I don't know what to do with that. Don't know what it means or why it makes my pulse spike. So I ignore it, pushing it down deep where all my other unwanted feelings live.
"I need to go," I say, and I start to push myself up. My arms shake with the effort, muscles trembling. The room tilts again and I have to stop, pressing my palms flat against the mattress to keep from falling over.
"Not yet." Atlas stands in one fluid movement and crosses the space between his chair and the bed. He sits on the edge, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. The mattress dips under his weight, and I have to fight not to roll toward him.
He holds out the pills. "Take these first."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice drops lower, taking on an edge that's almost a command. "You have a fever. You passed out. Your mother and Richard are downstairs eating breakfast and have no idea you collapsed because I didn't call them. The least you can do is take the fucking pills, Max."
I blink. He doesn't curse often. Doesn't let his control slip.
But there's something in his voice now—something raw and frayed at the edges. Like he's been holding it together by sheer force of will and that will is starting to crack.
"Atlas—"
"Take. The pills."
It's not a request. It's a command, delivered in that tone that makes my body want to obey before my brain catches up. That alpha authority I've spent my whole life learning to resist.
I hate that it works on me. Hate that my first instinct is to do what he says, to be good, to please him.
But my head is pounding and my body feels like it's on fire, so I take the pills from his outstretched palm. Our fingers brush—just a whisper of contact—and electricity shoots up my arm.
I pull back quickly and dry-swallow the pills. They scrape down my throat, bitter and chalky.
"Water," Atlas says, and he's already pressing the glass into my hands.
The cold liquid soothes my throat. I drink half the glass before I realize how thirsty I am, how dry my mouth is. When I lower it, Atlas is watching me with those intense gray eyes that seem to see everything I'm trying to hide.
"Good," he murmurs, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest at the approval in his tone.
No. No, I don't want that. Don't want to care what he thinks. Don't want this feeling that's spreading through me like honey—slow and sweet and entirely unwelcome.
I set the glass down on the nightstand with more force than necessary and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "I'm leaving."
"Max—"
"I'm fine." I stand, and immediately the world tilts sideways.
My vision grays at the edges. My legs don't want to hold me—they're shaking, weak, made of something less substantial than bone and muscle. I sway dangerously to the left, and then strong hands are there, catching me before I can fall.
Atlas grabs my hips, fingers digging into the bone, steadying me. Grounding me.
We're standing chest to chest now. So close I can see the darker gray flecks in his eyes, the way his pupils are slightly dilated. Can smell that scent that makes my head spin for entirely different reasons—cedar and leather and something darker underneath, something that speaks to a part of me I've spent years trying to suppress.
His hands are warm on my hips. Firm. Possessive. His thumbs rest against the sharp jut of my hipbones, and I can feel the heat of them through my thin t-shirt.
"Easy," he says, and his voice has dropped to something low and rough. Almost intimate. "You're still weak."
"I'm fine," I repeat, but the words come out breathy. Unconvincing. Betraying me.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Linger there for a heartbeat too long.
The air between us thickens, charged with something I don't want to name. Something dangerous and electric that makes my skin prickle and my heart race.
His thumbs brush against my hip bones—just a small movement, barely there, but it sends heat licking up my spine like a match struck in the dark.
