup trucks, and a general store that doubled as a hardware supplier.
Atlas parked the truck. "Stay close," he muttered. "I don't want to lose you."
"I'm not a dog, Atlas. I can heel without a leash."
He shot me a look—dark, unamused—and opened his door.
The hardware store smelled of sawdust, oil, and old men. A bell jingled as we walked in. The place was cluttered, aisles overflowing with tools, piping, and jars of screws.
An older man in a hunter-orange vest looked up from the counter. He had a white beard and eyes that had seen too many winters.
"Help you folks?"
"Need a thermocouple for a Beckett burner," Atlas said, walking to the counter. He pulled a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket. "Model number is here."
The old man squinted at the paper. "Beckett, huh? The old reliable. Or the old pain in the ass, depending on the year."
He shuffled off into the back room.
I wandered down an aisle of paint cans, running my gloved fingers along the metal rims. I felt...
exposed. Being out in the world, even this tiny slice of it, felt strange.
Back at the cabin, in the bubble of snow and silence, Atlas and I made sense.
Here, under the fluorescent lights, the contrast was glaring.
He was the rugged, blue-collar local. I was the city girl in the cashmere coat. We looked like a joke. A Hallmark movie cliché.
"You look lost, miss."
I turned. A younger guy, maybe twenty, was stocking shelves. He was wearing a flannel and a baseball cap, looking me up and down with an appreciation that made my skin crawl.
"I'm fine," I said coldly, channeling my mother. The St. James Freeze.
"You ain't from around here," the guy said, leaning against a shelf. He smiled, revealing a chipped tooth. "Car break down? Or just lost on the way to Stowe?"
"Visiting," I said, taking a step back.
"Visiting who? Ain't much up here but trees and bears." He took a step forward, invading my personal space. "Maybe I could show you around? Get a coffee?"
I opened my mouth to eviscerate him verbally, but a shadow fell over us.
Atlas appeared at the end of the aisle.
He didn't say a word. He just stood there, holding a small cardboard box in one hand. He looked at the boy. His expression was bored, but his eyes were lethal. He radiated that same dark, possessive energy he had unleashed on Topher.
The boy flinched. He straightened up, his smile vanishing.
"Just... asking if she needed help," the boy stammered.
"She's good," Atlas rumbled.
He walked over to me. He didn't touch me, but he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He placed himself physically between me and the boy—a human shield.
"Ready to go, babe?" Atlas asked.
The word hit me like a physical blow. Babe.
He said it so casually. So easily. Like he had said it a thousand times over breakfast.
My heart stuttered.
"Yes," I managed to squeak out.
"Let's go." He placed a hand on the small of my back. His palm was warm, heavy, possessive. He guided me toward the register, steering me away from the boy.
He paid for the part with cash, counting out the bills with methodical precision. The old man at the counter chuckled.
"Keep her warm up there, son. Looks like a storm's rolling in tonight."
Atlas didn't smile. He just nodded. "Will do."
He kept his hand on my back all the way to the truck. He opened the door for me, waiting until I climbed in before slamming it shut.
When he got in the driver's side, the silence was deafening.
"Babe?" I whispered, staring at him.
He put the key in the ignition, but he didn't turn it. He stared out the windshield, his grip on the wheel tightening until his knuckles were white.
"It got him to back off," he said gruffly. "Don't read into it."
"I'm not reading into it," I lied. "I just... I didn't think you knew the word."
"I know a lot of words I don't use, Aurelia."
He started the truck, the engine roaring to life. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes."
"There's a diner down the road. We eat. Then we go back."
"Back to the cage," I murmured.
"Back to the job," he corrected.
The diner was called "Dot's." It was exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, and the smell of bacon grease baked into the walls.
We took a booth in the back corner. I ordered a salad (which turned out to be iceberg lettuce and three sad tomatoes). Atlas ordered a burger the size of a hubcap and a pile of fries.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. I picked at my lettuce, watching him eat. He ate like he did everything else—with efficiency and intensity.
"Why do you do that?" I asked suddenly.
He paused, a fry halfway to his mouth. "Do what?"
"Pretend you hate me when we're alone, but act like you own me when we're in public."
He chewed slowly, swallowing before answering. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"I don't hate you, Aurelia."
"You could have fooled me. You haven't looked me in the eye since the pond."
"Because if I look at you," he said, his voice dropping so low I had to lean in to hear him over the clatter of silverware, "I remember what you sound like when you come."
My breath hitched. My fork clattered onto the plate.
Heat flooded my face, my neck, my chest. I glanced around the diner, terrified someone had heard. But the waitress was pouring coffee three booths away, oblivious.
Atlas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and serious.
"That's the problem, Princess. I can't turn it off. I'm trying. I'm trying to be professional. I'm trying to remember that your father holds the deed to my future. But every time I look at you, I just see..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"See what?" I whispered.
"I see the one thing I can't have."
He looked tortured. He looked exhausted.
I reached across the table. I didn't think about it. I just covered his hand with mine.