Page 66 of Princes of Carnage

“The stuff you wrote was pretty good,” he says at one point, and I flush as I realize he actually read the fanfic I wrote, or at least some of it. He drapes one muscled, tattooed arm along the back of the couch, leaning against the cushions. “Although if I was going to create an alternate storyline for Luther, I would’ve shipped him with Danica.”

I make a face. “Yeah, you and every thirteen-year-old girl who believes in soulmates and true love.”

“Come on. They were meant to be together.”

A new movie is playing by now, and the light from the television flickers off Atlas’s amber and brown eyes, making his irises look like dancing flames. He looks comfortable and languid, his body language more open and relaxed than I’ve ever seen it.

His attention is focused on me, neither of us paying any attention to the television, and I brace my elbow against the back of the couch, resting my chin on my fist.

“Luther and Danica? You know they never would’ve worked out,” I insist, grinning.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Bullshit.”

“Oh, really? Prove it.”

I lean a little closer to him as we get into a heated debate about the two characters’ arcs and storylines, and the almost-romance that developed between them in the graphic novels. I’m honestly surprised Atlas is such a romantic at heart, but despite the arguments he lays out, I’m still not convinced that Luther and Danica could have ended up together.

“Nah.” I shake my head with a chuckle. “Nice try, but I still say it would’ve been impossible. There were too many obstacles built up against them.”

At my words, something shifts in Atlas’s expression. The easy smile that’s been hovering on his lips for the past several minutes slips away, his features hardening again. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he doesn’t say anything for a long beat.

Then he mutters, “Yeah. You’re probably right. There are too many obstacles.”

He stands suddenly, rising from the couch and turning off the TV. The room darkens, and as he strides around the couch and heads for the stairs, I blink at him, taken aback by the sharp change in his demeanor.

“Atlas, what—”

“Put your bowl in the dishwasher before you go back to sleep,” he says coolly. “I’m not planning on making a habit out of cleaning up your messes.”

Then he disappears up the stairs.

I stare after him for a long moment, a feeling of cold creeping over my skin as the loneliness that lessened for a little while comes surging back. We may have bonded over some stupid graphic novel we both used to read, an unexpected point of commonality with this man who’s always been my enemy, but clearly, that doesn’t change anything.

Shoving down the strange feeling of disappointment that rises in my chest, I shake my head and grab my bowl, carrying it to the sink. I’m half tempted to leave the dirty dish out on the counter just to fuck with Atlas, but I don’t think it would give me the same sense of satisfaction it did when I made him wait forever while I cleaned up my work station at the tattoo parlor or called his bluff by stripping down in the dressing room.

So instead, I shove the bowl into the dishwasher and then pad quietly back upstairs.

Inside my room, Nico is still sprawled out on the bed, his naked, tattooed body taking up a good portion of the mattress. I chew on my bottom lip, worrying it between my teeth as I stare down at him.

Part of me wants to shake him awake and tell him to get the fuck back to his own room. That would probably be the smart thing to do. It would help keep the lines between us from getting any blurrier than they already are, and it would give me back the upper hand in the constantly shifting landscape between us.

But for some reason—maybe because of that empty feeling that crept through my chest when Atlas left me alone in the living room—I don’t.

Instead, I shuck off my clothes and crawl back into bed beside Nico, tugging the covers up over both of us.

And when he rolls over in his sleep, one strong arm wrapping around my waist to pull me closer against his solid, warm body… I don’t stop him.

22

QUINN

I’m jerked out of a sound sleep sometime later by the sound of someone banging on the door like they’re trying to break it down.

I bolt upright, groggy and a little disoriented. Gray light is coming in through the window, letting me know that it’s morning—but just barely.

The banging on the door pauses and then starts up again, and that wakes Nico up too.

“What the fuck?” he mumbles under his breath, but then I watch his eyes clear as he barks, “What?”

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