The way Max was sitting in the kitchen. Perched on one hip. Wincing. Moving like his body was a minefield and every shift was a potential explosion.
That wasn't a bad workout.
Someone hurt him.
And in this house, with these people, there's a very short list of suspects.
Zero.
It hits me with the force of absolute certainty. Zero, who's been gone all day. Zero, who pushed past me this morning without a word, jaw tight, eyes avoiding mine. Zero, who looked at Max that night by the pool table like he wanted to tear him apart.
Zero, who always takes what he wants and deals with the consequences later.
If he’d smelled Max…
My hands curl into fists.
Something hot and violent and possessive rises in my chest. Something that has no right to be there. Something I haven't earned and don't deserve but can't control.
If he hurt Max—
If hetouchedMax—
I stop. Force my hands open. Force my breathing to slow.
This isn't my business. Max isn't mine. Isn't anything to me. I told him he was nothing. I meant it.
Didn't I?
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Wet hair. Hard eyes. Jaw tight enough to crack a molar.
"Get it together," I tell myself.
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I think about the library. About Max curled in the chair, pen moving across paper, completely absorbed. The way the tension bled from his shoulders when he was writing. The way he almost looked peaceful for the first time since I've known him.
He was writing something. Not on the laptop—the notebook. The leather one he carries everywhere. The one that smells like him.
I wonder what he writes about.
I wonder if he writes about us.
I shove the thought away. Pull on my shoes. Head for the door.
Atlas needs to know. If Zero did what I think he did—if he touched Max, fucked Max, used him the way Zero uses everyone—Atlas needs to know.
Because Atlas is the one who handles things. Atlas is the one who keeps this family from imploding. Atlas is the one who will know what to do.
And because if I go to Zero myself right now, I'll kill him.
I pause with my hand on the doorknob.
When did I start caring?
I don't have an answer.
The door opens. The hallway is empty. Max's door is closed. No light underneath. No sound.
