“No. And I hope this stays between us, ladies.” There’s no question in his tone. No plea. Just a subtle command or probably a warning. “After I’m done here, I’ll be paying Simone a visit.”

Del sighs. “You can’t block the sun with your finger, Atlas.”

“No,” he agrees, gaze hardening. “But if either of you put them in danger, I’m going to get pissed.” His voice lowers, something darker weaving through it. “And you don’t want to see me angry, Del. I’m ten times worse than my brothers.”

She studies him for a second before turning to me. “Are you okay?”

I bob my head a couple of times, but I don’t really know the answer.

“If you need anything, come to me, okay?” she says, her voice softer now. “The offer to keep you at Gale’s place is still open.”

“She’s safe with him,” Nysa states with certainty. Then, turning to me, she adds, “But, yeah, I’m here if you need anything.”

They leave a moment later, the door shutting behind them, and suddenly, Atlas is right there, his hands on my arms, his touch firm but not rough, his body close.

“You will be fine,” he says, voice low. Certain.

But there’s something in his grip, in the way his fingers curl slightly against my skin, that makes me think he’s not just trying to convince me.

He’s trying to convince himself.

I don’t think. I just react, reaching up and resting a hand over his.

And he exhales, long and slow, his forehead dropping to mine for just a second, before pulling back like he shouldn’t have done it at all.

“Why are you concerned?” I ask.

“Because I didn’t think about introducing you to the town as my wife.” He lowers his voice enough that his client won’t hear. “They saw us arrive separately. That will bring some questions.”

“We can say that we started hooking up right away and⁠—”

“You’re Blythe Timberbridge,” he reminds me. “That implies that we’re not just hooking up, sweetheart. Plus, you’ll start showing soon.”

“So . . . we need to come up with a plan?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Let me finish with this guy, and then we’ll figure this out. I . . . have I mentioned hate small towns?”

“They’re lovely,” I respond and add, “You just have to see the bright side to them.”

“Well, don’t get too comfortable because, in a couple of years, we’re gone, sweetheart,” he says, turning toward his client.

I gawk at him, not sure what unsettles me more—the fact that in two years, he’s gone, or that he’s already folded me into his escape plan. We. How do I fit into his life? Do I even want to?