Page 31 of Atlas and the Traitor

Fuck.

He shot out a hand for his phone again, but before he fired off theWhere the fuck are you?text, the lock on the back door disengaged.

He told the magic inside him to quiet, to disguise his presence from any foe who might enter. Only friendlies should know the code, but he knew enough hackers to accept that an electronic lock wasn’t one hundred percent secure. He slid off the chaise into a crouch, prepared to shift if a foe walked through the door, but then coffee and spring tickled his nose and thewhowas no longer a question.

Whether to shift, however... Robin was tempted to let the coyote out just so he could roar in Atlas’s face for fucking leaving. He was tempted to do something else entirely, though, when the infuriating fucker appeared at the opening to the tasting room, two coffees in hand, with Robin’s favorite flannel tied around his waist.

Robin growled as he straightened, no part of it anger, all of it hunger for the sexy blond—his mate—wearing his clothes.

Atlas strolled casually across the room, seemingly oblivious to the fact he’d caused Robin a coronary one second and a boner the next, to the fact his high and tight ass wrapped in plaid was Robin’s new favorite target. He set one cup down on the table and sipped from the other, the heat from the drink giving his pale cheeks a lovely blush. “Did you run back here the past two mornings to get us coffee?”

Busted. “How’d you find the place?”

“Followed my nose.”

Robin’s nose was leading him straight to Atlas’s side. He tugged at the knotted sleeves holding the flannel around Atlas’s hips. “This works. I like my idea.”

“I can tell,” Atlas said with a flick of his gaze to where Robin’s erection was poking his hip. “But we don’t have time for that.”

Robin begged to differ. He slipped a hand beneath the flannel to fondle Atlas’s gloriously bare balls. Turned out the warlock obeyed some orders. “Do you remember?—”

“Yes, I fucking remember,” he snapped in that haughty tone that pissed Robin the hell off ninety-nine percent of the time. But that other one percent, when Robin had his hands on him, it turned him the fuck on. “I would love nothing more than to bend over this table and let you shove that fat cock inside me again, but we have to go.”

Robin huffed and withdrew his hand.

“Don’t pout,” Atlas said. “It’s unattractive.” The smile turning up the corners of his lips said otherwise.

“Liar.”

Atlas didn’t argue, dodging instead as he strolled with his cup to the chaise and toed the duffel on the floor there. “Get dressed.”

He’d rather drink is coffee first. “Where are we going?” he asked between sips of his favorite brew from the only shop left in the Lost Valley.

“Talahalusi. I already called her. She’s bringing everyone in.”

Whatever Atlas wanted to discuss with the team had to be serious, if he was the one who’d reached out. Maybe what had happened between them last night, what Robin had said about running, had sunk in—for both of them. Robin drained his coffee and tossed the empty cup behind the bar. “What’s going on?”

“I know how to find my brother.”

“How’s that?”

“After that stunt of yours at The Corners yesterday, he knows I’m yours.” Tossing his own empty the same direction as Robin’s, Atlas closed the distance between them, their breaths mingling as they stood chest to chest, nose to nose. “Now we have to remind him you’re also a traitor.”

Twenty-Three

Jenn propped herself against the cellar wall beside him. “He’s wearing your shirt as a kilt.”

And Atlas looked damn good doing so. Robin had offered to stop by his condo or to ride along on a snap to wherever else he kept a stockpile of tartans, but the warlock had refused. Robin wasn’t mad about it. “I know.”

His cousin lowered her voice. “You fucked him.”

One corner of his mouth crept up. “I know.”

Lower still. “He’s the fucking enemy.”

The other corner of his lips tried to tip up, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stop it. “I know.”

She whipped her gaze to him, strands of honey blond hair escaping her ponytail. “Would you stop?—”

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