Atlas's arms around me. Solid. Sure. Holding me like I weigh nothing. Like I'm precious. Like I'm—
No. I'm not. I'm nothing. Bane said so. They all know it.
Put me down.
I don't need you.
Just let me die.
The thought drifts through my mind, lazy and detached.
Would that be so bad? Just closing my eyes and not waking up?
At least then I wouldn't have to deal with this. With them. With the fact that soon, I'm going to go into heat and everyone will know exactly what I am.
Exactly how broken I am.
But I can't say it.
Can't say anything.
The darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. Soft and welcoming. Gentle. Kind. The first kind thing I've felt in days. Black and soft and welcoming.
I let it come.
And then—
Nothing.
Chapter 13
Atlas
The crash echoes through the house—sharp and final, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting tile.
My fork clatters against my plate. I'm already moving, chair scraping back, legs propelling me forward before my brain fully processes the sound. Zero and Bane are right behind me. I hear their footsteps, feel their presence at my back as we all converge on the kitchen.
We round the corner and I freeze.
Max is on the floor. He's crumpled face-down on the white tile like someone cut his strings. One arm stretches toward the counter, the other tucked beneath him. His legs are bent at odd angles. Pills scatter everywhere—little white tablets catching the overhead lights, rolling across the tile. Some have already disappeared under the cabinets.
He's not moving. Not even breathing that I can see.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Shit." Bane's voice cuts through the silence. "He's really pale."
He is—too pale, gray-white, like someone drained all the blood from his face. Even his lips have lost color. My heart does this stupid stutter in my chest, this skip that I haven't felt sinceI was twelve years old, standing in a different kitchen, watching Mom collapse the same way.
No. Not the same. She didn't get back up. Max will get back up.
"What the fuck do we do?" Zero asks, and his voice is tight, strained. I glance at him—his jaw is clenched, hands curled into fists at his sides. Zero never sounds rattled, but this is rattled.
"Move," I say, and the word comes out harder than I mean it to. Command. Authority. The voice I use when shit hits the fan and someone needs to take control.
I'm already crossing the space between us, already dropping to my knees beside Max. The tile is cold through my jeans. I slide my hands under his arms, grip his ribcage through his thin t-shirt, and Christ, he's light. Too light. I can feel every rib, the sharp points of his shoulder blades, the fragile column of his spine. How much weight has he lost in two weeks? Ten pounds? Fifteen?
I lift him carefully and pull him against my chest. His head lolls, falls against my shoulder like he's boneless but his eyes are still barely open.
