This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
He's my stepbrother. He's Atlas Graves. He's an alpha who could break me without even trying.
And I want—
No.
I put my hands on his chest and shove. Hard.
He lets me. Steps back immediately, dropping his hands like I've burned him. But those gray eyes stay locked on mine, burning with something I can't read and don't want to understand.
"Let me leave," I say, and my voice is steadier now. Firmer. Reclaiming some of the control I lost the moment I woke up in his bed. "I need to go."
For a moment—just a moment—I think he's going to argue. Going to step forward again, grab me, keep me here. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself.
But then he nods. Once. Sharp. Final.
"Fine."
I don't wait for him to change his mind. Don't give him time to reconsider.
I turn and head for the door, willing my legs to cooperate. They're steadier now—not great, but functional. I can make it to my room. I can lock the door. I can pretend this never happened and that I didn't just feel whatever the fuck that was between us.
I reach for the door handle, fingers closing around the cool metal.
"Max."
I stop. Don't turn around. Can't.
"If you need anything—"
"I won't."
The words come out colder than I intend, but I don't take them back. I pull open the door and step into the hallway, and—
I nearly collide with Zero.
He's right there. Right outside Atlas's door, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed. Like he's been waiting. Listening.
We both freeze.
Zero is shirtless. His skin is still damp, hair wet and dark and falling across his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower. Water droplets trail down his chest, following the hard lines of muscle, the sharp cut of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans that hang dangerously low on his hips.
I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look.
But I do.
My eyes trace the path of those water droplets like they're a roadmap I'm compelled to follow. The broad expanse of his chest, defined in ways that make my mouth go dry. The dark ink of his tattoos wrapping around his ribs—some design I can't make out in the dim hallway light. The sharp V of muscle that cuts down from his hipbones and disappears beneath worn denim.
Heat floods through me. Sharp. Sudden. Undeniable.
Want.
The word echoes in my head, primal and insistent and entirely unwelcome. It's not just attraction—though fuck, it's definitely that. It's something deeper. Something that makes my skin feel too tight and my blood run too hot and my body react in ways I can't control.
My body reacts before my brain can stop it. Blood rushing south. Heart rate spiking. That pull low in my belly that I've been trying to ignore for weeks intensifying into something that feels almost like pain.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
