I know that kind of fear. I saw it, lived it. I also know what it does to a person.

I don’t realize I’ve clenched my fists until I see her eyes drop to my hands.

I force them to relax, flexing my fingers, stepping back like distance will somehow stop the slow burn in my chest.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

I shouldn’t want to fix this.

But the need is there, buried deep, thrumming through me like a second heartbeat.

She’s safe right now. I remind myself of that. I’m making sure she’s protected. But is that enough? Should I be making sure it’s not just Winston, but her father, too? Because the more I learn about where she came from, the more I realize he’s just another version of the same monster.

Then, another thought creeps in.

Is she feeling trapped here?

I clear my throat, dragging a hand down my face before saying, “When it’s safe . . . once it’s safe for you and the baby, I promise I’ll stop watching your every move.”

Blythe finally looks at me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, her smile isn’t laced with something bittersweet. It’s small, but it’s real.

“I know why you do it,” she says softly. “It’s hard to remember sometimes, but I know this isn’t a prison—it’s a haven. And I appreciate you putting yourself in danger for me.”

“I’m not,” I correct immediately.

Her brow furrows. “You’re not . . .?”

“I’m not in danger, sweetheart,” I tell her. “This—what I’m doing—is something I’m trained to do.”

She lifts a brow. “You’re a tattoo artist.”

I nod, a slow smirk tugging at my lips. “Yeah, now.” I lean against the counter, watching her carefully. “But before that? Let’s just say I took a different route in college. Odd jobs here and there. Some for Sanford. Some for his friends.” I pause. “And at some point, I ended up training for The Organization.”

I tell her more about The Organization. I don’t usually talk about this. It’s not a safe topic to discuss with outsiders, but she doesn’t feel like one anymore.

I trust her.

Because she’s trusting me with her life.

“So that’s why there are so many cameras around this building?” she asks, tilting her head.

I nod.

Her gaze lingers on me, something unreadable passing through her eyes. “But you wouldn’t put yourself in danger, would you?”

The worry in her voice does something to me.

I shake my head. “Not on purpose. No.”

She studies me, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the counter. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “You’re not what I expected, Atlas Timberbridge.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Oh, yeah? What were you expecting?”