Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
MAX
As much as I wanted to go back in time or stop it altogether, my slip-up broke the bubble we’d lived in for the past four days.
“I thought you said this movie was about an octopus.”
Curled up on the sofa, I snuggled further into my blanket, wishing it were Atlas’ arms. “It is.”
He looked over at me from the opposite cushion. If he reached out right now to pull me close, I’d give him every last piece of me.
He didn’t.
“It’s about people,” he said, turning back to the television. “Marcellus needs more screen time.”
I huffed. “You sound like the octopus.”
I’d suggested this movie to pass the time, thinking he would like it. And I’d been right. The way he finished all of the octopus facts before the narrator was so fucking cute it might kill me.
But I couldn’t shake my impending sense of dread.
My heat waned quickly. It wouldn’t be long before it was all over; we probably only had one wave left together. The thought of parting from him made my stomach hurt, and not in the way that could be soothed by his knot.
We hadn’t discussed what would happen afterwards. I still wanted to be involved in making Joey pay for what he did to me, but after the last few days, I didn’t think I could handle being near Atlas after the bond fizzled, unclaimed. Not after all we’d shared.
It would be worse to be near him, knowing each other’s deepest secrets and desires, yet unable to tell him the truth of what I felt.
I couldn’t kid myself that it was all heat brain. I wanted sex with him, sure. Lots of it, every day. The thought of anyone else touching me was repulsive.
But I wanted so much more than that, too. With every detail he shared about himself, about his life, I craved more. I wanted to know what slow mornings and shitty Mondays with him were like, and family dinners and picnics outside.
Those quiet, intimate moments just before falling asleep, when our breathing was the only sound in the world, were some of my favorites of this whole heat—even more so than the mind-bending orgasms.
I wanted his face. I wanted his trust.
What he did didn’t matter to me. I’d protect his secrets with every last bone in my body. I was glad someone like him made the world safer.
But what could I say to convince him?
I had this overwhelming feeling we weren’t meant to be apart—like fate had brought us together on that awful day two years ago as an apology for everything else.
It was honestly rude to ignore it.
“Would you rather watch something else?” I asked, going for teasing and landing somewhere between worn out and so desperately hopeful it was embarrassing. “It’s been forever since I saw Free Willy.”
He chuckled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “No. Let’s finish this.”
I was getting very good at reading his expressions in the mask, to the point where it felt silly for him to keep wearing it. He’d been inside me every which way—I’d recognize him anywhere.
Toward the end of the movie, during a particularly angsty scene, I was doing my best to hide my tears when he began sniffing in a way that sounded suspiciously like he was doing the same.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“No. And I thought this was going to be more like a documentary,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Not something sad.”
The obvious lie made me snort, and then I was belly laughing and crying at the same time. I probably looked insane.
Clearly affronted, he asked, “Are you actually laughing at me for crying?”
I shook my head no, trying to explain myself, but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to do so.
Atlas, the Masked Man, stalker of the shadows, vigilante killer feared by the worst dregs of humanity, was crying about an old lady and an octopus.
He huffed, a smile finally finding his eyes, and he reached out, pulling me onto his lap. “It’s mean to laugh at people for crying, you know.”
I collected myself and wiped my face with the sleeves of his hoodie—the only thing I’d worn the last few days. “I’m not making fun of you. I just would’ve never imagined being here after the way we met.”
His eyes darted all over my face, and I held my breath, wondering what he’d say. But then he just knocked his forehead into mine and turned me around to face the television again. “We’re missing the movie.”
He held me softly and didn’t let me go, and by the end, we were both a mess.
“Here,” he said, offering me the tissue box.
I wiped my face. “Thanks. Fuck, now I want food. Crying always makes me hungry.”
“Want any of your snacks? Or I can try making something. I’m not as good a cook as you, but I’ll give it a go.”
I blushed. No one ever offered to make food for me.
Gwen said I was a control freak in the kitchen—which, okay, maybe I was. But he’d catered to every whim and desire I’d had the last few days, and I felt good. Not worn out or depleted like I usually was by this time in a heat.
Atlas, on the other hand, looked exhausted and strung out.
The repeated waves followed by an unclaimed bond were eating at him.
I was beginning to doubt his theory that all we had to do was go our separate ways when it finished, but saying something felt like disturbing the tentative calm that remained.
“No, I’ll make something for us,” I said, patting him on the chest. “I miss it, and you look like you could be taken care of for once.”
While I rooted through the fridge, I thought about my words.
Atlas was a provider. A fixer. A figure-things-out kind of man. Like his namesake, he carried so much. Did he have someone to do the same for him? Who held the man with the world on his shoulders?
I would. I would hold you.
The words wouldn’t come, but I could show him, even in a small way.
Once I found everything I needed for a simple lemon and pan-seared chicken pasta dish—one of my favorite go-tos—he joined me in the kitchen, idly watching and chatting.
“When did you decide you wanted to be a chef?” he asked.
I thought back. “Every once in a while, Mom would make a really special meal. Like, pasta from scratch and homemade rolls and the whole thing. She got me involved when I was old enough, and it just sort of stuck,” I said.
“I was saving to start my own private chef business to cook for dinner parties or people on vacation, but when this job came up after everything happened, it was too good to turn down.”
He cocked his head. “Do you prefer the other? Different groups of people instead of the same family?”
I shrugged and pulled the chicken out of the pan to start the sauce.
“I like the idea of a bigger rotating menu and making new things. Honestly, I didn’t think someone would want to hire me full-time at the start, and I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy the monotony of cooking the same meals over and over.
But now I prefer stability and privacy. And it’s safer. ”
“A big dinner party sounds fun,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.” I almost left it there. After his rejection of spending time together after, I probably should’ve, but I just couldn’t help myself.
“I always dreamed about having a family one day and doing big dinner parties,” I said tentatively.
He leaned in, and it made me braver.
“Not every week, and nothing fancy. But every few months, maybe.”
All I was doing now was keeping the sauce moving while it reduced, so I turned to look at him.
“I dreamed of a house on the lake and an outdoor kitchen, so during the summers I could cook while the kids played in the yard. And we’d stay until the lightning bugs came out and eat homemade ice cream and then pile everything into the sink to worry about the next day. ”
“I like that dream,” he whispered, drifting closer.
I turned back to the stove, afraid of what he’d see in my eyes, but he hooked his chin over my shoulder and wrapped his hands around my waist. I wasn’t sure he was even aware of it, but his palms rested right over where he filled me every time we came together.
What would it be like if that dream were real? What if this was any other night of my waning heat, and Atlas, my mate, held my full and soon-to-be-pregnant belly, while I cooked for us?
Longing so fierce pierced my heart.
I merely placed my hand over his and kept stirring.