Page 71 of Atlas

“Why?” I whimper, trying to appear helpless while all the while my brain is racing, calculating distance. I’d have to knock the gun down first. I can’t hit Phil when he’s pointing it right at Atlas. I could never take that chance.

“Because you both need to be punished for stealing my money. You were naïve and blind and so incredibly stupid to come out here alone. Trust makes you ignorant. Love makes you weak. Pathetic.” I’m frozen and Phil waves his hand. “Go on then. His neck first. Then his ear. If he hasn’t decided to tell me where my money really is by then, or where my fucking wife has gone, then press it to his cheek. If that’s not enough encouragement, take his eyes.”

The tiniest flicker of movement behind Phil catches my attention. Agatha is slowly rising up, getting to her feet. Phil isn’t bothered about her in the least. He’s forgotten her. He’s so fucking jazzed about this torture session that’s about to go down that all his attention is dialed right in on us.

I tear my eyes away and focus on the poker while Agatha creeps past the couch, heading straight for the end table where a large, heavy-looking faux Roman bust stands proudly.

I sure as fuck hope that thing isn’t made of plastic.

“Now!” Phil yells, a cloud of spittle erupting in front of his face again.

I let out a shuddering breath and approach Atlas. His eyes stay on me the whole time, but I know that he must have seen Agatha going for that bust as well.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper, raising the poker.

He tips his head back, giving me clear access to the side of his neck. “It’ll be okay. Just do it. It’syou, and I’ll proudly take any amount of pain for you. I’ll wear your brand with honor. I love you.”

Phil watches on, lips parted wetly, his breathing now something close to a frothing dog. This guy has something majorly wrong with him. He’s going to watch me cook someone’s skin off their body and the only thing I see on his face is anticipation and glee.

“Please forgive me,” I beg before pressing the hot poker to the side of Atlas’ neck.

Oh god, oh fucking god, I’m going to die. I’m going to be sick.

He yells,loudly. So loud that Phil doesn’t hear Agatha move behind him. He doesn’t sense her raise the heavy bust above her head, her arms trembling with the effort. As her arms start the downward motion, I rip the poker from Atlas’ neck. The smell of his burnt skin is thick in the air, churning my stomach dangerously. That doesn’t matter. I hold it together so that when the bust makes contact with the back of Phil’s skull, I swing the poker straight into his hand, knocking the gun away. It clatters to the floor, but doesn’t go off.

I’m prepared to hit him again to incapacitate him, but he crumples, falling to the side, eyes shut.

I lunge for the gun, put the safety back on, and train it on Phil while Agatha hurriedly checks to make sure he’s still breathing.

She just had to knock her own son unconscious. She loves him. She always will. She’s his mother. She sags into herself as soon as she has evidence that he’s alive.

“Lordy,” Agatha sighs, more herself now that she has been since the second she stepped out of the house. “Wasn’t that something? Thank the stars that every single time someone gets knocked out in a book or a movie it’s with a statue, a lamp, or a frying pan.”

I’m still holding the damn poker.

I toss it aside and run to Atlas. The need to touch him is overwhelming, but my eyes zero straight in on the raised red welt blistered on his neck.

I did that.

I hurt him.

I know I didn’t have a choice, but I’m never going to stop thinking about this. The guilt will thread through me and become one with my sinew and bones.

He sees. He knows. “Don’t worry about me. Go and find a knife to cut these ropes. We don’t know when that asshat is going to wake up.”

I was so worried about him that I didn’t even think about the danger we’re all still in.

“In the kitchen,” Agatha whispers as I rush past. She’s still kneeling right beside Phil. My heart truly goes out to her. I can’t imagine how she’s feeling right now. She has one kid, and this is what he turns into?

I find the knife block on the kitchen counter, pull out the largest knife, and test the edge with my finger. Satisfied that it’s sharp enough, I carefully carry it back. The ropes are so tight around Atlas’ arms that I don’t even try to cut there. I’d probably just hurt him, and I’ve already done enough of that. I attack the knots, sawing through them. When they give, the whole set of ropes falls away.

“Here.” Agatha tosses me a key. “I found that in his pocket.”

I slip it into the cuffs and pop them open. They’ve done a number on Atlas’ wrists already, chaffing the skin away, but he doesn’t even notice. He picks Phil off the floor like the guy weighs nothing, and positions him in the chair he was just sitting in. He cuffs his wrists and takes up the rope, wrapping it all around Phil’s chest, neck, and shoulders. If Phil so much as struggles, he’ll probably strangle himself, but I don’t blame Atlas. The extra caution is a must.

“This is inadequate, but I found a few things. Some antibacterial ointment and a bandage.” Agatha’s whisper thin, ultra soft fingers brush over my hand as she passes me the supplies, but Atlas shakes his head.

“Do you have a phone? I can get care later. I’ll even go to Archer’s clinic if I have to.” Archer’s a plastic surgeon by trade. He runs a secret clinic in the basement of his real business that’s reserved strictly for club members.

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