Page 141 of Monstrous Serpent

He’s alive. He has to be.

I’ll get there in time, then end this. Because I love Atlas.

Always have.

Should’ve told him years ago. Trusted it wouldn’t have changed anything. Except . . . I attacked him and ruined it all.

Atlas can hate me, never forgive me. Move halfway across the country if he wants.

He just can’t die.

The ground slopes downward, and I adjust my footing, eyes raking over every trunk, gap, and place a person could hide. My brother has no idea what I am. No idea how much like our father I’ve become.

He’s about to find out.

The tree patterns are changing. The oak trunks wider, less space between them. Something scuffs fast against the dirt, then stops.

I slow, crouch down, and wait in the shadows. Whatever it is, it’s not an animal.

The frantic scuffing starts again, followed by a trapped grunt.

I inch toward the sound. Twenty yards ahead, something is moving. Tucking up against a thick trunk, I scan the perimeter. Left, then right, working a slow arc through every shadow. No movement. No silhouettes. No glint of metal.

Pressing forward again, I keep tight to the trees. Fifteen yards north, someone is partially upright against a tree, legs stretched out in front of them. They start struggling, letting out a high-pitched grunt as they thrash.

Atlas.

It’s got to be.

I let out a breath. He’s alive.

And alone.

My brother is around here somewhere. Waiting. Don’t know if he’s armed, if his intention is to kill Atlas the moment he spots me. So, I can’t risk rushing in.

I drop lower, keeping tight to the trees. The brush is thicker past him, waist-high in places, black shapes layered over black shapes. Enough room for a man to crouch. Enough cover for a rifle barrel. A knife. Anything.

But there’s no movement, no shift of weight in the leaves.

I creep closer. Five yards. Three.

Atlas’s head jerks up when I step into view. His eyes widen for half a second before they sharpen, and he gives one hard shake of his head.

A warning.

I stop behind an oak, one hand against the bark, eyes cutting left, then right. Slow. Wider this time. Past him. Behind him. Through the low shrubs and the thin gaps between trunks.

Nothing.

Atlas makes a sound. Low. Muffled. Angry. Then another shake of his head, smaller this time.

But I cross the last few feet anyway, then crouch beside him, putting my body between him and the thickest part of the brush.

Atlas’s eyes find mine. They’re swollen, bloodshot, furious.

And alive.

A dark strip of fabric is shoved between his teeth and tied tight behind his head. A thin cut runs from his cheekbone to his jaw.