"There's a doctor coming. Thirty minutes." He clears his throat. Straightens his collar. The Atlas I know clicking back into place like a dislocated joint.
Then he turns to Bane.
Atlas pulls him in. Different from the way he held me—harder, faster, the embrace of brothers who speak a physical language built over a lifetime. One arm around Bane's shoulders, the other hand gripping the back of his neck. Tight. Fierce.
"You stupid, brave son of a bitch," Atlas says into Bane's shoulder. Low enough that I almost miss it.
Bane's eyes close. Just for a second. His composure slips—the mask cracking at the edges, exhaustion and relief flooding through—and then it's back. He pulls away first. Straightens up.
Atlas catches his wrist. Turns it over. The raw bands where the zip ties lived for days are angry and red in the suite's warm lighting—chafed skin, dried blood in the creases, the edges starting to crack.
"Jesus Christ." Atlas's jaw locks. His thumb traces the edge of the abrasion without touching it—the same careful cataloging he did with my face. "They kept you tied the entire time?"
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Atlas drops his wrist. His voice is controlled but his eyes aren't—something hot and dangerous moving behind the gray. "Talbot gave his word you'd be treated as a guest. This is not how you treat a guest."
"Talbot's word isn't worth the wax he seals it with. We knew that going in."
Zero moves then. Swallowing up the last of the distance. He stops in front of Bane. Looks him over.
"Sit down before you fall down, Jesus," Zero says. To Bane. Only to Bane. His hand finds Bane's elbow, guiding him toward the couch, and the gentleness of the gesture—Zero,gentle—is reserved entirely for his brother. He hasn't acknowledged me since the door opened. Not a glance. Not a word.
Like I'm a piece of luggage Bane brought back from a trip. I swallow against the forming lump in my throat.
"Should see the other guys," Bane says. The ghost of a smile.
Zero's mouth twitches. He grips Bane's shoulder once—brief, hard, perhaps his version ofI love you—and lets go.
I stand near the hallway and watch the three of them and feel the geometry of this family rearrange around me. Atlas checking Bane's injuries. Zero's hand on Bane's shoulder. The easy shorthand of brothers who've spent a lifetime reading each other's silences.
Zero still doesn’t look at me. Not directly. Not the way Atlas looked at me—consuming, desperate, his whole body leaning toward mine.
Of course. He's here for Bane. That's why he's in this room. That's why he hasn't slept—not for me, not for the omega stepbrother who caused this mess by running in the first place.
For his brother.
For blood.
The realization shouldn't sting. It does anyway—a quick, sharp pinch behind my sternum that I bury before it reaches my face. Becauseof course. Because I'm the foster kid who's never been anyone's priority, and for a second in the car I let myself think—
It doesn't matter what I thought.
"There are clothes in the bedroom," Atlas says, turning back to me. His voice softening. He points down the hall. "Shower first. Take your time."
I nod. Start to move toward the hallway. My legs feel strange—the adrenaline that's been holding me upright forhours is starting to thin, and the carpet under my bare feet is so soft it feels like walking on something alive.
Zero is in my path.
He's moved while I wasn't paying attention—drifted from Bane's side to the mouth of the hallway, arms crossed, positioned between me and one of the bedrooms like he ended up there by accident.
He didn't. Zero doesn't do anything by accident.
He still doesn't look at me. Not fully. His gaze lands somewhere around my collarbone—the torn scrubs, the bruise peeking above the neckline—and stays there. Not meeting my eyes.
"You look like shit," he says.
I can’t bring myself to react. There’s nothing left in me. "Thanks."
