“Okay,” I draw. “And the rest of the prophecy? What does it mean?”
Atlas sighs gently, shrugging. “The way my family has interpreted it is praying to keep my soul pure, to stay truthful to myself, and to stay morally correct. That’s really all we could sort out.”
I want to tell him that his interpretation of this prophecy is very literal and simple, and potentially not at all on the money. But I don’t want to bring him down or make him believe that everything he has done up to this point has been pointless, so I nod instead.
“Sure. Okay. Let’s say that you’re correct about what this prophecy is asking of you, then when will the cure come?”
Atlas’s gaze falls to the floor. “I don’t know.”
I am certain that if the key were being a very good boy, Atlas would have broken this curse by now.
“Well, if you saw them come down here, then maybe they found the prophecy down here? Should we sort through these books?” I ask, rubbing a hand over his arm in an attempt to get rid of the disappointed expression he’s wearing.
Atlas brightens up, his eyes lifting back up to meet mine.
“Yes! That is what I was thinking. I thought nothing of this room past the day they entered it, but now I have a feeling it’s the key.” He turns back to the shelves, squinting to read different book titles.
I watch him for a moment before my eyes drift back to the altar, an uneasy feeling settling over me.
“Uh, Atlas?”
“Hm?” he sounds.
“Have your ancestors ever practiced witchcraft or anything?” I ask.
Atlas’s head snaps in my direction, a look of horror twisting his delicate features. “What?! No! My family has always been devoted to God.”
“Sorry.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I was just checking.”
With a huff, he turns back to the shelf.
“These titles aren’t in English,” Atlas mutters, brows furrowing as he looks through the spines.
I’m finding it hard to focus on the books, or whatever the hell he’s talking about, because I’m noticing for the first time that his soft skin isstayingflushed.
What was it that he said caused those flare-ups that make him perpetually hot? Not receiving release, or enough of a release?
Suddenly, I’m desperate to know which it is that is causing him to appear worked up so sweetly.
“Has it come to you again? Since the night I touched you, I mean,” I clarify, and Atlas freezes.
“Yes,” he eventually whispers.
I want to ask when. I want to know how long it was there and how exactly it touched him—if he cried, and if he loved it as much as he loved feeling me. But I’m terrified to hear his answers, and I’m not prepared for that level of fallout.
I’m a grown man, so I know what jealousy feels like. I’m extremely jealous in this moment, suffocatingly so.
So much so that it doesn’t even cross my mind to reconsider before I’m grabbing his arm and pressing his back to the bookcase.
I swallow the gasp that escapes him, pressing the length of my body to his as I capture his lips.
Sure, I may not be one-hundred percent sure if I like him with everything in me, but I do know that only my hands—my tongue—should ever touch this man’s skin. He said it himself; my touching him feels like claiming.
Therefore, Atlas is mine.
My tongue glides over his, and I feel his hands grip my sides roughly, grasping for purchase. Sucking his bottom lip into my mouth, I slot my knee between his legs and push, hearing the small mewl leave his throat.
In a flash, one of my hands is gripping the hair at the base of his neck, the other wrapped around his throat. With minimal pressure, I can feel his fluttering pulse.
