She looks at me like she doesn’t want me near her. All the work I’ve put into this . . . can I even call it a relationship? I don’t know, but everything seems to just crumble at once. I might lose her.

Malerick doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just stands there, waiting. Watching.

I grit my teeth, exhaling slowly, like I can keep this under control if I don’t react. But why the fuck did he have to do this now?

Not the time to ask. Not the time to fight him. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

I take a slow step forward, hands loose at my sides, careful—because I know if I reach for her now, she might not let me touch her at all. “Blythe.”

She shakes her head once, quick and firm as if that alone could stop whatever I’m about to say. “How long?” Her voice is low, too low. “How long have you known, Atlas?”

I can’t lie to her. Not now. Not if I want her to trust me. I clear my throat, keeping my eyes on her. “Malerick came by last night.”

The slight tremor in her fingers stops. Then, just as quickly, she squares her shoulders. I see it coming before she even speaks. “I should go.”

No.

“Blythe.” My voice is firm but calm. “You can’t just walk out.”

She lets out a short laugh, but there’s nothing real in it. “Watch me.”

She turns for the hallway.

I move before she can take more than two steps, stepping in front of her and blocking her path. “If you leave, he’ll find you right away. He has eyes everywhere, sweetheart.”

Her breath catches—so quick, so quiet, I almost miss it. But then she lifts her chin, defiant. “Seems like he already has. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities hand me over.”

A jagged breath tears through my lungs, my pulse hammering. “Not while I’m here. I’m the one standing between you and a death sentence. I promised to protect you and the baby—and I will.”

Her attention snaps to Malerick, her voice rising. “He’s going to turn me over to him.”

“No, he won’t,” I say without hesitation.

Malerick nods, mumbling, “I won’t.”

She whips back toward me, her eyes blazing with something hot, something broken. “You should have told me.”

I rake a hand through my hair, pressing my fingers against my scalp, trying to shove down the frustration clawing up my throat. “I know, but you were sleeping.”

Her lips part, then press into a tight line. “Were you even going to tell me?”

Was I?