4. Atlas
ATLAS
The intel on the Shadow Syndicate is thin, frustratingly so. I’ve spent the morning pacing my office, firing off encrypted messages and double-checking our perimeter security, but my mind is a traitor. It’s entirely occupied by the woman in my living room.
I replay the last twenty-four hours in my head, and every memory is anchored by the same gut-wrenching feeling: I’m failing her.
When I saw those bloodstains on the sheets this morning, the cold reality hit me harder than any combat-induced adrenaline ever could.
I was so damn focused on the tactical logistics, securing the perimeter, and assessing the threat level, that I completely overlooked the basic human need for care.
The image of Kienna, pale and shaking, trying to hide her own injuries because she didn’t want to be a burden, burns in my chest. I’ve spent my life protecting people, yet I let the most precious person I’ve ever encountered suffer in silence under my own roof.
Then there was dinner. Watching her eat that soup, the way the tension finally bled out of her shoulders as she relaxed into the safety of my home…
It felt like a victory, though a small one.
I caught myself watching her instead of the door, completely derailed by the way she smiled at me over that homemade bread.
I’m a man who lives in the shadows, a man built for hard surfaces and calculated risks.
Yet here I am, practically unraveling because a kindergarten teacher with the heart of a saint looked at me like I was her hero.
It’s intoxicating, and it’s dangerous as hell.
Professional distance at Aegis Security has taken a hit as of late. Between Kai and Annika, and Miller and Rya, our best men have fallen hard for their targets. I swore I’d never do the same, but as I watch Kienna through the half-open door, I realize I’m just as bad as they are. Worse, even.
My woman is curled up on my sofa, a book in her lap, her focus so intense she doesn't notice me watching. She’s vibrant, even in my dull yet functional fortress.
The way she interacts with that hellion of a cat, cooing at him, letting him knead his claws into the throw blanket, is enough to make my heart grow too big for my chest.
I shouldn't respect that cat. He’s a menace, a creature of pure chaos that seems determined to sabotage my gear.
Soon I’ll have orange cat hairs woven into all of my clothes and tiny puncture holes from his claws.
Still, I can't hate him. That cat protected Kienna before I got there, and in my book, that earns him a permanent pass.
I force myself to pull away, determined to break the spell.
I need to be useful, to be the operator I was trained to be, not this distracted wreck.
Retreating to the kitchen, I focus my attention on mundane chores.
I scrub down the counters, organize my gear, and check the perimeter sensors for the third time in ten minutes.
If I just keep moving and use work as my anchor, I won’t feel that magnetic pull dragging me back toward the living room.
But it’s a losing battle. My movements feel mechanical and hollow, and my eyes keep drifting toward the doorway.
Every rustle of a turning page, every soft trill of that infernal cat is magnified in the quiet of my home, carving a path straight into my resolve.
I’m not just losing the fight; I’m already defeated.
With a low, frustrated growl, I abandon the cleaning. I don’t even try to stop myself as I drift back into the living room. Kienna is still there, curled into the corner of the sofa, looking so small and vulnerable against the backdrop of my stark, gray furniture.
Without saying a word, I cross the room and take the empty space at the other end of the couch.
Mr. Kit-Kat eyes me with blatant suspicion, but for once, I don’t care.
I’m close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla and soap that follows her, and for the first time in my career, I’m not worried about the mission.
I’m consumed by my target, the one woman who snuck under my bulletproof vest and straight into my bulletproof heart.
The silence is heavy, not with danger, but with the weight of everything I want to ask her.
I want to know what makes her laugh, what keeps her up at night, what dreams she’s harboring beneath that soft, patient exterior.
But I’m a blunt instrument, and she’s art.
I don’t know how to bridge that gap without shattering her peace.
"So," I blurt out, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. "How long have you had... him?" I gesture vaguely toward the cat, who is currently staring me down from the armrest.
Silence stretches, thick and awkward. For a second, I’m sure I’ve blown it, and I feel like an absolute idiot for leading with a question about a pet. Then, a slow, soft smile spreads across her face. Her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, and the light in her blue eyes changes.
"I found him at a shelter right after I moved out of my parents' house," she says, her voice low and melodic. "I knew the second I had my own place, I was going to get the one thing I was never allowed to have. I just wanted something to love, something that would love me back, you know?"
It’s a simple admission, but it hits me like a freight train. It tells me everything about the isolation she’s lived through, about the hunger for genuine connection that her family clearly never satisfied.
I’m about to lean in, to ask her more, when my phone vibrates against the coffee table. The secure ringtone for the Aegis team cuts the moment short.
I see Miller’s name on the display. Dammit, I know I need to answer, even if every fiber of my being wants to turn the phone off and stay in this moment with Kienna. "I have to take this," I say, already standing. "I’ll be in the other room."
I don't want to disrupt her, not when she looks so finally, fleetingly at peace. I shut the office door and answer.
"Talk to me," I say, my voice clipped.
"We got a digital trail, Atlas," Miller says, his voice grim. "Rya and I hit the server hard. It’s not a coincidence that she’s a target. We found the connection."
"Tell me."
"It’s her father, Henry Batton," Miller explains, the impact of his words making the air in the room feel thin. "Senator Batton. He’s been running a double life for years, stealing government funds while also maintaining a secret family in another state.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, knowing this information is going to break Kienna’s already fragile heart.
“Yeah, a real piece of work,” Miller agrees. “He’s been neck-deep in blackmail with the Syndicate. He didn't just 'forget' about his daughter, Atlas. He’s using her as bait to draw them out so he can burn them before they expose him."
My blood turns to ice. "He sacrificed his own daughter to clean up his mess?
What the actual fuck?" I grit my teeth, trying to control the volume of my voice.
I want to punch a brick wall and watch it crumble under my rage.
How the hell could anyone treat another human being this way, let alone their own goddamn father?
The idea of telling Kienna absolutely breaks me.
"Exactly," Miller confirms, bringing me back into the moment.. "The hit list was a leverage play. He wanted them to come for her so he could—"
A quiet yet sharp gasp from behind me stops my heart. I spin around, my phone nearly slipping from my grip. Kienna is standing in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes wide with disbelief and a deep, searing pain. She heard every word.
“Kienna,” I say, making every effort to soften my voice despite the venom running through my veins. My anger will never be directed at her, only at the people who dare take advantage of my precious girl.
“N-no,” she stutters out. “I–I… Can’t.” Tears gather beneath her crystal blue eyes, which have lost their spark. Her gaze is unfocused, and I can practically see her thoughts swirling and spinning, elusive and yet somehow all-consuming.
I cut the phone call short and bolt toward Kienna, but she’s already turning, fleeing back toward the living room with the weight of the truth collapsing her world.