“You put her in danger. You put everyone in danger. I should be happy that Ledger has a target on the back of his head—that is not right.” His voice is shaking, not with fear, but with absolute fury.
“We can’t just finish things off quickly, or it won’t end,” Mal states. And somehow I feel like I’ve lost track of this conversation. “Not sure why you’re here, but don’t fuck with me.”
“Atlas, we’ll talk later,” one of the other agents says.
“Fine, I’ll go to my place,” he states.
“Place?” I ask. “Since when do you have a place?”
He smirks, his expression equal parts smug and mischievous. “Your mother has a room for me in the house we all own, remember?” The satisfaction in his voice is impossible to miss, and the look on his face says he knows exactly what he’s doing—and the trouble he’s about to unleash.
“You could stay here,” I suggest, though we both know he won’t. “I have plenty of room. You’ll get to hang out with Nysa.” I’m not happy with the offer, but it’s for the best.
He lets out a scoff, his tone dripping with mockery. “And miss hanging out with my favorite brother? No thanks.” His words are thick with sarcasm, loud enough to practically rattle the air around us. “While I’m here, I’ll make sure he sells everything. I need the cash.”
He turns toward his truck, his movements casual, unbothered, like he hasn’t just dropped a match into a pile of dry leaves.
“That’s going to go over great,” I mutter, my arms crossing as I watch him.
He glances back with a grin that’s too pleased with itself, one hand on the truck door. “Great? No. But entertaining? Absolutely.”
The engine growls to life, and before I can throw another retort, he’s pulling away, leaving a trail of dust and what I already know will be a complete disaster waiting to happen.
I exhale, shaking my head as his truck disappears down the road. “This is going to be a clusterfuck.”
“Nah, it’ll be good for all of you,” Beacon says. “I remember when my brothers and I were ready to kill each other. It gets worse before it gets better. Now, go back to your house, doctor. My agent can’t be babysitting too.”
“Where did you find these people?” I ask Malerick.
He glares at them, then starts walking. I catch up with him. “An answer would be nice.”
“I didn’t. They sent them to clean up,” he states. “I just don’t know where Atlas falls into this.”
“Nysa mentioned the other day that he’s a tattoo artist going from shop to shop as a guest or something—he works with famous people,” I state.
Mal turns toward the barn and then toward the road where Atlas disappears. “That might be it.”
Not sure what he means, but I don’t question. I’m more concerned about Nysa. I’m hoping she’s okay with his visit.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nysa
I find it peculiar that no one in town mentioned Atlas’s presence. Did no one recognize him? Was he a figment of my imagination? I don’t really know what happened. Hopper mentioned he came, had a chat with Mal and left. He’s going to be living with Galeana and Ledger. Good luck to them. I mean he’s nice, but he can be an asshole like his brothers.
I should probably offer Galeana a room in my grandmother’s house. I learned earlier today that she’s rebuilding the old Doherty Mansion—without the faulty gas lines, of course. I’m impressed that Delilah doesn’t know what really happened. Then again, most of the town is living in ignorant bliss.
Grandma is doing well, but she’s going to go on a cruise this upcoming Monday. Atlas convinced her and a few of her friends. I know he’s doing it to keep her safe, and I appreciate him. When I ask where he’s getting the money, he said his brothers are paying. I don’t know how that’s happening, but I won’t ask any questions.
I spent last night with Hopper. We haven’t defined what we are, but I assume we’re together. Lately, I’ve been spending more time with him and Maddie—so much that I might even stay for the weekend. His house has started to feel like home, which should be unsettling, but it isn’t. Not after everything.
The scent of fresh coffee drifts through the kitchen as I move toward the counter, Maddie’s soft giggles filling the space. She swings her tiny feet, more interested in playing with her cereal than eating it. Across from her, Hopper leans back in his chair, watching us with a look I can’t quite name yet—something between contentment and quiet intensity. His eyes follow me as I pour coffee into a mug. My body is aware of him in a way that feels too natural now.
Like this is our life, as if we’ve always done this together.
Maddie’s spoon clatters against the bowl, and she pouts dramatically.
“Lala don’t wan cereal,” she declares, pointing at the new pony Hopper had gotten her.
