Page 107 of Atlas
Fear. Love. Guilt.
I stumble into a small clearing and freeze.
Atlas lies on the ground.Unmoving.
A brutal gash bleeds down his temple, his leather cut torn at the shoulder. His arms are spread wide, like he fell mid-fight and stayed down.
“No,” I whisper, the word barely audible as I rush to him.
I drop to my knees beside him, hands trembling as I press my fingers to his throat.Come on, come on, come on.There,a pulse.Weak,but it’s there.
“Atlas,” I breathe, leaning over him. “Hey . . . hey, open your eyes.” My fingers cup his jaw, trying to steady him, to wake him, to do something. But he doesn’t move. “Shit.” My eyes sting. “What the hell happened to you?”
Tom crashes through the clearing seconds later, cursing when he sees him. “Christ,” he mutters, crouching beside me. “We need to get him out of here. Now.”
“I don’t want to move him, what if he has a neck injury?”
Tom exhales, scanning the trees. “Then we hold tight and keep him stable.”
I nod, brushing the blood from Atlas’s temple with my sleeve. My chest aches just looking at him. So strong, so proud, now broken and unconscious in the dirt.
I reach for my phone with a shaking hand, hitting redial. “Axel,” I say the second he answers, “he’s down. He’s unconscious but breathing. We’re in the clearing behind the ridge, about fifty metres from the bike.”
“We’re almost there,” he says. “Hold tight, and keep your eyes open.”
I end the call and stare down at Atlas, biting hard on my bottom lip.
Tom puts a hand on my back again, grounding me. But I can’t look away from Atlas.
“Just hang on,” I whisper, pressing my forehead gently to his for a second. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this.”
Chapter Twenty
Rue
The world blurs past in shadow and steel.
I don’t know how long we’ve been driving. My wrists ache from the cable ties cutting into my skin. There’s a sack over my head, thick and scratchy, muffling every sound but the growl of the engine and the low, clipped voices of the men who took me.
My heart pounds hard enough I can feel it in my ears. I tried to scream once, back on the trail, but one of them slammed a fist into my ribs and told me if I did it again, they’d hurt Atlas more.
More. That shut me up.
Atlas.Please let him be alive.
The van slows. Gravel crunches beneath the tyres. A heavy gate groans open, then slams shut behind us. My lungs tighten.
A door slides open, and someone grabs me roughly by the arm, yanking me out. My feet scramble for the ground as they drag me forward, disoriented, shaking.
The sack is ripped from my head.
I blink hard against the sudden glare of fluorescent light. We’re inside some kind of warehouse. Concrete floors, high ceilings, and the air smells like oil and stale sweat.
I don’t recognise any of the men.
But then, standing at the far end of the room, beside a battered leather chair and a small table holding a crystal glass, is a man I’ve only ever seen in a picture.
Damien.
