The walls press in, suffocating, turning the air thick and useless. The dead-end looms ahead, rising like a concrete tomb.

No.

I twist, desperation tilting my balance, and he’s already there. Winston. His hand lashes out, fingers locking around my wrist in a brutal grip.

“You can’t take her.” The scream rips from my throat, raw and shaking. “I have to⁠—”

But my legs won’t move. I’m trapped. Frozen. His fist snaps back, ready to strike . . . and I wake, gasping, clawing at the sheets like I can still feel his grip.

My body jerks upright, my heart slamming against my ribs, my skin damp with sweat. A strangled sob rises in my throat before I can stop it.

Warm hands catch me. Strong arms pull me in before I can fall apart.

“Blythe, baby, it’s okay.”

Atlas.

I don’t think. Don’t hesitate.

My fingers grip his shirt, my breath shaky as I press against him. “He—” My voice breaks. “I saw him.”

“It was a dream, babe.” His voice is rough, real, grounding. “He’s not here. You’re safe with me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the fear lingers, gripping me tight, curling around my ribs like it’s trying to hold me in place. My pulse is still racing, the panic still crawling beneath my skin.

But Atlas is here.

I tilt my face up, and his mouth is already on mine.

There’s no hesitation. No pause.

Just raw, aching need.

The kiss isn’t soft—it’s urgent, searing, a clash of desperation and hunger. His lips press hard against mine, pushing, taking, giving. The fear shatters under the force of it, replaced by heat, by something deeper, something I can’t name but crave like air. Lust. Possession. A plea tangled in every breath.

His grip tightens at my waist, fingers pressing in, pulling me closer, like he refuses to let this slip away. Like he’s trying to fuse us together, to claim every fractured piece of me before the nightmare can steal another second.

And I let him, kissing him back just as fiercely. Right now, I don’t need space; I just need him.

Atlas.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Atlas

Blythe’s breath is still uneven against mine, her body still pressed close, but the moment shatters as my phone buzzes—loud, insistent, cutting through the haze and the lust. I was about to . . . not sure what I was thinking. I’ve allowed myself to kiss her—as long as she is okay with it, but the rest? Even when I want to claim her, I can’t. She’s not in the right head space, and maybe I’m not either.

Sure, we’ve spent three months together, sharing the same bed, getting to know each other. Have I fallen in love with her?

Definitely yes.