I push her panties aside, find her slick, ready. Her head falls back against the cabinets, lips parted, eyes gone hazy with need as she watches me. I work her slowly, savoring every reaction—the sharp inhale, the way her breath snags when I stroke her just right, the way she bites her lip like she’s trying to keep quiet and failing.

Her nails dig into my shoulders as I push a finger inside, then another, her body clenching around me, her moans turning into something wrecked.

She’s so fucking beautiful like this—laid out in front of me, undone, trusting me to take her apart piece by piece.

I lean in, mouth covering hers again, swallowing her sounds as I curl my fingers inside her, driving her higher, higher⁠—

Suddenly, I wake up in my bed. A rush of heat, a snap of awareness, a body that’s too tight, too hard, too fucking desperate beneath the sheets. For just a moment, the dream lingers—her taste, her sounds, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing in the world she needed.

I grit my teeth, pulse hammering. She’s right there, inches away, lost in sleep, tangled in my sheets, easy to reach. Too easy.

Then there it is again, the noise that woke me up. It’s not inside the dream. But here in the apartment. My breath locks, my body reacting before my mind catches up. A shift in the air. The faintest creak of wood. A scrape just outside the room.

Adrenaline spikes, a cold shot to the system.

I listen before I react because I don’t want to make any mistakes.

Again.

Fuck.

I don’t waste time.

I move silently, sliding out of bed without disturbing Blythe. My hand finds the knife I keep tucked beneath the mattress—old habits, old training, things that never really go away. I barely breathe as I cross the room, my steps soundless against the floor.

Another sound—closer this time.

The door handle.

Motherfucker.

I move fast, yanking the door open just as the intruder starts to pick the lock.

Broad shoulders. A hunched stance. Hands still on the damn handle like he owns the place.

Malerick.

He exhales hard, jerking back a step, gaze locking onto the knife in my hand. “What the fuck, Atlas?”

I don’t lower it.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t put this through your chest.”

He lifts a hand, expression flat. “I’m your brother?” Like that’s supposed to mean something. Like that’s supposed to get him out of this. “You should relax, man.”

Relax?