Page 72 of Atlas
Chapter Fourteen
Anita
I yank open the door the second I hear his boots on the stairs.
Atlas.
My chest caves with relief. I don’t think, I just throw myself into his arms.
His warmth, his solid presence, the familiar scent of leather and smoke and something distinctlyhim . . .it all hits me at once, and I break. My arms wrap tight around his neck, and I bury my face there like I’ve done a hundred times before.
Only this time, I’m shaking.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low and steady. His arms lock around me, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. He carries me inside, kicking the door shut behind us with one heavy boot.
And then he sees it.
The mess.
My apartment is trashed. The coffee table smashed. The lamp on the floor. My bookshelf tipped, pages torn like confetti across the rug. My photo frame cracked. Kitchen drawers open,contents scattered like someone was looking for something, anything, to destroy.
Atlas stops walking, and his jaw tightens. I feel it under my cheek.
“What the fuck happened?” he asks, his voice low,dangerous.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “I told him it was over.” He stares at me like he doesn’t quite understand. “Anthony,” I clarify. “I told him I was done, that I didn’t want to see him again. He lost it, started screaming. Threw a glass at the wall. I think he was trying to scare me.”
Atlas’s grip on me shifts, tighter. Protective. His nostrils flare, and his eyes scan the damage like it’s a crime scene.
“He hurt you?” he growls.
I shake my head quickly. “No. He didn’t touch me. He just lost control. Said I’d ruined his life. That no one else would put up with me. That I was lucky to have him.” I don’t mean to tear up, but the adrenaline is crashing now, and they sting hot behind my eyes. “Then he left. I locked the door and called you. You didn’t answer.”
I feel his chest rise and fall beneath me, like he’s trying to stay calm. “I was—” He stops, jaw twitching. “I was busy.”
I pull back farther to look at him properly. His face is stormy, unreadable. “Yeah, you said,” I reply. “Club stuff, right?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m digging for more.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets me down gently, like I’m fragile now. Like I might break. “I didn’t think things were that serious between you and Anthony.”
“You didn’t ask,” I say quietly. “We don’t really talk about my life anymore.”
His eyes flick to mine, and something passes between us—old history, old hurt.
He runs a hand through his hair and turns away, pacing once before he kicks a broken chair leg aside and mutters under hisbreath. “I should’ve fucking known. Should’ve kept an eye on you.”
“I didn’t need you to watch me,” I say, softer now. “I just needed you toanswer.”
His shoulders tense, his hands flex like he’s holding back from punching something. He leans against the wall, breathing hard. And then, softer: “I was with Rue.”
Ah.
Right.
Of course he was.
“I figured,” I say, keeping my voice steady, even though my stomach twists. “She makes you happy?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just rubs a hand across his jaw like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off his skin. “She does,” he finally says. But he doesn’t sound sure.
