"You don't touch him again." Atlas's voice is barely human. A growl. A command from somewhere ancient and absolute. "Not until he asks. Not until he chooses. You understand me?"
Zero's hand comes up. Grabs Atlas's wrist. Not pulling. Just holding.
"Get off me," he says. Quiet. Strained. Bleeding.
"Say you understand."
"Get off me."
Atlas presses harder. I see Zero's feet shift. See him struggling for air.
"Atlas—" Bane appears in the office doorway. Face white. Eyes wide. "Atlas, that's enough."
He doesn't seem to hear.
"Atlas!"
Bane moves. Grabs Atlas's shoulder. Tries to pull him off.
Atlas shrugs him off without looking. A casual movement. Like swatting a fly. The strength behind it sends Bane stumbling back a step.
I don't think.
Don't plan. Don't calculate risk or consequence.
"Stop!"
The word tears out of me. Raw. Loud. My voice cracking on the single syllable.
Everyone freezes.
Atlas. Zero. Bane.
Three sets of eyes snap to me. Three alphas, mid-violence, suddenly locked onto the omega standing in the hallway in sock feet and an oversized hoodie with tears running down his face.
Shit.
I didn't mean to cry. Didn't mean to be here at all. But my cheeks are wet and my voice is wrecked and I'm standing here in the wreckage of their fight like the cause of a disaster surveying the damage.
Atlas's arm drops from Zero's throat. Immediate. Like someone cut the power. His expression transforms in real time—rage draining out, replaced by something that looks horrifyingly like guilt.
"Max—" he starts.
"Don't." I hold up a hand. It's shaking. "Just—don't."
Zero slides down the wall. Not collapsing—just folding. His back against the plaster, knees coming up, head dropping forward. Blood drips from his chin onto his jeans. He doesn't wipe it.
He doesn't look at me.
Won't look at me.
That hurts more than it should.
"How much did you hear?" Atlas asks. His voice is rough. Wrecked. Nothing like the man I've come to know—the measured, precise, in-control Atlas Graves. He sounds stripped. Raw. Like someone reached inside him and pulled everything out.
"Enough." The word tastes like copper. Like blood. Like shame.
"Max, listen—"
