Something about the way he says it—the casual softness—unsettles me. We’re coming back? I already want to leave, and he’s promising that we’ll be back? I don’t think so.

We stop in front of a tombstone. The name etched into the stone is Therese Smith. Below it, the words: Loving mother. Devoted wife. The heart of Birchwood Springs.

Atlas exhales, shifting his grip, his fingers brushing mine. He doesn’t let go.

“Hey, Therese,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’m back. I know I should’ve come sooner, but . . . it’s been an interesting week.” His gaze flicks to me. “Here, meet Blythe. She’s new in town. I think you would’ve loved her.”

I glance at the stone, then back at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression. A kind of quiet reverence that makes my chest go tight.

“Who is Therese?”

“She’s probably my stepmother,” he responds. “I’m not really sure how to classify her.”

That catches me off guard. I blink at him, confused. “So your dad married her after your mom died? I didn’t know you and your brothers lost your mother.”

Atlas shakes his head. “No. She was my brothers’ mother. I came later.” A humorless smile ghosts his lips. “I assure you, my mom had no idea my father already had a family in Vermont.”

“Oh.” The pieces click together.

He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. As if it hasn’t shaped every part of him. “Mom died when I was six. My father had no other choice but to bring me to Vermont. To them, his family.” His jaw tightens. “It was hell.”

Something cold slithers down my spine. “Did he⁠—?”

Atlas exhales sharply, gaze fixed on the tombstone. “Me? Less than everyone else.” His voice is flat, detached. “I grew up with the fear that I’d be next. He was horrible with them. Malerick hid us when he could.”

Us.

My stomach twists. “Did she . . . protect you?” I ask hesitantly.

His silence stretches long enough that I almost regret asking.

“It was complicated. She couldn’t protect us,” he finally says. “Like your husband, my father assumed he owned her. So no. He wasn’t gentle. Not with her. Not with his sons.”

I grip my arms, my nails digging into my sleeves, trying to contain the nausea rising in my throat.

Atlas lets out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. “I used to take care of her when she cried. I’d make tea—like I did with my mom when she wasn’t feeling well before she . . . died.” His voice wavers slightly like he’s somewhere far away. “I didn’t know what he was doing to her. I just knew she was hurting. And she needed someone to take care of her.”

I swallow hard. “You took care of your mom while she was dying?”