Atlas drags a hand down his face, then grips the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off whatever storm is brewing inside him. “Close. Too fucking close. Sanford’s people spotted them landing at the regional airport. They’re here. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” My voice barely comes out.

Atlas’s gaze flicks to me, something unreadable flashing through it before he answers. “For Winston.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “He’s in Los Angeles, chartering a flight. He’s coming.”

The room tilts, nausea curling in my stomach. The air around me presses in, my body turning cold from the inside out.

He’s coming.

For me.

For her.

I press a hand over my stomach. A knot forms deep inside me, panic rising like a tide I can’t control. “Atlas⁠—”

His hands are on me before I can say more, solid and sure. “Hey.” His voice is low, certain. “He is not touching you. He is not touching her. I swear to you, Blythe, nothing is going to happen.”

“But—”

“Nothing,” he repeats, fiercer this time. “You trust me?”

I nod, even as fear coils deep in my gut.

His forehead presses to mine, his breath warm and sure. “Then hold onto that. Because I swear, I will end him before I let him take anything from us.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Henrietta (Blythe)

The street is too quiet. Too still.

I walk faster.

The pavement stretches ahead, the alley narrowing, buildings pressing in on either side. I don’t remember how I got here. This isn’t Birchwood Springs and Atlas . . . why did I leave him?

It doesn’t matter. I need to get out.

A gust of wind kicks up a crumpled piece of paper, sending it tumbling toward me. It snags at my boot.

I don’t want to look.

I look anyway.

I found you.

The words are thick, the ink smudged like someone dragged their fingers through them.

My breath catches.

No. No, no, no.

I spin around, my pulse hammering, my skin buzzing with the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

The alley is empty.

Then I see him.

Just beyond the glow of a street lamp. Standing still. Watching.

Winston.

My lungs seize. I stumble back, my heart slamming against my ribs.

He steps forward, slow, controlled, like he has all the time in the world. Like this is a game, and he’s already won.

“I told you, Blythe.” His voice curls around my name, smooth and certain. “You can’t run from me. You’re mine, and I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

I turn and run.

The alley stretches, distorting into something endless, its darkness clawing at me like it wants to drag me under. My feet slap against the pavement, breath ragged, lungs burning—but the footsteps behind me stay steady. Unrelenting.

He’s faster. Closer.