Atlas is right there, his hands clamping onto my shoulders to hold me upright. They slowly slide down my arms, stopping just above my elbows. He strokes my bare skin with his thumbs, the soft touch making my heart flip. A low, frustrated curse vibrates in his chest, confusing me even further.
"Dammit," he growls, his voice rough. "I’m failing you already.” Atlas inhales and closes his eyes before letting out a slow, steady breath. It’s as if he’s resetting. “Sit down,” he tells me in a calmer tone.
As he moves me to the edge of the tub, his touch is impossibly gentle. He works with surgical precision, cleaning the cuts and applying bandages to the scrapes I hadn't even registered. His large hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones as I struggle to keep my eyes open.
"I'll do better," he vows, his voice low and firm. "I promise."
He disappears for a moment, returning with a bottle of water and a new bottle of Aspirin. He instructs me to get into the shower, promising a meal when I’m done, and then he’s gone. I’m left alone with nothing more than the sobering reality of my life for company.
Before stepping into the shower, I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. The old, familiar weight of my insecurities crashes down on me. I see the curves my mother always hated, the ones she spent my entire adolescence trying to "fix" through extreme diets and cruel critiques.
I remember the hospital room, the sterile white light, the way my parents smiled at the doctors and claimed it was just a misunderstanding, a "faint" caused by dehydration, not their desperate, toxic pursuit of an impossible standard. They made it all disappear with a checkbook and a sharp word, burying the truth so deep I’d almost convinced myself it hadn't happened.
Taking a deep breath, I focus on the hot water sluicing over me. It feels good, but it does nothing to wash away the feelingof dread settling in my chest. The silence in this house is heavy, yet it’s a silence filled withhim. Even when he isn’t in the room, the lingering scent of his cologne—cedar and something sharp, like rain—is everywhere. It’s an intense, charged atmosphere, a constant reminder that I am no longer in control of my own life.
It’s a bit terrifying, how much I already lean into Atlas's presence. It’s humiliating, honestly. I’ve always prided myself on being independent, on building a life where I didn't need to answer to anyone, especially not someone who makes my pulse jump with a single look. But as I press my forehead against the cool tiles, I have to face the truth: I’m desperate for him to stay in my life far after the still-mysterous threat is gone. I’ve unknowingly been craving the safety he offers, even while it scares the hell out of me.
How can I possibly feel this all-consuming, magnetic pull toward Atlas when I’m clearly just a liability to him? It has to be one-sided or some hero reflex he can’t help. Men like him don’t look at women like me and see anything other than someone who needs saving. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drown out the doubt, but as I reach for the soap, I find myself already looking forward to the moment I can walk back out there and see him again.
I step out of the bathroom, feeling cleaner and significantly more composed, even if my head still carries a dull, rhythmic ache. The scent of roasted garlic and fresh-baked yeast draws me toward the kitchen like a magnet.
Atlas is standing by the stove, his large frame looking out of place with a wooden spoon in hand. He’s already set a bowl of steaming, rich-smelling soup at the small dining table, paired with thick, golden slices of homemade bread. Maybe the wooden spoonisn’tout of place. Maybe he’s a secretly amazing cook on top of being a sexy beast of a man.
He looks up as I approach, and for a moment, the tension that usually defines his posture seems to evaporate. He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling both fragile and strangely grateful.
"Eat," he says, his voice low and devoid of the earlier gruffness.
The first bite of soup is savory and warm, hitting exactly the right spot. I find myself eating faster than I intended, the silence between us shifting from oppressive to contemplative. Finally, I set my spoon down, my curiosity winning over my caution.
"Atlas," I start, watching him closely. "Who are these people? Why am I a target?"
His expression tightens instantly, the protector coming back to the forefront. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "They call themselves the Shadow Syndicate. It started as a US government splinter group, but they went rogue, eventually folding into an international terrorist cell. They’re dangerous, Kienna, and they don't leave loose ends."
"But why me?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "I’m a kindergarten teacher. I don't know anything about government conspiracies or terrorism."
He sighs, a sound of genuine frustration. "That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Your name appeared on a hit list the team at Aegis Security intercepted during a different mission. We don't have thewhyyet, and that’s what scares me. Until we know what they think you have or what they think you know, you aren't safe anywhere."
The gravity of his words settles over the table, making the house feel like a bunker. I look down at my plate, trying to process the idea that my life is being hunted for reasons I can't even fathom. To break the stifling silence, I force a small, appreciative smile.
"Well," I say, gesturing toward the bowl. "At least they didn't take your ability to cook. This soup is incredible. I was honestly expecting a protein bar or something."
Atlas stiffens, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, shifting his gaze toward the window. "I can't take credit for it. My friend’s girlfriend dropped it off. She knows I’m... well, she knows I’m not exactly a chef. I’m better at securing a perimeter than I am at following a recipe."
Seeing the deadly, tactical operator admitting to being a disaster in the kitchen, almost bashfully, makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
“Mow-mow,” comes the familiar, happy chirp of my handsome orange Kit-Kat. He is nose-deep in a dish of food set out for him on the kitchen tile, accompanied by a waterbowl. My little man takes a brief break to look at me. I smile at him, though he barely acknowledges me before returning to his meal.
“It’s shredded chicken and a spoonful of broth from the soup. Looked it up online. Should be safe for house cats. Even devil cats.” Atlas stares at Mr. Kit-Kat, who glares right back at him, even with delicious chicken still stuck to his fur. These two are freaking adorable, and I’ll never get tired of them.
“You two are going to be BFFs in no time,” I inform Atlas with a knowing look. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t argue. Interesting.
“Make yourself at home here,” Atlas says, changing the subject. “I have all the streaming services, though I don’t use half of them,” he adds, grumbling the last part under his breath. “I need to check in with the boss.”
Atlas stands from his seat, collecting our empty bowls and setting them in the sink. I watch his chiseled, muscled frame walk out of the kitchen and into what I assume is his office.
Good lord, this man. He has me feeling all sorts of ways, and we’ve barely held a real conversation. The more I discover,however, the closer I get to falling for a man who can’t possibly love me back. I feel crazy just thinking about it. And yet… my damn heart keeps dreaming of our happily-ever-after.
4
