Page 98 of Crown of Lies

His brow furrows, a small frown tugging at his lips. Belatedly, I realize how my words might have sounded—as if I’m implying he doesn’t trust me, that he’s only here to keep tabs on me.

I immediately regret my words as I see his expression change. The easy comfort we’ve built up over the past few hours seems to evaporate, leaving an awkward tension instead. It’s like I can’t help but sabotage myself, pushing away the very thing I want most.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly, sitting up straighter in the tub. Water sloshes around me as I lean forward, trying to catch his eye. “I… I don’t know why I said that.”

He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a moment, he’s silent, and I can almost see the internal debate playing out on his face. Finally, he looks up, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“It wasn’t just about making sure you wouldn’t try to leave,” he admits, his voice low and rough. “I mean, yeah, that was part of it at first. But…” He trails off and shakes his head again.

I wait, hardly daring to breathe. Atlas might not be as guarded as Killian, but he’s still hard to read sometimes. A few more seconds pass as I watch him struggle with his words. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken emotions.

“What other reason?” I prompt gently, keeping my voice barely above a whisper.

He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. “Part of me just wanted to be near you. Even when I was supposed to hate you.”

His words hit me like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I have to swallow hard to speak past it.

“Come here,” I say, gesturing for him to move closer.

He hesitates for a moment before approaching the tub. He kneels beside it, his eyes never leaving mine. I lean over slightly, resting my forearms on the edge of the tub. The bathroom is quiet, save for the occasional drip from the faucet and our soft breathing. In this intimate space, it feels easier to be vulnerable, to say the things we’ve both been holding back.

Holding his gaze, I ask, “Do you think it’s possible to come back from all of this? From the things we all did to each other? The lies, the spying, me burning the clubhouse…”

Atlas sighs, his eyes distant as he considers my question. For a moment, I think he might not answer, but then he finally begins to speak.

“I’ve been living like this for so long,” he says, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond me. “It’s hard to imagine stopping, to care enough about someone to even consider building something real.”

He pauses, and I wait, sensing there’s more he wants to say. Finally, he meets my eyes again.

“You asked if it’s possible to come back from all this. I don’t know. But maybe… maybe we can move forward instead.”

There’s a vulnerability in his expression that I’ve never seen before, and it makes my heart ache. I reach out, gently taking his hand in mine, encouraging him to continue.

“I never told you about my dad,” he says. “He was part of a motorcycle gang in Chicago. Tough guy, always in and out of trouble, but he was my hero, you know?”

I nod, squeezing his hand gently.

“I was just a kid when my old man died. Fourteen years old, watching him bleed out in some dirty alley because of a stupid fight with another member of our club. The Rebel Saints, they called themselves.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Not much saintly about them though.”

I lean closer, the water sloshing around me forgotten as I focus entirely on Atlas’s words.

“After that, I couldn’t stay in Chicago. Ended up in Detroit, bouncing between gangs, never really fitting in anywhere. I was good at what I did—enforcing, protecting—but it was just a job. Never felt like family.”

His eyes meet mine, a spark of something—hope, maybe—flickering in their depths. “Then I met Killian and Nico. It was different with them, you know? We clicked right away. For the first time since my dad died, I felt like I belonged somewhere.”

He pauses, his thumb absently tracing circles on the back of my hand. “That’s why loyalty means so much to me. I’ve seen what happens when people turn on each other, when petty bullshit tears a club apart. I swore I’d never let that happen again. Not to me, not to my brothers.”

I listen intently as he opens up, feeling the weight of his words. His vulnerability touches something deep inside me, and I find myself wanting to comfort him, to bridge the gap between us.

“Atlas,” I say softly, “I’m so sorry about your dad. That must have been awful.”

He nods, his grip on my hand tightening slightly. “It was. But it made me who I am today.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the gentle lapping of the bathwater the only sound in the room. I wait until he’s ready to continue, without pushing or prompting him this time.

“When I was ready,” he begins again, his voice low and intense, “Killian and Nico went with me back to Chicago. They helped me get revenge for my father’s death.”

I feel my eyes widen, but I don’t interrupt. This is clearly important for him to share.

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