Page 8 of Atlas Uncharted

I walked down a long hallway and found Atlas lying in bed, barely half-asleep, his hair a mess, his skin flushed, his shirt damp.

I set my bag down, crossing the room in a few steps. “Atlas?”

He barely stirred, mumbling something I couldn’t understand.

I sighed, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. Burning up.

Shit.

I sat on the edge of the bed, nudging his shoulder gently. “Atlas. When was the last time you drank water?”

His eyes fluttered open, a slow, dazed glance in my direction.

“…Kairi?” His voice was hoarse to the point it sounded scratchy.

I nodded. “Yeah. Ashlen told me you were sick and asked me to come. I stopped by Walgreens.”

Something flickered in his expression. He turned his face away. “Where is she?”

I swallowed. “Her parents needed her,” I lied, repeating what Ashlen had told me.

He sighed. “Yeah, sure.”

I ignored the sudden heaviness in the air and stood up. “You need to drink and eat something.”

“I don’t want it,” he whined like a big-ass child.

I narrowed my eyes. “Shut up. You’re going to drink it and eat whatever I give you. In this state, I could make you.”

A slow, fever-lazy smirk curled his lips. “Whatever you say, baby.”

My heart did a little flutter. I ignored it.

I left the room after grabbing the Walgreens bag, pulling out the orange juice and canned soup I’d bought. By the time I returned with heated soup, ice water, and orange juice, he was sitting up. He watched me enter the room, his green eyes half-lidded, hazy.

I set the tray I was carrying down and sat beside him, spooning up some soup. “Eat,” I instructed.

He obeyed, barely swallowing before I brought the spoon up again. Once the bowl was empty, I grabbed the orange juice and handed it to him. “Drink all of it.”

He huffed but did as he was told. I could see life coming back into him.

“Good,” I said, standing up. “Now get up and take a shower while I change your sheets.”

He groaned. “Can’t I just sleep?”

“No, you stink, and the shower will help bring your fever down.”

He let out a raspy chuckle but slowly pushed himself up, swaying a little as he got to his feet. I went about stripping the bed. I found clean sheets and a comforter behind one of the many closet doors that lined his hallway.

Ten minutes later, I was fluffing a pillow when the bathroom door swung open—and Atlas stepped out, buck-ass naked.

For a second, I forgot to move. I didn’t breathe.

He was built so fucking well—all lean muscle and broad shoulders, his skin covered in tats of demons and skulls and women on motorcycles. His damp strands of red hair curled at the ends, giving him this TV surfer look. My gaze flicked down before I could stop myself.

Oh.

Wow.

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