Malerick stands on the other side, this time in uniform.

Atlas doesn’t step aside. Doesn’t invite him in. Just leans against the frame, crossing his arms. “What now?”

Malerick exhales, hands braced on his hips. “We need to talk.”

Atlas flicks a glance over his shoulder, unreadable. “Not now,” he says, glancing at me.

Malerick’s gaze shifts—to me. “But we do.”

Something changes.

It’s small. Subtle. But I feel it, like a crack in the air.

Atlas moves—just slightly—stepping in front of me, his voice dipping low. “Mal.”

Malerick drags a hand down his face. “Does she even know?”

Does she know what?

I want to say, “Are you talking about me?” But I can’t. The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I can’t seem to force them past my lips. My fingers tighten around the mug, unease creeping under my skin like something alive.

Atlas doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

Malerick exhales, his voice quieter now. “She deserves to know, Atlas. You can’t keep her in the dark.”

The world slows.

Carefully, I set my tea down. My hands suddenly don’t feel strong enough to hold it. “Know what?”

Atlas’s jaw tightens, something flashing through his eyes. He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps his focus locked on his brother.

Malerick meets my gaze then. And the look he gives me says everything before he even speaks, “I received a missing persons report from Florida.”

My breath stops, but Malerick isn’t finished.

“They’re looking for Henrietta Worthington. The report says she’s mentally unstable. That she’s a danger to herself.” A pause. “And to others.”

Silence crashes into the room, heavy and suffocating.

My pulse slams in my ears, vision narrowing, edges blurring. The walls feel closer. The air thinner. Like something is closing in before I can even take a breath.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn’t happening.

I look at Atlas.

He’s quiet, pressing the bridge of his nose, tension carved into every line of his body. And suddenly, I wonder—was that why he held me last night? Was he protecting me? Or watching me?

My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Atlas?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Atlas

The second her voice cracks with my name, I know I’m fucked.

Atlas.

No teasing. No warmth. Just a raw edge, stripped of everything I don’t want to hear.

Blythe doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t run. But she steps back, like she’s trying to put distance between us—distance that wasn’t there last night. Or this morning. Her fingers curl around the handle of the mug she just set down, holding on like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

And I hate it.