Atlas doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over me slowly, like he’s checking for something he hasn’t found yet. That’s when he says, “Why are you here? You’re still sick, aren’t you?”

“Sick me?” I force a smile and shake my head. “Not at all.”

He scoffs. “Yesterday, you were puking your brains out.”

I wave a hand as if it doesn’t matter. “It was probably motion sickness after the long bus ride.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but not in amusement. More like he already knows I’m lying.

I push forward anyway. “So, Delilah mentioned you might need someone to handle bookings. Front desk stuff. I’m here to see when I can start.”

He says nothing for a moment, just watches me with that same measured stillness as if waiting for me to break first. I hold my ground, even as something in my pulse quickens.

Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose and shifts his stance. “I don’t need a receptionist—or anyone for that matter.”

The rejection stings more than I expect, but I don’t let it show. I never do. This is something I can mask easily and get out of even faster.

I lift my chin just slightly. “Are you sure? Because Delilah seemed to think otherwise.” I pause, considering my words before finishing, “She said you were going to offer me the job yesterday, but . . .” My voice trails, but I find my strength again. “Is it because you think I’m sick? Because it’s illegal to turn down an applicant based on assumptions.”

His lips twitch like he’s almost entertained by my audacity. Almost. “You’re feisty.”

“No,” I correct, meeting his gaze head-on. “I only want what’s fair. The position you were giving me before I . . . you know.”

He huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh if he were the type of man who let those slip easily. Then, finally, he moves. Not much—just a shift, a slight lean against the counter—but it alters something. The space between us tightens, charged with an energy I can’t name.

“You ever worked in a tattoo shop before?”

“No.”

“Know anything about tattoos?”

Only that I wasn’t allowed to get them while I was under my parents’ thumb and Winston . . . who knows what he would’ve said if I had ever asked for one. Probably ‘no’ just to control me. But all I can say is, “Not much.”

“Then why are you here?”

I could tell him the truth. That this is my only hope, that there’s no backup plan. That in a few weeks, what little money I have is going to be gone, and I’m running away from a sociopath who’ll probably kill me if he finds me that I need this job more than I’ve ever needed anything.