We walk in silence to the apartment above the shop. I unlock the door, step aside.

“Go in. Get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs.”

Blythe hesitates in the doorway.

For a second, I think she’s going to argue. Demand an explanation for why I’m still doing this.

But she doesn’t.

She just nods, like she’s accepting something.

Then she steps inside and closes the door behind her.

I stare at it for a long moment, my pulse uneven, something restless clawing under my skin.

This was supposed to be temporary.

So why the fuck does it feel like I just crossed a line I can’t come back from?

Fuck.

I should leave. I should let her deal with this on her own, the way she’s convinced herself she has to. Even better, I can let her leave. Sanford can find a good location for her. I heard Finnegan Gil runs a private witness protection program. I could send her there.

But I don’t.

I step back, lean against the wall across from the door, and wait.

Because I’m not built for this.

But for her? I’m willing to try. I have no fucking idea why, but I’m willing to do it. After all, how long will this take? Two years tops?

Chapter Eighteen

Atlas

I lean over the workbench, dragging the stylus across my tablet, refining the delicate lines of the design. The first tattoo I’ll ink in this shop. The start of something I never planned for, but I have to adapt to really fast.

Tattooing has always been mine. The one thing I could carry from place to place, no matter how many times I picked up and left. It’s precision and instinct, art and permanence.

My wrist moves, the design coming together in clean strokes, but my mind?

It’s somewhere else.

Or rather—on someone else.

Blythe.

I exhale, pressing my tongue to the inside of my cheek. There’s so much that worries me. At least while she’s in this building, I know she’s safe. However, I realized she doesn’t have a phone. No way to contact me if she needs to. Not that she would—but still. The thought digs at me, irritating me in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

It’s not like I should care.

She’s temporary. Passing through. A complication I didn’t ask for. Yet, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I should do something.

By the time my break rolls around, I give in to whatever the fuck this is and head upstairs.

Sanford stocked my fridge with meal prep containers because, apparently, he thinks I can’t function without someone making sure I eat. He’s not wrong, but still. It’s annoying.