Malerick nods to himself, already running through the next steps in his head. “I’ll make sure his case doesn’t hold weight here. If Winston tries to pull local law into this, I’ll bury it in red tape.”

“Good,” Finnegan says, his tone sharp. “Because the last thing we need is some fucking Miami executive bringing heat down on us. We already have enough problems.”

Malerick stills.

Because of that?

That’s the real game, isn’t it?

Derek’s voice is quieter but no less serious. “And Mal? Keep an eye on Atlas. He’s got instincts, but he’s rusty. If he doesn’t play this right, he’s going to get himself and her killed.”

Malerick lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Don’t I fucking know it.”

The call ends.

Malerick sets his phone down, staring at the screen. Wait, did they say Atlas is rusty? What the fuck does that mean?

Chapter Thirty

Henrietta (Blythe)

I wake slowly, warmth wrapping me in a way that feels familiar when it shouldn’t. It takes a moment to register why—Atlas. And this time, there’s no space between us. No wall of pillows. No careful distance. Just him, his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

I don’t know how it happened. We went to bed the same as always, so how did we end up like this?

This isn’t normal. It should jolt me awake, send me scrambling for distance. But I don’t move. Sleep still clings to me, stretching the moment, softening the edges of reality. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel safe with someone beside me.

The thought sinks deep into places I don’t usually allow myself to go.

Then, piece by piece, last night comes back.

The kiss.

The way his hands gripped me like he wasn’t willing to let go.

The way I melted into it, into him.

The way neither of us hesitated.

We said we didn’t regret it.

But now, wrapped up in him, the question circles back.

Is it too soon to . . . to what?

To let myself want this? To reach for something I’m not sure I can keep? To believe, even for a second, that this feeling—this safety—won’t be ripped away the moment I start to trust it?

My fingers twitch against the sheets, but I don’t pull away. Not yet.

Atlas shifts behind me, his inhale slow and deep, pressing warm against my back. His arm tightens just slightly, fingers grazing over my stomach before stilling. A second later, his breathing evens again.

I let myself have this moment.

Just a little longer.

Then, carefully, I slip out from under his arm. He doesn’t wake, but he stirs, exhaling low—like even in sleep, he knows something is different.