Her nails bite into my shoulders as I kiss her deeper, hungrily. Her body arches into mine, hips meeting hips, heat sinking into every place we touch. My hands slide up her sides, memorizing every curve, every inch of her, until she’s breathless beneath me, her thighs parting in invitation.

I groan against her lips, fighting the pull to take more, to lose myself in her completely.

Her hands slide beneath my shirt, fingers skimming over my stomach, sending heat spiraling through me. She tilts her head, lips brushing along my jaw, and, fuck—I have to stop this before I lose the last bit of control I have left.

I pull back just enough to press my forehead to hers, breathing hard.

“We can’t,” I murmur.

Her lips are swollen, pupils dark. “I know,” she whispers. But she doesn’t stop running her fingers down my chest, slow and torturous. “I just wanted to remind you what’s waiting for you after this.”

This is the first time she’s been this bold, and maybe she’s ready for more. Though I can’t take any other steps. Not yet. I let out a rough laugh, shaking my head as I try to calm the fuck down. “Like I’d ever forget.”

She smiles, teasingly. I kiss her once more—slow, deep, like a promise I fully intend to keep. Then I push myself up because there’s a fight waiting for me.

And this time, I’m not just fighting for her.

I’m fighting for us.

Chapter Forty-One

Atlas

The motel is a dump.

A long-forgotten stretch of asphalt, neon signs buzzing weakly against the night, casting everything in a dull, artificial glow. A place people come to disappear—or to do things no one wants to remember. The hallway carpet is stained, the light overhead flickering like it’s dying, painting everything in a sickly yellow.

I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setting for tonight.

This is where Winston Worthington IV will pay for everything he did to Blythe. For the nights, she was too afraid to sleep. For the scars—visible and invisible—that he left behind. For every time, he dared to believe she belonged to him.

I grip my gun tighter, exhaling slow. I know the drill. Sanford’s team is stationed outside. Malerick and Cassian are watching the exits. It only took a day to orchestrate this. The Hollow Syndicate took the bait, busy chasing a fake shipment halfway across the state. Which means Winston is walking in alone, convinced he’s about to reclaim his wife.

Thinking she’s all alone and helpless.

He has no fucking idea what’s waiting for him.

The earbud crackles.

“We have movement,” Cassian murmurs. “Black SUV. He’s got two guys with him.”

Not alone, then. But it doesn’t change the outcome.

Sanford’s voice follows. “Let him come to you, Atlas. We’ll take the bodyguards.”