Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Atlas
After I thank Hop and the agents who stayed behind to guard Blythe, we say our goodbyes and drive home.
Once we step inside, I shut the door behind us.
We’re home.
Our home.
Not just a place to hide.
Not just a temporary stop along the way.
And more than that—Blythe is finally free.
The man who abused her will never try to hurt her again.
Never.
Do I regret killing Winston?
That’s the thing. There was no other option.
Winston wasn’t going to stop until he found her.
Until he forced her back into his cage, breaking her down until she submitted—or worse until he decided she wasn’t worth the effort and ended her life for daring to defy him.
Did he deserve what he got?
There’s a long list of people who would say yes.
He wasn’t a good person.
There are plenty of young women and men who disappeared near his clubs, funneled into trafficking rings while he turned a blind eye.
Others who barely escaped.
Some who . . . died trying to escape.
Winston was a monster wrapped in privilege, wearing his last name like it made him untouchable.
Using his connections to the syndicates as shields.
But now, he’s nothing.
Just another casualty of his own bad decisions.
What matters is that Blythe isn’t running anymore.
She’s free to stay in Birchwood Springs or leave if she wants.
No looming threat. No need to check the locks twice, to scan exits, or to sleep with one eye open.
And yet—my body doesn’t know it.
I still feel the press of my gun and the snap of Winston’s wrist when I turned the blade on him.
My muscles stay wound, my pulse still wired.
It’s over, but the adrenaline won’t burn out.
I exhale and turn—really look at her.
Blythe stands in the middle of our apartment, arms wrapped around herself, watching me.
Not afraid.
Not hesitant.
Just waiting.
I wish I could shut my brain off, tell myself it’s okay.
Let the moment settle in, let my body catch up to reality.
But I know what would usually do it—a quick, meaningless fuck, anything to get lost in someone else for a little while.
But I don’t want that.
Not anymore.
I want her.
My Blythe. If she’ll have me—if she’ll claim me.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, but my voice is soft when I say, “Should I be calling you Henrietta now?”
Because she doesn’t have to be anyone else anymore.
No more fake names, no more hiding.
Blythe Timberbridge was a shield, a way to keep her safe.
And sure, at some point, I loved the sound of it.
I loved knowing she was my wife, even if only on fake paper.
But lately . . . I’ve craved more.
For this fake marriage to be real.
Most importantly, a life with her.
A future that isn’t just some cover to keep her safe.
Though, I would do it all over again just to see her finally relax.
Today, she can be whoever she wants.
I just hope—when she figures it out, I’m still part of it.
The still wants to be with me.
“I prefer Blythe,” she says, offering a shy smile.
“I mean, it doesn’t have to be Blythe Timberbridge . . . but I never really liked Henrietta. It’s pretentious and—fake. Like something chosen out of an old money catalog.” She exhales, shaking her head.
“My father came from old money, and my mother thought a name like that would give me status, privilege. Make me belong somewhere.”
She says it like she never did.
Like no name, no bloodline, no carefully crafted persona ever made her feel like she was enough.
“Blythe is beautiful,” I say, unsure how to tell her I want her to keep my name.
To be mine in every way.
“We could make it legal. Everything legal.”
Her brows pinch slightly, her expression unreadable.
Like she’s trying to piece something together, something I can’t see.
I want to know what she’s thinking.
“Are you okay?” I ask because I don’t want to guess.
Not with her. Not anymore.
She lets out a soft laugh—small, breathless.
“It’s surreal.” Her voice is quiet, thoughtful.
“Like I don’t know what to do next.”
“What do you want to do?”
A slow breath shudders through her, and then she moves.
Like she’s pulling me back, tethering me to this moment, to her.
She steps closer, fingers brushing against my sleeve, and fuck, I feel it everywhere.
Then she tilts her chin up, narrowing her gaze, fingertips grazing my jaw.
“You’re bleeding.”
I step back slightly, rubbing at my chin.
“No. I . . . I thought I cleaned up after I changed out of my gear.”
Her expression tightens.
“What happened?”
The last thing I want to tell her is that Winston bled all over me.
But I also don’t want to lie.
“We fought. Things got messy.” I pause, searching her face.
“Do you need me to shower?”
“No.”
Her hand slips down, fingers brushing my wrist.
“Atlas, just kiss me,” she murmurs.
“I want to know everything is okay now. I want to kiss you without the fear, without the past clawing at me, telling me this is temporary. This time, I can think it could be permanent—it could be us forever.”
That’s all it takes.
My name. Her voice. Her words.
My control frays.
I grab her wrist—not rough, not pushing her away—just needing something to hold onto before I come undone.
Her pulse thrums beneath my fingers.
She tilts her head, her gaze never leaving mine.
“It’s you and me now.”
I swallow hard.
“Yeah. It’s us, baby. Us, our little bean, and any future you want.”
A breath.
A shift.
Then, a smile that wrecks me.
“We survived,” she whispers.
“You survived.” My voice is raw.
“You’re the bravest, most amazing woman I’ve ever known. You did all this. I just made sure it was permanent.”
She looks at me then—really looks.
And for the first time, I see it.
Something like love.
Something like forever.
“Can I . . .” My throat tightens.
“Can I kiss you?”
She doesn’t just nod.
She moves.
Pulls me in, arms looping around my neck, pressing herself against me like she’s never letting go.
I grip her waist, yank her flush against me, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in.
Her scent. Her warmth.
Everything I almost lost.
I press my mouth to her jaw, her cheek, her lips—soft at first, then deeper, taking everything she gives me.
She exhales into me, fingers sliding under my shirt, touching me like she needs this as much as I do.
My hands roam, claim, demand.
I groan against her mouth, pulling back just enough to murmur, “I love you.”
Her breath catches.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed, lips parted.
“Say it again.”
I cup her face, thumb tracing her cheek.
“I love you.”
Her lashes flutter, and then she fucking breaks me.
“I want this. I want you.”
My restraint snaps with those words.
I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom.
She gasps against my lips, her nails sinking into my shoulders.
“Babe,” I rasp, grinding against her, letting her feel how badly I need her.
“You sure? Because once I start, I’m not stopping.”
She moans, arching into me.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
I growl, dropping her onto the bed and crawling over her, pinning her beneath me.
Her body—fuller, softer, carrying our child—drives me insane.
My hand slides over her stomach, reverent, possessive.
“You have no idea what this does to me,” I murmur, fingers teasing the hem of her shirt.
“Seeing you like this. Knowing you’re carrying my baby.”
She shudders, her hands running down my back.
“You like that?” I smirk, brushing my lips over her collarbone.
Her breath stutters.
“Atlas?—”
I slide lower, kiss her stomach, drag my tongue along the skin I worship.
“I want you round with me again and again,” I murmur against her skin.
“Gonna keep you full, baby.”
Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me up, crashing her mouth to mine.
“Talk big all you want,” she teases, breathless, “but I need you to back it up.”
Fuck.
I strip her down, slow and torturous, letting each brush of my fingers against her skin ignite a new need—making her crave more.
She’s bare beneath me, soft and flushed, her body trembling as anticipation coils through her like a live wire.
I want her aching for it.
I kiss my way down her chest, dragging my tongue over every curve, every new swell.
She moans when I tease her nipple between my lips, sucking, biting just enough to make her squirm.
My hands roam, tracing the shape of her waist, gripping the fullness of her thighs.
“Atlas,” she whimpers, fingers twisting in the sheets, hips shifting, searching for friction.
Not yet.
I slide lower, kissing the inside of her thigh, letting my breath ghost over where she’s already dripping for me.
“Not so fast, sweetheart,” I murmur against her skin, my lips curving when she lets out a strangled moan.
She tries to move, to press against my mouth, but I pin her hips down, locking her in place beneath me.
I part her thighs wider, watching as she opens for me, slick and swollen, her body begging without a single word.
“Look at you,” I rasp, my fingers spreading her open, exposing the soft, glistening pink.
“So fucking pretty for me. So wet.”
She gasps as I drag the tip of my tongue up her slit, slow, teasing, just enough to feel her shudder.
I groan against her, the taste of her already addictive.
“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” I murmur, sliding my tongue in deeper, lapping at her, letting the heat of my mouth drive her insane.
She jerks beneath me, writhing, but I grip her thighs and hold her open, making her take every stroke of my tongue.
I suck her clit into my mouth, rolling my tongue over the swollen bud, tasting the way she throbs for me.
“Oh—fuck,” she cries out, back arching, nails dragging down my scalp.
“You like that, baby?” I hum against her, pushing two fingers inside, stretching her slow and deep as I lick her exactly the way she needs.
“So tight,” I groan, my fingers curling, pressing against that spot inside her that makes her sob.
“You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna let me make you fall apart with my mouth?”
She’s already there, body wound so tight she can barely breathe.
I suck harder, stroke deeper until she’s shaking beneath me, moaning my name, coming so hard I have to hold her still just to keep tasting her.
I don’t stop.
Not until she’s wrecked and breathless and begging for more.
And when she shatters, screaming my name, I don’t stop.
I drag it out, make her feel every bit of me, every ounce of love and devotion and fucking worship.
By the time I move back up her body, she’s gasping, dazed, lost in me.
“Atlas,” she whispers, pulling me closer, pulling me home.
“I love you.”
Those three words undo me.
I kiss her, deep and consuming, letting her taste herself on my lips as I surrender my heart to her.
Then, I line up against her, brushing against slick, desperate heat.
“Say it again,” I rasp, pressing into her inch by inch.
She gasps, shuddering.
“I love you.”
I sink inside her with a groan so deep it feels like it comes from my soul.
And then I move.
It’s not rushed.
Not frantic. Just deep, claiming, perfect.
Her nails scrape down my back.
“Harder,” she gasps.
I grip her thigh, tilting her hips up, thrusting deeper.
She cries out, moaning my name like a fucking prayer.
I lose myself in her.
Every movement, every kiss, is a promise.
I will love her.
I will protect her.
I will spend my life giving her everything.
She’s mine.
I’m hers.
And when she comes again, gasping my name, clenching around me, I lose it.
I fall with her.
It hits me hard, ripping through every muscle, every nerve, every part of me that belongs to her.
My body locks, pleasure surging up my spine as I spill deep inside her, groaning against her throat.
It’s not just release—it’s surrender.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in, whispering her name like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
“I love you.” The words come rough, raw, dragging from my chest like they’ve been waiting too long to be spoken.
“I love you so fucking much.”
Her fingers slide into my hair, holding me close, like she already knows, like she feels it just as much as I do.
“I’d die for you,” I murmur against her skin.
“Kill for you. Live for you. Whatever you need, baby, it’s yours. Always.”
She exhales, soft and shaky, wrapping herself around me.
And I don’t pull away.
I just hold her.
Her arms are warm around me, grounding me, keeping me here when everything else feels too big, too much.
For the first time in so fucking long, I feel like I can breathe.
Like I can finally—finally—rest.