Page 65 of Princes of Carnage

I blink, clearing my throat. After basically fleeing the kitchen earlier, I wasn’t prepared to come face to face with Atlas again tonight. I figured everyone would be asleep by now, and I’d have until morning before I would have to deal with seeing him again.

“I used to read it all the time when I was younger,” I say stiffly, jerking my chin toward the row of graphic novels on the bookshelf. “My dad got me hooked on it.”

Atlas nods. Silence falls between us for a moment, and I can feel tension thickening the air again like it did in the kitchen. I know he probably heard me and Nico upstairs, just like he did the first time we fucked, and I cross my arms over my chest as I silently pray that the part where I accidentally moaned his name out loud was too low for him to pick up.

Does he have any idea what Nico said to me in response? Did he hear that part?

Heat creeps up my cheeks at the memory of Nico offering to call Atlas upstairs to join us.

Have they done that before? Shared women between them?

The warmth creeping through me burns hotter, spreading like wildfire, and I startle in surprise as my stomach growls again. I wrench my gaze away from Atlas’s and start to move toward the kitchen.

“I cleaned up the pan with the burnt vegetables,” he says, stopping me in my tracks. When I turn to look at him over my shoulder, he adds, “Since I got the impression you weren’t coming back down anytime soon. Seemed like you were… a little busy.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to leave it like that, I just—” I break off, because I can’t seem to come up with a single good way to end that sentence. “I’ll just have leftover pizza.”

He shakes his head. “I cooked new vegetables and finished cooking the pasta. It’s all in a container in the fridge.”

That takes me aback. At first, I figure he must mean that he cooked it for himself and put some leftovers in the fridge—but he was already eating dinner when I started to make mine, so that wouldn’t really make sense. Which means… he cooked it for me.

Which makes even less sense.

“Um, okay.” I nod, unsure how to respond. “Thanks.”

I turn away from him again and stride into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door. Just like Atlas said, there’s a full Tupperware container of pasta and vegetables, and when I open it up and scoop some into a bowl, the smell of onion and several spices hits my nose.

I cross my arms as I heat up the pasta, drumming my fingers against my bicep until the microwave beeps.

As I pull out the bowl, I glance around. I’m tempted to just sit in the darkened kitchen to wolf down the food, but that would feel too much like hiding—and I hate hiding, especially in my own damn house. So I grab a fork and head back out into the living room.

Atlas is still there, and he watches as I sit on the couch with my legs tucked under me. My nipples harden a little in awareness of his gaze on me, my skin prickling slightly. I know that, once again, I smell and look like sex, but I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that, even though we’re both clearly aware of it.

I dig into the pasta, which is surprisingly delicious, watching the movie and trying to figure out what it’s about as Atlas peruses my bookshelves for another couple of minutes. Then he walks over and settles on the couch as well, sitting at the opposite end from me.

“I used to love Twilight City Chronicles,” he says, gazing ahead at the TV.

I slant him a sideways glance, my brows shooting upward. “Wow. Really? I didn’t know motorcycle gang enforcers could also be nerds.”

I can only see the profile of his face, but one side of his mouth twitches like he’s trying to cover up a grin. He snorts. “You’re one to talk. I just read it. I didn’t write fanfic about it.”

My jaw drops, embarrassment shooting through me. Fuck, is that still on the bookshelf?

I wrote it and illustrated it when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, so enamored with the characters from my favorite noir dystopian graphic novel series that I wanted to add to their story. I tried to throw the fanfic out several years ago, but my dad—ever the proud father—refused to let me, calling it a work of art.

Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it since then, but Atlas must’ve found it on the shelf next to the collection of graphic novels I’ve had for years.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. “You Princes are all so goddamn nosy.”

He shrugs, making a noise under his breath. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea to live here, vicious. I’m just trying to make the most of it and get this shit over with as soon as possible.” He goes silent for a moment, then smirks as he adds, “And I didn’t know gang leaders could be nerds either.”

That makes me laugh before I can stop myself, and I take another bite of pasta, a little thrown off by the fact that I’m actually enjoying Atlas’s company.

The awkwardness from earlier and the loaded tension from the kitchen both seem to fade away a little as we spend the next several minutes discussing our favorite issues and theories about the graphic novel. I was half-convinced that Atlas was kidding about being a fan of the books, but it quickly becomes apparent that he wasn’t. He knows obscure little details about the saga’s lore and storyline, and as we get into a lengthy debate about a particular plot point, I set my empty bowl down on the coffee table and turn on the couch to face him more fully.

It’s strange, being able to actually relate to Atlas like this. It’s not something I ever would’ve expected, but it feels… nice.

It makes some of the loneliness that’s been eating away at the edges of my soul since my dad died start to ebb away.

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