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A waiter comes by with glasses of sparkling water, and his words begin to ramble together about the chef’s soup and some fresh crab cakes, and I can physically feel her recoiling into herself. When I get anxious, anger comes out. When Atlas gets anxious, she fades away.
“Actually, we have to go.” I stand abruptly, my thighs shaking and spilling the contents of the glasses. Her big eyes shine like golden fire when she looks up at me. I grab her small hand and nod to the waiter as I drop some cash on the table behind us.
She staggers behind me, but I guide her around the tables and the watchful eyes of the other guests without hesitation. I’m a whole fucking idiot. She doesn’t want crab cakes and sparkling water. This isn’t her fucking scene.
I was born into this life of luxury. I’m used to places like this. They only serve as a stark reminder to her just how much people like me have taken from people like her.
You’d think after so many years of following her around, I’d fucking know this.
“Rowan, slow down.”
I don’t listen to her until we’re finally out of the doors of that place. She’s out of breath, tugging on my fingers, trying to pry out of my grip.
She doesn’t know that I’d rather die a slow death than let her go.
It’s madness, the way she consumes me. The way she inhabits every thought at every hour of the day. And yet I’ve caused her undo distress.
I slow my steps with considerable effort until she’s at my side.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she admonishes.
I look down at her and give in to the urge to touch her. My fingers glide down the soft flesh of her cheek, reaching to the underside of her jaw to cup her there and keep her gaze tethered to mine. “Yes, Little Bird.” My gaze heats as her tongue darts across her lips. “I did.”
“Places like that remind me of him.”
“I know,” I whisper between us. “I’m sorry.”
I thought she’d appreciate the fanciness of that joint. I’m fucking stupid for ever believing she was like that. Atlas Ortega doesn’t have a bone in her body that’s in any way similar to Ed. One would ever wonder how he even spawned someone so lovely and kind, when he’s the exact opposite of her in every fucking way possible.
I bend my head so our foreheads touch together. It’s my version of an apology, or as much of one as I can convey without turning into a simpering fucking mess. I breathe her in, obsessed with her scent, and can almost taste her on the tip of my tongue.
My cock goes hard at the proximity. Always in a perpetual state of arousal when it comes to her.
I pull away, feeling my whirling thoughts finally settle. “What would you like to eat?”
She just shrugs.
Is this a test? Or is she afraid of telling me what she prefers?
Fine then.
I take her hand once more and tug her along. We walk in silence for several blocks until we finally make it to our destination. Her shoes skid along the sidewalk as she takes in a full block of parked food trucks.
“Take your pick,” I tell her, smiling as her mouth drops open and her stomach growls.
This is more her speed.
And when she pulls me along the sidewalk, laughter trickling from her throat, I have to fight back a smile of my own.
Atlas Ortega is mine.
And I’d destroy the fucking world if only to hear her laughter.
Twenty-One
Atlas
I eat my weight in tacos and soft drinks before Rowan takes all my trash to a metal bin like he’s declaring we’re done with the food section of our date.
