Page 116 of Atlas
Her mouth parts like she wants to say something, but no sound comes.
I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
“Rue . . .” Her name falls from my lips like a prayer.
And then the sound of a choked sob leaves her throat as she stumbles towards me, throwing herself against me. I wrap her in my arms, ignoring the pain in my body as she wraps her legs around me and holds me tight. “You came,” she sobs into my neck.
“I told you I would,” I reply, my voice breaking with emotion.
The door slams behind us, and I hear heavy boots stomp in.
“Jesus Christ, Atlas,” Grizz growls. “Tom said not to leave avisiblemark.”
I glance down at the bloodied mess that is Damien, sprawled across the concrete. “Didn’t hear that part,” I lie flatly, still holding Rue like I’ll never let her go again.
Grizz exhales a long breath, muttering something under it, but he doesn’t push.
Rue lifts her head, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “Take me home,” she whispers.
I nod, already moving towards the door, cradling her like she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever touched.
“To the club,” she adds, softer now, and it guts me.
That one small word—home—it tells me everything. Even after all of this, she still wants to be with me.
Rue stirs, mumbling something in her sleep, and I’m on my feet before I even realise I’ve moved. Pain lances through my ribs. Broken or bruised, I don’t know. I didn’t stay long enough at the hospital to hear the verdict.
She comes first.Always.
She blinks up at me from the bed, her eyes still puffy, her voice barely audible. “What time is it?”
“Early,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”
She tries to sit up, but I place a hand gently on her shoulder, easing her back down.
“Don’t even think about getting up.”
“I need to pee,” she whispers, voice raspy.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Okay, fine. Bathroom and then straight back. Doctor’s orders.”
“Doctor or biker?” she mumbles with a tired smile.
I grin despite myself. “Same thing.”
I help her to the en-suite, staying outside the door but ready if she needs me. Every movement she makes feels like a stab to the gut, not from pain, though I’ve got plenty of that, but from helplessness. From knowing I couldn’t stop what happened.
When she’s back in bed, I settle the blanket around her and perch on the edge of the mattress, watching her eyes flutter as sleep tries to claim her again.
“You don’t have to hover,” she says softly, eyes closed.
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m okay now.”
“No, you’re not.” I smooth my thumb over the purple bruise on her cheek. “And that’s okay too.”
She goes quiet, and I think she’s drifted off again, but then she whispers, “You didn’t rest either.”
