"Yes." The word tears out of me. "Atlas. Yes. Claim me."
His teeth sink in.
The pain is sharp—bright and clean and I cry out—and then it transforms. Something that rolls through me like a wave, crashing from the bite down through my chest, my stomach, my cock, my spine. The bond snaps into place—a connection I feel in my bones. Atlas inside me and on me and in me—not just his cock but his presence, flooding through the bond.
I come.
Hard. Violent. My hand still around myself but the orgasm isn't coming from my hand—it's coming from the bond, from Atlas's teeth in my neck and his knot locked fat inside me. My vision goes white. My body convulses around his knot in rhythmic waves that drag him with me—I feel him come, the hot pulse of it filling me, his groan vibrating through the bite and into my blood.
Bane comes a second later—watching Atlas bite me, watching me shatter, his hand working himself fast and rough until he spills across my chest with a broken groan, his forehead still pressed against mine.
Atlas's jaw tightens on my neck. Holds. He's pulled me upright, my back against his chest, his knot buried inside me, his teeth in my neck. We're locked together. Shaking. The bond reverberating between us.
From the corner—Zero. A guttural groan that tears out of him, raw and unguarded in a way Zero never is. I turn my head enough to see him—head tipped back against the chair, throat exposed, his hand fisting his cock in rough, graceless strokes as he comes across his stomach. His jaw clenched. His chestheaving. The sound he makes when the last wave hits is almost a growl—animal, possessive, wrecked.
Atlas releases the bite. His tongue laps at the wound—gentle, instinctive, cleaning the blood. His mouth presses against the mark.
A kiss.
He shifts his weight—just slightly, adjusting his hold on me—and the knot moves inside me.
I hiss. Sharp. My whole body goes rigid, my hand shooting back to grip his hip, nails digging in. The pressure is intense—the knot swollen to its full size, locked tight, pressing against nerves that are already overloaded from the orgasm and the bond. Every tiny movement sends a jolt through my lower body that's somewhere between pleasure and too-much.
"Shit—don't move—" My voice comes out thin. Strained. Breathing through it the way you breathe through a cramp—short, controlled, riding the wave.
"I know. I know, I'm sorry." Atlas's voice drops. Low. Soothing. His arms tighten around me—careful, measured, holding me steady without shifting his hips. His mouth finds my temple. "I've got you. Just breathe. We're locked, okay? It's going to hold for a while. I'm going to lay us down. Slow. Tell me if it's too much."
He eases us sideways. Slowly. Inch by inch, lowering us onto the mattress until he's spooned behind me—his chest against my back, his arms around my waist, his knot buried inside me. The movement makes the pressure shift and I grab his forearm and squeeze, my jaw clenching, a sound escaping through my teeth that isn't quite a moan and isn't quite a whimper.
"Shh. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere." His lips against my hair. His hand splaying flat across my stomach, warm andsteady. "You're okay. You're doing so well. Just breathe with me."
The way he says it—you're doing so well—in that low, steady voice, his body wrapped around mine, his hand on my stomach like he's holding me together. It's the Atlas from the panic attack. The Atlas who cupped my face and told me to match his breathing and made the world stop spinning.
Except now he's inside me, knotted, and his teeth marks are throbbing on my neck, and the caretaking is laced with something possessive and primal that makes my toes curl.
Bane climbs onto the bed. Settles in front of me. His hand cups my face—reads me the way he always reads me. Sees the tension. The discomfort. The overstimulation written across my features.
"Hey." Soft. His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Breathe."
He kisses me. Gentle. Unhurried. His mouth warm against mine while Atlas's lips press against the bite mark on my neck—featherlight, reverent, tracing the edges where his teeth broke skin. The dual sensation—Bane's tenderness at my mouth, Atlas's devotion at my throat—loosens something in my chest.
My breathing slows. Deepens.
Then the knot shifts again—Atlas adjusting behind me, his arm pulling me closer—and I flinch. My hand flies back to his hip, gripping, my face screwing up.
"Easy," Bane murmurs against my lips. His hand finds mine where it's clenching Atlas's hip. Loosens my fingers. Laces them with his instead. "Look at me. Just look at me."
I look at him. Hazel eyes. Close. Warm.
"Does it hurt?" Bane asks. His thumb stroking across my knuckles. "Your neck?"
"Burns." I touch the bite mark. My fingers come away with a tiny drop of blood. "Good burn."
"And your—" He glances down. Between us. Where Atlas is locked inside me, the knot enormous, my body stretched around it. "Does that hurt?"
"It's a lot." I exhale through my teeth. "Like—really a lot. The pressure is—" I shift my hips experimentally and immediately regret it. My eyes clench shut. "Fuck."
"Don't move." Atlas's hand presses firmer against my stomach. Holding me still. "The more you move, the more it—just stay still. Let your body adjust."
