Chapter 9
Aurelia
The air was thick and humid, smelling of spilled Bud Light and Axe body spray. The bass from the speakers vibrated in the floorboards, shaking the questionable structural integrity of the old Victorian mansion.
I stood in the corner of the kitchen, clutching a red Solo cup filled with warm tap water.
I was technically "banned" from alcohol per the agreement with Atlas (and my father), but holding the cup was a social shield.
It stopped people from asking, "Why aren't you drinking?
" and starting the rumor mill about rehab or pregnancy.
I scanned the room.
It was packed. The entire team was here, along with half the sorority population of Sterling U. They were celebrating the win against Boston Tech like they had just stormed the beaches of Normandy.
And in the center of it all, sitting on the kitchen island like a king on a Formica throne, was Atlas.
He was still in his suit pants and dress shirt from the post-game press conference, but the tie was gone, and the top three buttons were undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He held a beer bottle loosely in one hand, but I noticed he hadn't taken a sip in twenty minutes.
He looked... demolished.
To everyone else, he looked like the conquering hero. Girls were orbiting him, leaning in close, laughing too loudly at things he didn't say. Teammates were slapping his back.
But I saw the wince every time someone touched his left shoulder. I saw the gray tint to his skin under the kitchen lights. I saw the way his eyes were glazed, not with drunkenness, but with exhaustion and pain.
He was hurting. Badly.
A brunette in a tube top—I think her name was Tiffany or Brittany or Symphony—was practically sitting in his lap, running a manicured hand down his bicep.
"You were amazing tonight, Atlas," she cooed, her voice cutting through the noise. "So strong. I bet you could lift me with one arm."
Atlas gave a tight, polite smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks."
"You should come dance," she insisted, tugging on his arm. The bad arm.
Atlas flinched. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He pulled his arm back, his movements stiff.
"Maybe later," he grunted. "Need to rest the legs."
"Oh, come on, don't be boring. You're the MVP!" She leaned in, whispering something in his ear.
That was it.
The possessive instinct flared in my chest like a match dropped in gasoline. It wasn't rational. It wasn't polite. It was primal.
He’s mine, I thought. He’s hurt, and he’s mine, and you need to get your hands off him.
I pushed off the wall. I dropped my cup into the trash with a decisive thud.
I cut through the crowd. I didn't say "excuse me." I used my elbows. I used the St. James glare that could freeze water at twenty paces. People moved.
I reached the island.
"Tiffany," I said sweetly.
The girl turned. Her eyes widened when she saw me. Everyone knew who I was. Everyone knew the rumors about the cabin.
"It's Bethany," she corrected, looking annoyed.
"Right. Bethany. You're suffocating the talent."
"Excuse me?"
"He has broken ribs," I lied (partially). "And a concussion. If you drag him onto the dance floor and he collapses, my father will sue you for damages to team property. Do you have a lawyer on retainer, Bethany?"
Her mouth dropped open. She looked from me to Atlas, then back to me. She snatched her hand away from his arm.
"I... I didn't know," she stammered.
"Now you do. Bye."
She scrambled away, disappearing into the crowd.
I turned to Atlas.
He was looking at me with a mix of amusement and relief. The corner of his mouth twitched up.
"My hero," he drawled.
"Shut up," I said softly. I stepped into the space between his spread knees. I placed my hands on his thighs—not intimately, but protectively. "You look like death warmed over, Atlas."
"Thanks. I aim to please."
"How bad is it?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.
"Ribs are screaming," he admitted, his fa?ade crumbling now that it was just us. "Think I tweaked the oblique too. And my head feels like someone is playing drums inside it."
"Why are you still here?"
"Captain duties," he sighed. "Have to show face. Can't leave the troops."
"The troops are doing keg stands and dry-humping in the living room. They'll survive."
I looked into his eyes. They were dark, pain-filled, and searching.
"Let's go," I said.
"Go where?"
"Anywhere but here. My place. Your room. I don't care. But you need ice, and you need silence."
He hesitated. He looked at the door. He looked at his teammates.
Then he looked at me.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Get me out of here."
He slid off the counter. He stumbled slightly when his feet hit the floor, a hiss of pain escaping his teeth. I was there instantly, wrapping my arm around his waist—the good side—taking his weight.
"Lean on me," I ordered.
"You're tiny," he grunted. "I'll crush you."
"I'm stronger than I look. Move."
We navigated the crowd. Jax tried to stop us near the door.
"Yo! Leaving already? Party's just starting!"
"He's done, Jax," I said sharply. "He needs sleep."
Jax looked at Atlas’s pale face, then at my arm around his waist. He nodded slowly. A look of understanding—and respect—passed over his face.
"Got it," Jax said. "I'll cover. Go."
We walked out into the cold night air. The silence was instant and blissful.
We took his truck. I drove.
Atlas sat in the passenger seat, head leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed. His breathing was shallow—short, careful sips of air to avoid expanding his ribcage too much.
I drove carefully, avoiding every pothole on the way to my apartment. I had an off-campus place this year—a sleek, modern condo my father had bought as an "investment property." It was sterile, white, and quiet.
"You okay?" I asked softly, glancing at him.
"Mmm," he hummed. "Better now."
"Why?"
"Because you're driving. And you smell good."
I smiled, gripping the wheel. "I smell like beer and sweat from that frat house."
"No," he murmured, his eyes still closed. "You smell like vanilla. And trouble."
We reached my building. I parked in the underground garage.
The elevator ride up was silent. We stood side by side, not touching, but the air between us was electric. The adrenaline from the game was fading for him, replaced by the heavy crash of pain, but for me, the need to care for him was a drug.
I unlocked my door.
"Welcome to the ivory tower," I said, flipping on the lights.
My apartment was pristine. White leather sofas. Glass tables. Abstract art. It looked like a museum exhibit, not a home.
Atlas walked in, looking around. He looked massive and rugged against the delicate decor. Like a bull in a china shop.
"Nice place," he said. "Very... you."
"Cold and expensive?"
"Clean," he corrected. "Safe."
He walked over to the sofa and sat down gingerly, groaning as he settled. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head hanging low.
"I need ice," he said.
"On it."
I went to the kitchen, filling a ziplock bag with ice cubes from the dispenser. I wrapped it in a soft dish towel.
When I came back to the living room, Atlas was struggling.
He was trying to take off his dress shirt. He had the buttons undone, but he couldn't get his left arm out of the sleeve. The movement required lifting his arm, and his ribs weren't having it.
"Fuck," he muttered, frustration evident in his voice.
"Stop," I said, setting the ice down on the coffee table. "Let me."
I walked over to him. I stood between his knees again.
"Arms down," I instructed.
He obeyed, letting his hands hang limp.
I carefully peeled the shirt off his right shoulder first. Then, I moved to the left. I moved slowly, easing the fabric over his bicep, his elbow, his wrist.
He hissed once, but otherwise stayed silent.
When the shirt was off, I tossed it aside.
I looked at him.
His torso was a map of violence.
A massive, darkening bruise bloomed across his left ribcage, purple and angry against his skin. There were other marks too—old scars, fresh scrapes from the game, the tattoos that wrapped around his muscles.
He was beautiful. In a broken, jagged way.
"Jesus, Atlas," I whispered, reaching out to trace the edge of the bruise with a trembling finger. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I breathe," he joked weakly.
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
I picked up the ice pack. "This is going to be cold."
I pressed the ice gently against his ribs.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his abdominal muscles contracting under my hand. He grabbed my wrist—not to stop me, but to anchor himself.
"Okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Good."
We stayed like that for a minute. Me holding the ice against his skin. Him gripping my wrist. The silence of the apartment wrapped around us.
"Why did you come down?" he asked suddenly. His voice was low, raspy.
"When?"
"To the tunnel. During the game."
"Because you were hurt."
"So? Players get hurt all the time."
"You're not a player to me, Atlas," I said. "Not anymore."
He looked up. His eyes were dark pools. The pain medication of the ice was starting to work, or maybe it was just the adrenaline fading, but his gaze was clearing. It was sharpening.
"What am I to you?" he asked.
The question hung in the air.
I looked at his mouth. I looked at the scar on his brow. I looked at the way his hand was still wrapped around my wrist, his thumb stroking my pulse point.
"You know what you are," I whispered.
"Say it."
"You're the only person who makes me feel real."
He let out a breath that was half-groan, half-sigh. He pulled on my wrist.
I stumbled forward. I fell onto my knees between his legs, my hands landing on his thighs.
We were eye level now.
"Come here," he growled.
He leaned forward and kissed me.
It wasn't like the library kiss. It wasn't like the pond. This was slow. Heavy. Drugged with exhaustion and need.
His lips were soft, tasting of mint gum and faint beer. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
I kissed him back, gentle at first, mindful of his pain. But he deepened it. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me. His hand—the good one—moved from my wrist to the back of my neck, tangling in my hair, holding me in place.
"Atlas," I moaned into his mouth. "Your ribs..."
"Fuck my ribs," he muttered. "I need this more than I need to breathe."
He pulled me closer, until my chest was pressed against his bare skin. The contrast of the cold ice pack and his hot flesh was disorienting.
I let the ice pack fall to the floor.
I wrapped my arms around his neck. I was careful. I kept my weight off his bad side. But I needed to be closer.
"Take me to the bedroom," he whispered against my jaw.
My heart slammed against my chest.
"Atlas... you're injured."
"I'm not crippled, Aurelia. I can walk. And I can definitely..." He trailed off, biting my earlobe. "I can definitely lay down."
"Just lay down?" I teased breathlessly.
"We'll start there," he promised. "See where it goes."
He stood up. He groaned again, swaying slightly, but he stayed upright.
I stood with him. I took his hand.
We walked down the hallway to my bedroom. It felt like walking toward a cliff edge. I knew once we crossed that threshold, there was no going back to "Fake." No going back to "Just a job."
My bedroom was dark, lit only by the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. The bed was huge—a California King piled with pillows.
Atlas sat on the edge of the bed. He kicked off his dress shoes. He didn't wait for me. He lay back against the pillows, closing his eyes, letting out a long sigh of relief as his spine decompressed.
I stood at the foot of the bed, watching him.
He opened one eye. A smirk played on his lips.
"You going to stand there all night, St. James? Or are you going to nurse the wounded?"
"I'm contemplating my ethical obligations," I said, stepping out of my heels.
"Fuck ethics." He patted the space beside him. "Get in here."
I walked around the bed. I reached for the zipper of my dress.
The sound of the zipper sliding down was the loudest thing in the room.
I let the wool dress fall to the floor. I was wearing a black silk slip underneath.
Atlas’s eyes tracked every movement. They darkened. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black.
"Come here," he said again, his voice rougher.
I crawled onto the bed. I moved over him, careful, straddling his hips but keeping my weight on my knees so I didn't press on his ribs.
I looked down at him. He looked up at me.
"Hi," I whispered.
"Hi," he breathed.
He reached up. His hand slid up my thigh, over the silk, finding the bare skin of my hip. His thumb dug in possessively.
"You're staying," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm staying," I agreed.
"Good."
He pulled my head down.
This time, when he kissed me, there was no hesitation. His hand moved to the strap of my slip. He tugged it down.
"I want to see you," he murmured. "I want to see everything."
I sat up, pulling the slip over my head. I tossed it aside.
I was naked.
Atlas stared up at me. He looked reverent. He looked hungry.
"Perfect," he whispered.
He reached up and cupped my breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple. I gasped, arching into his touch.
"Atlas..."
"Shh," he soothed. "I've got you."
He guided me down until I was lying beside him. He pulled me into his good side, wrapping his arm around me, tucking my head onto his shoulder. His skin was hot against mine.
"We don't have to do anything," he said, kissing the top of my head. "I just... I needed you close. The pain is better when you're close."
"Endorphins," I murmured, snuggling into him. "I'm a natural painkiller."
"You're a drug," he corrected. "And I'm overdosing."
We lay there in the dark. His hand stroked my back, up and down, a soothing rhythm. My hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
"Atlas?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we in trouble?"
He was silent for a long moment. I could hear the wind outside rattling the windows of the high-rise.
"Yeah, Aurelia," he whispered into the dark. "We're in deep trouble."
"Good," I said, closing my eyes. "I like trouble."
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.
And as I drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the arms of the man who was supposed to be my employee, my enemy, and my fake boyfriend, I knew one thing for sure.
This wasn't fake anymore.
And tomorrow, when the sun came up and the bruises bloomed... we were going to have to figure out what the hell to do about it.