“I understand that what I’m about to say is just noise to you, but you can trust me.” I shift closer, just enough that she knows I’m here, that she’s not alone in whatever this is. “Believe me when I say that no amount of money is good enough to give somebody away. I will protect you. But I need to know who I’m up against.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, like if she blocks out the world, she can make this moment disappear.

I wait.

Because now, it’s not about intimidation.

It’s about trust.

And if I push her any further, I’ll lose my chance at getting it.

Chapter Eleven

Atlas

When I said I wouldn’t ask Sanford or any of his friends for help while I handled the parlor, I wasn’t expecting Blythe Olsen to show up on my doorstep. Actually, her name is Henrietta Marie Worthington.

Now . . . well, I simply don’t have a choice.

Of course, I need to make the call—more like send the texts—because the guy she’s running from sounds like a complete asshole and a sociopath who’s been taking advantage of her. He’s definitely not someone I want to deal with blindly.

If I’m going to keep an eye on Blythe—or whoever she really is—I need to know exactly who I’m up against.

Once the message is sent, I wait. In the meantime, I watch her.

She’s curled up on the couch, smaller than before, like all the fight drained out of her the second she admitted the truth. The bravado, the feigned indifference—it’s gone. What’s left is someone who looks like she just lost the one thing keeping her safe, like she’s waiting for me to tell her she’s out of options.

The thing is that there’s no fucking way I’ll let her husband touch her again. He actually is going to pay for lifting a hand to the woman he was supposed to love and protect.

“You can’t stay in the hotel,” I say because there’s no way I can keep an eye on her if she’s tucked away on the other side of town. The place has no security, and no one is watching who comes and goes. And with the sudden influx of people passing through, I need her close.

Her head snaps up. “So, you’re kicking me out of town?”

The defiance is there, but her voice lacks bite. She’s not fighting me—she’s bracing for the worst.

“You said that if I told you who I was, you wouldn’t . . .” Her voice trails off, the sentence unfinished, like she can’t quite bring herself to say it. She believes I’m going to just toss her to the wolves and let them shred her to pieces.

I wouldn’t do anything like that. Never.