“Fuck you,” he mumbles.
His back hits the mattress, and I follow him down, pinning his wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. My body covers his, chest to chest, my hips between his thighs. Too close. Way too close. That scent floods my senses, overwhelming and intoxicating.
"Stop fighting me," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend, edged with something dangerous.
“Please…”
Then all the fight seeps out of his frame and his eyes flutter shut. Unconscious again. I slide off him and sit next to him again, watching his brows knit and his lips purse even in this state.
The door opens.
Zero comes in first with a washcloth in one hand, dripping water onto the hardwood, and a glass of water in the other, condensation sliding down the sides. Bane follows half a step behind with a bottle of painkillers rattling in his grip and my phone in his other hand.
They both stop when they see Max—still unconscious, lying exactly where I left him, but his wrists are red now. Marks from where I held him down, thin lines of color against pale skin. Evidence.
"He wake up?" Zero asks, his eyes flicking from Max to me, reading the scene and putting pieces together.
"For a minute. Tried to leave."
"Did you—" Bane gestures at Max's wrists, his jaw tight, expression carefully neutral.
"He was fighting me. I had to keep him down." The words sound wrong as soon as they leave my mouth—too possessive, too aggressive. But neither of them calls me on it.
Zero crosses the room and sets the water and washcloth on my nightstand—expensive dark wood that I had custom-made to match the bed frame. Water rings immediately form on the surface. I don't care.
"He say anything?" Zero asks.
"Nothing useful."Just let me go and fuck you and that broken little please that I'm trying not to think about.
Bane hands me my phone, his fingers brushing mine in brief contact before he pulls back quickly. "You calling Dad?"
I should. Richard and Margot would want to know, need to know. Would be back in twenty minutes if I told them her son collapsed and won't wake up. But something stops me—some instinct that says bringing them into this, bringing anyone into this, is wrong. Max is mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine. The thought is possessive, irrational, completely insane.
I ignore it.
"Not yet," I say, setting the phone on the nightstand next to the water. "Let me see if I can get his fever down first. No point in ruining their dinner if it's just the flu."
Both of them look at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
Zero opens his mouth, closes it, and shakes his head slightly. Bane just stares, hazel eyes sharp and assessing.
"He's really sick, Atlas," Bane says quietly. "This isn't normal."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I said so." The words come out harder than I mean them to, final. "We'll give it an hour. If he's not better by then, I'll call." Lie. I'm not calling anyone. Not until I understand what the fuck is happening. Not until I figure out why Max smells like this and why every instinct I have is screaming at me to keep him here, keep him close, keep him safe.
Keep him.
"Help me sit him up," I say.
Zero and Bane exchange a look—some silent communication I'm not part of. Then they move to the bed, Bane on one side and Zero on the other, both of them careful and gentle in a way I rarely see from either of them.
I slide behind Max and get my back against the headboard—solid wood, expensive, cold against my shirt. I pull him up against my chest, and his head lolls back against my shoulder, body completely limp and pliant. The position puts him right against me, his back to my chest, his head tucked under my chin, his body cradled between my thighs. Intimate. Too intimate.
And that scent—Jesus Christ, it wraps around me, stronger than before, overwhelming and filling my lungs withevery breath. My cock hardens right there, right fucking there with my brothers watching and Max unconscious in my arms.Fuck. I ignore it, grit my teeth, and focus on anything else.
