Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Atlas
The motel is a dump.
A long-forgotten stretch of asphalt, neon signs buzzing weakly against the night, casting everything in a dull, artificial glow.
A place people come to disappear—or to do things no one wants to remember.
The hallway carpet is stained, the light overhead flickering like it’s dying, painting everything in a sickly yellow.
I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setting for tonight.
This is where Winston Worthington IV will pay for everything he did to Blythe.
For the nights, she was too afraid to sleep.
For the scars—visible and invisible—that he left behind.
For every time, he dared to believe she belonged to him.
I grip my gun tighter, exhaling slow.
I know the drill. Sanford’s team is stationed outside.
Malerick and Cassian are watching the exits.
It only took a day to orchestrate this.
The Hollow Syndicate took the bait, busy chasing a fake shipment halfway across the state.
Which means Winston is walking in alone, convinced he’s about to reclaim his wife.
Thinking she’s all alone and helpless.
He has no fucking idea what’s waiting for him.
The earbud crackles.
“We have movement,” Cassian murmurs.
“Black SUV. He’s got two guys with him.”
Not alone, then.
But it doesn’t change the outcome.
Sanford’s voice follows.
“Let him come to you, Atlas. We’ll take the bodyguards.”
“Copy that.”
The door across the hall creaks open.
The decoy steps into the dim light—a woman, same build as Blythe, same hair, standing just inside the small kitchenette that has old burnt coffee and stealth.
Just enough for Winston to believe his lie a little longer.
The SUV doors slam. Footsteps.
I move into the corner, staying out of sight.
Then I hear him.
“Stay here,” Winston tells his men, his voice smooth, practiced.
Dripping with control.
Arrogance. He actually thinks this is going to end with him walking away.
Wrong.
The moment he steps inside the motel, my body locks up.
Instinct takes over.
My pulse evens out. Everything slows.
There’s only one thing left to do.
I wait for him to pass the threshold.
The decoy flinches—just enough for him to smirk.
He loves that shit. Fear.
Then, I see it.
The moment he realizes something is wrong.
His head tilts. His spine stiffens.
Too late.
I step out of my hiding spot, gun raised, pressing the barrel to the back of his skull.
“Hi, Winston.”
His body goes rigid.
Slowly, he turns.
His lips curl, an amused little smirk—but his eyes give him away.
He’s afraid. Not that he’ll admit it.
“And you are?” he drawls.
“Your worst nightmare,” I say.
His expression barely flickers.
“Where the fuck is my wife?”
“You’ve been served with divorce papers,” I remind him.
“She’s nothing to you.”
His jaw flexes.
Then he lifts his hands mockingly like this is all beneath him.
“ She’s my wife . You think you or those fucking papers can keep her from me?” His voice drops, eyes narrowing.
“I own her.”
I press the gun harder against his forehead.
“She was never yours.”
His lips part, but I don’t let him speak.
Gunfire explodes outside.
Sanford’s voice cuts through the comms, tense.
“We’ve got company—three more, moving fast.”
Motherfucker.
Winston lunges.
I pivot, but he’s faster than I expect, his hand catching my wrist. The gun fires wild, slamming into the wall.
I shove him back, but he’s already swinging.
His fist connects with my ribs.
Pain burns through me, but I don’t stop.
I drive an elbow into his jaw, sending him staggering into the side table.
He shakes it off, eyes flashing wildly.
“You think you’re some kind of hero?” he sneers, wiping blood from his mouth.
“She’ll never be free of me. I bought her.”
I lunge.
His back slams against the wall, my forearm pinning him by the throat.
“She’s a person, not an item to be bought,” I grit out.
“Not your punching bag or someone you can hurt because you’re a fucking monster.”
His hand scrambles for something.
A knife. Small but deadly.
He jerks it upward, aiming for my side.
I catch his wrist.
He struggles, breath coming short and shallow.
I twist, turning the blade back on him.
And maybe, for the first time in his life, Winston Worthington IV knows what it feels like to be powerless.
His pupils blow wide.
“She’s mine,” he rasps.
I tighten my grip.
“No,” I say, voice quiet but cutting through the air like a final verdict.
“She’s her own person. And if I’m lucky enough, one day she’ll love me enough to call me hers.”
Then, I shove the knife into his throat.
Winston jerks, choking.
Blood spills between my fingers, hot and relentless.
His body trembles, then collapses against the wall.
His lips part, but no sound comes out.
I step back.
He slides to the floor, hands pressing uselessly to the wound as if he can undo it.
He can’t.
I crouch, gripping his jaw, forcing his gaze to mine.
“She never belonged to you,” I murmur.
“And now, she never will.”
His eyes glaze over.
Then, he stops breathing.
Silence.
The earbud crackles.
“Atlas?” Sanford’s voice is sharp.
“Report.”
I exhale slowly.
My pulse finally settles.
“It’s done.”
The ride back is silent.
The cleaning crew arrived on time, wiping away every trace of what happened.
The motel owners will get their payout for letting us occupy it—no guests, no questions.
Cassian and Malerick stayed behind to tie up the last loose ends.
I don’t care.
I’m already gone.
I need to see her.
Be with her.
The moment I step into Hopper’s house, my eyes find her.
Blythe.
She’s standing in the living room, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide and waiting.
I cross the space in three strides.
She meets me halfway.
Neither of us speaks.
I just pull her in, holding her so close, so completely that I don’t know where I end, and she begins.
She trembles against me, fingers tangling behind my neck, and I kiss her—deep and consuming.
Not just a meeting of lips but a claiming.
A giving. Taking in everything she is while offering her everything I have left.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
She leans in, gives more, takes more like she needs this as much as I do.
Her fingers slide up into my hair, holding tight before she lets them slip away, one by one until her hands rest on my chest.
She looks up, eyes shining.
“Is he?—”
“Gone,” I murmur, brushing my lips over her forehead.
“It’s over.”
A shudder rolls through her, something deep, something final.
She exhales, and then the tears come—silent at first before a sob escapes, raw and unguarded.
Not breaking. Releasing.
And me?
I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in, letting the last three months crack and crumble around me.
It’s over.
She’s safe.
Our daughter is safe.
I press a kiss to her temple, voice dropping to something only she can hear.
“Let’s go home, sweetheart.”
“Let’s go home, Atlas.”