He struggles, breath coming short and shallow. I twist, turning the blade back on him.

And maybe, for the first time in his life, Winston Worthington IV knows what it feels like to be powerless.

His pupils blow wide. “She’s mine,” he rasps.

I tighten my grip.

“No,” I say, voice quiet but cutting through the air like a final verdict. “She’s her own person. And if I’m lucky enough, one day she’ll love me enough to call me hers.”

Then, I shove the knife into his throat.

Winston jerks, choking. Blood spills between my fingers, hot and relentless. His body trembles, then collapses against the wall. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

I step back.

He slides to the floor, hands pressing uselessly to the wound as if he can undo it.

He can’t.

I crouch, gripping his jaw, forcing his gaze to mine.

“She never belonged to you,” I murmur. “And now, she never will.”

His eyes glaze over.

Then, he stops breathing.

Silence.

The earbud crackles.

“Atlas?” Sanford’s voice is sharp. “Report.”

I exhale slowly. My pulse finally settles.

“It’s done.”

The ride back is silent.

The cleaning crew arrived on time, wiping away every trace of what happened. The motel owners will get their payout for letting us occupy it—no guests, no questions. Cassian and Malerick stayed behind to tie up the last loose ends.

I don’t care.

I’m already gone.

I need to see her.

Be with her.

The moment I step into Hopper’s house, my eyes find her.

Blythe.

She’s standing in the living room, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide and waiting.

I cross the space in three strides.

She meets me halfway.

Neither of us speaks.

I just pull her in, holding her so close, so completely that I don’t know where I end, and she begins. She trembles against me, fingers tangling behind my neck, and I kiss her—deep and consuming. Not just a meeting of lips but a claiming. A giving. Taking in everything she is while offering her everything I have left.

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. She leans in, gives more, takes more like she needs this as much as I do. Her fingers slide up into my hair, holding tight before she lets them slip away, one by one until her hands rest on my chest.

She looks up, eyes shining.

“Is he⁠—”

“Gone,” I murmur, brushing my lips over her forehead. “It’s over.”

A shudder rolls through her, something deep, something final.

She exhales, and then the tears come—silent at first before a sob escapes, raw and unguarded. Not breaking. Releasing.

And me?

I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in, letting the last three months crack and crumble around me.

It’s over.

She’s safe.

Our daughter is safe.