17. Atara
Atara
"The sky is literally the worst part of this entire experience," I say, holding a jagged piece of cardboard over my head like a shield. "It’s just... more blue. It’s a trick. They want us to go crazy staring at it. Who makes a puzzle with three hundred pieces of identical sky?"
Maeve giggles, her fingers sticky with vanilla ice cream. She’s got a smear of it on her nose. "You’re being silly. It’s not a trick. It’s just the atmosphere. Daddy says the sky is just the way the light gets confused by the air."
"The atmosphere is mocking us, Maeve. That’s what it’s doing." I reach out and tickle her sides, and she shrieks, dropping the cloud piece she was holding into the bowl of melting ice cream. We both collapse onto the rug in the sunroom, laughing until my chest feels tight and my eyes are watering.
This is our thing now. Every morning, the sunroom.
The puzzle. The ice cream at 10:00 AM because Maeve decided breakfast is just a suggestion.
It’s quiet. It’s simple. Before this, my life was nothing but spreadsheets, back-to-back conference calls, and cold coffee.
Now, my biggest problem is figuring out if Maeve’s questions are actually philosophical or if she’s just trying to distract me from doing the edges of the puzzle.
Maeve picks up a piece, studying it with the intensity of a diamond appraiser. "Atara? Why do you have a line here?" She points to the faint scar on my wrist from a papercut-gone-wrong in college.
"That? I was clumsy. Just a mistake."
"Mistakes are okay," she says, turning the piece over. "Daddy says mistakes are just things you haven't fixed yet."
I watch her. She’s so matter-of-fact about the way he speaks, like he’s a fountain of wisdom instead of a man who keeps a loaded handgun on his nightstand. "He says that, huh?"
"Yeah. He says if you don't fix them, you just keep them and call them trophies." She looks at me, her face serious. "Do you have any trophies?"
I feel a weird sting in my chest. I think about the life I left behind—the apartment, the career, the person I was before the van pulled up. "I don't think so, Maeve. I think I just have a lot of stuff I’m still trying to figure out."
"Atara?" she asks after a while. She’s sitting still now, staring at the pile of blue pieces.
"Yeah, kid?"
"Why did you stop trying to leave?"
The question hangs there. I stop moving. The puzzle piece in my hand feels heavy. I look at her, and she’s just waiting, like she’s asked me what time it is. She doesn't think it’s a weird question at all.
I think about the money I’m digging through, the spreadsheets, and the heavy, solid sound of Lorcan’s boots in the hallway.
I think about how he looked at me in his office.
I think about the way his skin felt under my hands, rough and warm.
I think about how my heart doesn't race because I'm scared anymore, it races because I'm waiting for him to walk through the door.
"I wasn't finished yet," I say.
Maeve just nods, perfectly satisfied. She picks up another piece. "Okay. I want to finish the sky before Daddy comes for lunch."
"Okay," I say.
I help her sort the blues by hue. We spend another twenty minutes just talking about the differences between 'ocean blue' and 'midnight blue.' She’s fascinated by the way colors shift. It’s the kind of conversation I never knew I wanted to have. It’s grounding.
It makes the rest of the world—the guns, the threats, the constant feeling of being watched—feel a little bit smaller.
About an hour later, I feel a shift in the air. The temperature in the room seems to drop, and the light gets a little dimmer, blocked by a shadow. I don't look up, but I know Lorcan is standing in the doorway.
He’s just standing there. He doesn't cough or say anything. He’s just watching.
I can feel the heat of him from across the room.
My skin prickles, and I have to work hard to keep my hands steady on the puzzle pieces.
I’m wearing his old t-shirt—the gray one that’s too big for me—and I feel exposed, like he can see right through the cotton.
I know he’s looking at my neck, at the way my hair is pulled up, at the way I’m leaning forward.
I don't look at him. I focus on the puzzle, but I can’t stop my heart from thumping against my ribs. It’s a choice, him standing there. He knows I know he’s there. He’s waiting to see if I’ll break.
He doesn't say a word. He just stands there, a dark, looming presence against the bright sunroom, his eyes fixed on the back of my neck.
I feel like I'm vibrating. My stomach is in knots, a mix of anxiety and that sharp, needy pull I can't shake off.
I want to turn around. I want to see if he's as tired as he looks.
I want to see if he's thinking about last night, too.
After a long minute, he turns around. I hear his boots on the tile, retreating down the hall. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Daddy’s quiet today," Maeve says. She doesn't even look up from the puzzle.
"Yeah," I whisper. "He is."
Dinner is strange.
Lorcan is sitting at the head of the table, his tie gone, sleeves rolled up.
He isn't talking much. He’s watching Maeve, but his eyes keep sliding over to me.
He isn't trying to hide it. There’s a look on his face I haven't seen before. It’s not cold, and it’s not his usual "don’t talk to me" glare. It’s just steady. Like he’s trying to memorize something.
I feel a heat creep up my neck. I look down at my plate, trying to focus on the food. Every time I glance up, he’s still looking. It makes me want to fidget. It makes me want to stand up and walk around the table just to see what he’d do.
I’m starting to get a picture of him, piece by piece. And I don’t like how much I’m starting to care about the details. It’s becoming a problem.
Later, after Maeve is asleep, I’m back in the study. I should be working on the ledgers. They’re a mess, and I’m close to finding the gap where the money is disappearing. But I can’t focus. I keep thinking about dinner. I keep thinking about the way his eyes looked when he watched me.
I hear the door click. I know it’s him. I don't turn around.
"Still here," he says. His voice is deep, like a low hum in the room.
"I’m almost done," I say. My voice sounds thin.
He walks toward me. I hear the slow, steady sound of his boots. He stops right behind my chair. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his chest.
"You’re working too hard," he says. His hand moves, hovering just an inch from my shoulder, but he doesn't let it land. It’s like he’s testing me.
"I have to get this done," I say. I turn my head slightly, looking at him over my shoulder.
He’s staring down at me. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are dark, looking like they’re struggling to stay focused on my face instead of my throat or my mouth. He looks like he’s fighting his own body to stay back.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I need to," I say.
He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair. He’s trapping me now. I can smell the whiskey on his breath. My heart is racing, beating so hard it feels like I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I want him to do something. I want him to just grab me and pull me out of this chair.
"You’re not really auditing these," he says. He isn't even looking at the screen anymore. He’s looking at my lips.
"I am," I whisper.
"You’re looking for a reason to stay," he says.
I turn around in the chair so that I’m facing him.
I’m trapped between his arms. I reach up and touch his cheek.
His stubble is rough against my palm, and he leans into my hand instantly, his eyes closing for a second.
It’s such a small, human thing, and it hits me harder than any of his cold stares ever did.
"Lorcan," I say.
He opens his eyes. They’re dark, almost black in this light. He looks like he’s in pain, like he’s trying to figure out how to be near me without losing his mind.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he says.
"You’re the one who kidnapped me," I point out, though there’s no bite in it.
He doesn't smile. He just keeps looking at me, his hand hovering over my knee, his thumb tracing the fabric of my leggings. He’s so close I can feel the tension in his shoulders. He wants to touch me. I can see it in the way his hand twitches.
"Finish it," he says, his voice rough.
He pulls back, the space between us suddenly feeling very cold. He turns and walks out of the study without another word.
I sit there, staring at the empty doorway. My skin feels like it’s on fire where he didn't even touch me. I want to chase him. I want to find him in his room and tell him to stop playing these games. I’m tired of the rules. I’m tired of the ledgers. I just want to feel his hands on me again.
I look at the screen, but the numbers are just a blur. I’m not winning this. I’m not even close.