Atlas continues saying our, as if he really believes it. I want to believe it too, but can we even entertain the possibility of that happening? We . . . we can’t even talk about our feelings because everything is so up in the air. What can I tell him? I think I’m falling but I can’t allow myself to believe in something that might never happen? That’s not possible. Not right now.

“Blythe, you have to trust me,” he insists. “She’ll be fine. You two will be fine.”

I close my eyes, pressing into his touch. “I want to believe you.”

His forehead rests against mine, his voice quieter now, softer. “Then, believe me. Because I will die before I let him touch either of you.”

His words shatter me. A sob claws its way free before I can stop it. My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on like he’s the only solid thing left. Because I need to trust this. I need to trust him.

Atlas doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell me to calm down or try to fix me. He just holds me. His strong arms settle all the restless emotions swirling inside me. His touch lingers as if telling me without words that I’m safe. That I’m loved.

When the tears slow, when the tremors in my body ease, I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. Atlas watches me like I’m something fragile, something precious. His thumb brushes along my cheek, and just as he dips his head, his lips grazing the tip of my nose, his breath warm against my skin, his phone rings.

Once.

Then again.

Atlas doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on mine, his grip firm on my waist. A third ring cuts through what could’ve been my favorite kiss. He exhales, frustrated, and finally pulls the phone from his pocket. A quick glance at the screen, then he answers.

“Yeah?”

Silence.

Then, his entire body tenses.

His hand tightens—not just around the phone, but around me. His jaw locks, shoulders rigid, breath held.

“Where?” The word comes out low, lethal, terrifying in its restraint. “Then we’ll be ready.”

A chill races through me. I sit up straighter, nerves twisting tight. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. Just listens, eyes darkening with every second that passes, the kind of stillness that makes my stomach drop. Then, finally, he mutters a clipped, “I’m on my way.”

The second he ends the call, I grip his wrist. “Atlas. What’s going on?”

“They found one of Winston’s men,” he says quietly.

My pulse stumbles. “Where?”