19. Atara
Atara
Three days. Seventy-two hours of living with a ghost.
Lorcan hasn't looked at me once since the Bratva meeting. Not really. He gives me these nods when we cross paths in the hallway—quick, efficient, entirely professional. It’s the kind of politeness that makes me want to scream.
It’s like he decided he let his guard down too much, and now he’s gone back to being the untouchable mafia lord who lives in his own head.
I tell myself I’m happy about it. Really.
My heart rate is steady for the first time in weeks.
I’m sleeping through the night without waking up in a sweat, thinking about the heavy weight of his body or the way his hand feels on my neck.
I’m not constantly waiting for the sound of his boots to rattle the floorboards.
"You’re doing that thing again," Maeve says from across the rug.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same blue puzzle piece for the last ten minutes. "What thing?"
"The thing where your face gets all scrunchy, like you’re eating a lemon."
I drop the piece. "I’m just thinking, Maeve. Thinking is hard work."
"Thinking about Daddy?"
I feel my cheeks get hot. "No. Why would you think that?"
She shrugs, placing a piece of the sky with terrifying accuracy. "Because you always look scrunchy when he walks by, and then you look sad when he leaves."
I don't have an answer for that because, unfortunately, she’s right.
I’m tired of being managed. I’m tired of the laptop restriction, the constant "stay here," "don't go there" instructions. I proved myself in that boardroom. I held my own against a room full of dangerous men. I’m not a pet, and I’m not a prisoner anymore. At least, not in the way he thinks.
I stand up, smoothing out my leggings. "I’ll be back in a minute, Maeve."
"Okay! Bring me a juice box, please?"
"If I can find one."
I walk toward his office, my feet hitting the floor harder than I mean them to. I don't stop to think about whether this is a good idea. I just need him to acknowledge me. I need him to stop acting like I’m a piece of furniture he’s trying to ignore.
He’s just coming out of his office, talking to one of his guards, when he spots me.
He stops mid-sentence, his expression immediately shifting into that familiar, unreadable mask.
He dismisses the guard with a nod, and then he’s just standing there, waiting for me to speak, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets.
"Can we talk?" I ask.
"I’m busy, Atara."
"You’re always busy. That’s the default setting," I snap, my frustration bubbling over.
"I’m tired of the restrictions. The laptop, the 'don't go past the foyer' rule. I proved I’m smart enough to be here. I proved I’m not going to run to the cops the second I get a chance.
You can stop treating me like a security risk. "
He listens, his face completely blank. He doesn't move. He doesn't look angry; he just looks... tired. There’s a smudge of exhaustion under his eyes that I hadn't noticed before, and for a second, my chest feels like it’s been hit with a lead pipe.
I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe a shout. Maybe an argument. But he just stares at me, and it feels like he’s seeing right through the frustration, right to the fact that I’m standing here looking for any excuse to get him to look at me.
"Are you finished?" he asks.
"No, I—"
He takes a step closer. The air shifts. He reaches out, and for a split second, I think he’s going to grab me. Instead, he just raises his hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are calloused and warm, and they linger against my skin for just a second too long.
He looks like he wants to say something. His mouth opens slightly, his gaze dropping to my lips, and there’s a flicker of raw, naked vulnerability in his eyes—the same look he had at the dinner table. Then, he closes his eyes, shuts it off, and pulls his hand away as if he’s been burned.
"Go back to Maeve," he says, his voice flat.
He turns and walks away. I’m left in the corridor, staring at his broad shoulders, and I feel a sudden, violent urge to throw something at the back of his head.
My skin is crawling where he touched me, buzzing with a desperate, pathetic longing.
I’m not worried about the laptop anymore.
I’m worried about him. I want to find a way to fix whatever is eating him alive, and that realization makes me want to cry.
That evening, the house is too quiet. I’m sitting in the kitchen, staring at a half-finished book, and I realize I need to talk to someone who isn't a five-year-old or a grumpy crime lord.
I need Tania.
I know he doesn't let me use the house phone, but he’s currently in the basement, and I know where he keeps his personal cell. He left it on the kitchen counter when he came in for dinner. He’s careless, or maybe he just doesn't think I’d dare.
I look at the phone. My heart is doing that annoying, frantic tap-dance against my ribs again. I grab it, slide into the pantry, and dial Tania’s number before I can talk myself out of it.
"Atara? Oh my god! Where have you been? Are you okay?" Tania’s voice is frantic on the other end.
"I’m... I’m okay, Tania. I’m safe," I whisper, trying to keep my voice down.
"Safe? You’ve been gone for weeks! My god, I just knew that stupid text message wasn’t from you! I thought you were dead, but no one would believe me when I say, even though it really looks like it, this is not how Atara chats! Where are you? Tell me, I’ll call the police right now."
"No! Don't call the police," I say, and then I stop. Why am I protecting him? "Tania, listen. I’m in... I don't even know where I am. It’s a compound. And the man I’m with…”
"Is he hurting you? Do I need to find my chainsaw? Is he a monster?"
I think about the way he touched my hair in the hallway. I think about the way he held my neck in the boardroom. I think about the way he looks at Maeve.
"He’s not a monster," I say, and the words feel like a shock. "He’s just... he’s complicated. He’s angry, and he’s dangerous, but he’s not... he’s not someone I'm afraid of."
"Atara, are you having Stockholm syndrome? Tell me you’re not having Stockholm syndrome."
I laugh, a jagged, nervous sound. "I don't think so. I think I just... I think I like him, Tania."
I say it out loud, and it feels like the air in the pantry just got sucked out.
"You what?"
"I don't hate him," I say, the realization blooming in my chest like a dark flower. "I’m scared of him, and I’m mad at him, and he kidnapped me, but... he’s kind to Maeve. And when he touches me, I don't feel trapped. I feel... awake."
"Atara, this is insane. Get out of there."
"I don't know if I want to," I admit, the confession hanging in the air.
I hear footsteps on the floor outside the pantry.
"I have to go," I hiss, slamming the phone shut and shoving it into my apron pocket just as the door opens.
Lorcan stands there, his eyes narrowing as he looks at me. He’s holding a glass of water, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he looks exhausted.
"What are you doing in here?" he asks.
"Just... looking for a snack," I say, my heart rate spiking.
He steps into the pantry, closing the door behind him.
The space is tiny, and suddenly he’s everywhere.
I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell that mix of cedar and cold air.
He looks down at me, his eyes searching my face, and for a second, I’m terrified he knows exactly what I just said.
"You’re hiding something," he says, his voice a low vibration against my skin.
"I’m not," I lie, trying to step past him.
He doesn't let me. He places a hand on the wall next to my head, trapping me. "You’re lying. You’re always lying."
He’s so close. His lips are just inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my face. I’m supposed to be angry. I’m supposed to be defiant. But all I can think about is how much I want to lean forward and press my mouth to his.
I want to know if he tastes like the whiskey he drinks. I want to know if he’s as soft as he acts when he thinks no one is watching.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"Doing what?"
"The silence. The ignoring. The distance."
He looks at me, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. He doesn't move. He just stares at my mouth, his gaze heavy and possessive.
"Because if I don't keep my distance," he says, his voice a raw, jagged edge of sound, "I’m going to do something I can’t take back."
He pulls back abruptly, leaving the pantry, leaving me in the silence with my heart beating like a trapped bird.
I sink against the pantry wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor. I’m in trouble. I’m really, truly in trouble.
I sit there for a long time, just listening to the quiet of the house. I don't hate him. I don't hate him at all. And the worst part is, I think I’m just starting to figure out that I never really did.