Page 26 of Atlas and the Traitor

Under Robin, the bobcat rolled onto his back and presented his belly, and in the space of a breath, Robin shifted back into human form. He didn’t release the cat, though, continuing to hold him down by the neck. Atlas had never heard his voice so menacing as when he leaned down and whispered in Lucy’s husband’s ear, “Tell whomever you’re working for, whomever needs to hear it, that he’s mine.”

Heat raced down Atlas’s spine and fast on its heels was dread, chilling him to his core. So much for only a little.

Robin stalked past him without so much as a look or a word, and Atlas, figuring he needed a minute to cool off, kneeled beside Lucy’s husband instead. He spoke as gently as the war of emotions climbing up his throat would allow. “Get Lucy and take her back to her people. Stay there. Do you understand?”

The cat nodded with a whimper.

Straightening, Atlas followed Robin’s scent around to the front of the van.

Naked in the midday sun was not a bad look on him. Atlas opened his mouth to make a snide comment to the contrary, or snipe about Robin being late, anything to build up the wall of hate he was desperately clinging to, but Robin beat him to it, hand raised and eyes burning gold. “Not a fucking word.” He grabbed hold of Atlas’s arm. “You know the distillery tasting room in YB we use as a base?”

Of course he did. He nodded, not saying a word, keeping to the volatile shifter’s directive.

Robin tightened his grip, hard enough to bruise. “Take us there. Now.”

Nineteen

Atlas stood in the alley behind the seemingly shuttered tasting room, admiring Robin’s bare ass, his firm round cheeks dusted with fine blond hairs that were afire with the midday sun. Atlas looked his fill while Robin unlocked the door, gawking far easier than dealing with what had just happened, what Robin had just said to Lucy’s husband.

Mine.

Robin’s muscles bunched as he pushed open the metal door and stepped inside. Then let the heavy thing swing right back in Atlas’s face. “Hey!” Atlas protested, using both hands to stop the steel weight. Barely.

“Watch the door,” Robin called back. “It’s heavy.”

“No fucking shit.” Heaving the door open enough to slip inside, he cringed as the metal scraped across the floor again on its way to closed. Keeping their presence quiet from anyone in the building’s other units would be impossible, though from the outside, those other units had looked as deserted as this one. When he turned around, Robin was gone, but his steps and heartbeats echoed from the front of the boarded-up shop. Orb lighting his way, Atlas followed the sounds, distracting himself by peeking into rooms—an office, a bathroom—and taking stock of the crates—weapons, first aid supplies, electronics—and barrels—whiskey, as far as he could smell—that crowded the narrow hall. Before he reached the end, he nearly collided with Robin who, with jeans and a flannel in hand, careened around the corner without so much as anexcuse me.

“Since when are you not just gonna prance around naked?” Atlas called after his fleeing backside.

And got no reply, Robin ducking into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. When running water started a moment later, Atlas let the angry coyote be and ambled into the main tasting room instead. There was enough light sneaking in around the edges of the boarded-up windows that he didn’t need his magic to get a good look at the place. There was a bar off to the right, nothing on the backbar shelves, only a smattering of bottles and glasses on the bar itself. Several square tables were pushed together along another wall, a tangle of cords beneath them, a tech setup for whomever needed it. There were several other chairs around the room, another table he tossed his suit jacket onto, and on the far wall, in the shadows, a chaise. On the floor beside it, denim and flannel spilled out of an open duffel.

Had Robin been staying here at some point? Was this a pit stop on the way to Monte Corvo so he could pick up his things?

Atlas was tempted to go poking through the bag, but as the bathroom toilet flushed, he abandoned that one-way ticket to an even angrier coyote and diverted to the bar instead. Turning over two clean glasses, he filled them with the vodka he found in the underbar fridge and held out a glass to Robin when he returned.

“Why didn’t we just go to Monte Corvo?” he asked. A direct question he wanted the answer to and an indirect one to extract a possible explanation for his other observations.

Robin threw back the shot, slammed the glass on the bar, then stepped closer, trapping Atlas between the bar and the barstool behind him. “We didn’t go to the mountain yet because I haven’t decided whether I need to kill you and dump your body in the Canyon Lands.”

Atlas raised a hand, but Robin beat him to the snap, threading his thick fingers between his and pining his hand to the bar. Atlas dropped the glass in his other one, but Robin didn’t take the shattering bait. Grabbing that hand too, he twisted it up between them, fingers shoved between his, and splaying their joined hands over his chest. “Eh, eh, eh,” Robin chided. “See, I can’t decide if you’re more dangerous to the cause or the whole fucking key to it, and that’s the fucking rub.”

He’d known Robin was pissed after The Corners. He’d torn that van apart, torn Duncan apart, and would have done the same to Lucy’s husband if Atlas hadn’t stopped him. Maybe he shouldn’t have, given where the convo had gone.

Mine.

Atlas had one distraction left. He rolled his hips, his own cock half hard from the proximity, Robin’s semi likewise poking Atlas’s hip. “Is that the only rub?”

“We’re not doing that right now,” Robin gritted out.

“Oh, so now this is only on your terms?”

“Be fucking serious.” Robin squeezed his fingers. “Why did you leave?” The danger and desperation in his tone warranted an answer.

Atlas gave him the bare minimum. “I got a tip.”

“But you didn’t tell me?”

“I sent you a text!”

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