This place is hell. This house. This family. This life I didn't ask for.
My stepbrothers are hell. Atlas with his disappointment. Zero with his cruelty. Bane with his hatred. All of them hell. All of them dangerous. All of them threats I can't escape.
And I'm trapped here with nowhere to run. No apartment to return to. No friends to call. No money for a hotel. No car of my own. No escape. No exit. No way out except through.
Chapter 8
Atlas
Ican't sleep.
It's past eleven —the clock on my nightstand glows 11:47 in harsh red digits— and I'm pacing my room like a caged animal, wearing a path in the carpet between the window and the door, my bare feet silent, my mind anything but, still wound tight from the argument with Max earlier. The words playing on repeat. The look on his face. The way he flinched away from me.
Neither did we.
Fuck. I rake my hands through my hair, grip tight enough to hurt, pull until my scalp burns.
That came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that. Didn't mean to make him feel unwanted. Didn't mean to add to whatever weight he's already carrying. Didn't mean to be cruel. Didn't mean to make him feel like a burden.
But the kid's so goddamn defensive. Every conversation is a battle. Every question is an interrogation. Every attempt to connect gets shut down before it begins. Every word is a fight. Every conversation feels like walking through a minefield. One wrong step and everything explodes. One wrong word andhe disappears. One wrong look and I lose whatever tenuous connection we might have built.
He's hurting. I can see that. It's obvious in every line of his body. In the way he holds himself. In the shadows under his eyes. In the careful way he moves through the house like he's trying not to disturb the air. But he won't let anyone close enough to help. Puts up walls. Deflects with sarcasm. Changes the subject. Runs. Always running.
I stop at the window, staring out at the grounds. My palm pressed flat against the cold glass, my breath fogging it, obscuring my view.
The pool is lit up—soft blue glow reflecting off the water. Perfectly still. No wind tonight. The reflection is like a mirror. The gardens are dark. Shadows upon shadows, the carefully manicured hedges forming shapes that look almost ominous in the darkness. Everything's quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels wrong. That feels like a held breath.
Except—
Movement. There. By the back wall. Something small. Someone.
I lean closer to the glass. Squinting. My breath stops fogging the window as I hold it, watching.
Someone's outside. Down by the patio. Moving erratically. Purposefully but without purpose. Agitated. Near the back wall.
I recognize the build. Small. Slim. Too small to be either of my brothers. The height. Short. Maybe five-seven. Definitely not Zero or Bane. The way he moves. Tense. Coiled. Like every muscle is locked tight.
Max.
What the hell is he doing outside right now? At midnight. In the cold. Without a jacket.
I watch as he approaches the brick wall. Watches him stop. Stand there. His silhouette dark against the lighter stone.
Then he punches it. Hard. Fast. His whole body behind it.
What—the fuck?
He does it again. And again. His arm drawing back, snapping forward, the impact visible even from here. And again. Driving his fist into the brick like he's trying to break through it. Like he's trying to destroy something. The wall. Himself. Both. Or break himself.
"Jesus Christ." The words come out sharp. Alarmed. I'm already moving.
Instinct. Training. The need to intervene when someone's hurting themselves. When someone's spiraling. Out of my room, down the stairs, taking them two at a time, my hand sliding along the railing, my bare feet silent on the carpet then loud on the marble, through the kitchen. The lights are off. I don't bother turning them on. The glow from outside is enough.
The back door's already open. I see it immediately. Hanging slightly ajar. Cold air spilling in. He didn't even close it behind him.
By the time I reach him, he's on the ground. Collapsed. Crumpled against the wall like he's been discarded there. Back against the wall. Hands cradled against his chest. Protective. Wounded. Broken.
Even in the dim light, I can see the blood. Dark. Wet. Too much. On his hands, on his shirt, on the ground around him. Dripping. Pooling.
