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Atlas squares up, ready to go full wrecking ball. “Get in line.”
It’s not my first rodeo with Atlas.
I’ve been dealing with the bull since I could crawl and gotten the horns in my cheeks more than once because I opened my mouth.
That’s how it works.
Tell him he’s being a dick, get barked into submission.
I always let it go, because Atlas is a good general.
He’s the one who takes the fall for our fuck-ups, fights for our interests with the dads, and stays up late, planning and back-up planning, making sure we come back from every insane mission alive.
He’s pulled me out of hell.
But I can’t keep watching him stumble.
Atlas glares, nostrils flaring like I waved a red flag, but instead of rage, frustration, fear, our bond only sends me muted noise.
Jett’s self-hatred, Finn’s emptiness, and Orion’s inadequacy.
What should be crazy powerful emotions are dull bursts of static.
Our bond is that weak.
Years of not talking, not fixing problems, letting things fucking go because we had missions and enemies and more important shit to worry about.
“Hunter. We can talk, but not now. We’re taking Lilah. Now move.” Atlas throws the dominance hammer, ready to maintain the status quo forever.
But the second he barks, there’s a ripping, tearing, hell-no resistance in my chest, because I know his plan is going to make Lilah hate us even worse.
We all spilled this bucket of shit.
The dads. My brothers.
Group fucking effort.
But I’m the only one who knows how to mop, and...
Just fuck.
Fuck me and fuck them, because I see only one way to make things better, and that means making them hella worse.
This pack isn’t a remodel.
It’s a tear-down.
So, I fight Atlas’s command, refusing to click my heels and play soldier boy.
“We’re taking—”
“No.”
Atlas rears. He hasn’t heard my full bark in years.
“Submit.” His will pounds my temples.
“No.” My knees wobble, my vision wavers, and I taste iron filings in my throat, but I cannot submit to his well-meaning but deluded bullshit.
