His answer is his mouth on my throat. His teeth grazing the bonding gland—not biting, just threatening, the promise of pressure without the commitment of pain—and the sound I make is something I'll be embarrassed about tomorrow but right now I don't care because his hands are sliding down my sides and his hips are rolling against mine.
His hand slides lower. Cups my cock through the sweatpants. Squeezes. My vision whites out. My hips buck into his palm and the moan that escapes me is loud enough that we both freeze for half a second—Richard and Margot are down the hall somewhere—and then his mouth covers mine, swallowing the sound, kissing me deep and filthy while his hand works me through the fabric.
This is happening. This isactuallyhappening. Atlas's hand on my cock, Atlas's tongue in my mouth, Atlas's body pinning me to his bedroom wall in the dark.
And I want it. Want him. Want everything he's been denying both of us for months.
But I also want Bane. Want the way Bane held me in the dark and whisperedyou're perfectagainst my hair. Want Zero—the intensity, the hunger, the one who pushes me and makes me want things that scare me.
I want all three of them. And at that dinner table, I saw what wanting does. The jealousy. The territorial looks. The fractures forming in real time between brothers who nearly destroyed their empire to get me back.
They'renotokay with sharing. That was clear. Every loaded glance, every stiffened jaw, every possessive touch under the table was a man staking a claim and watching his brothers do the same.
And I'm standing in the dark with one of them while carrying a secret that could shatter everything.
I could hide it. That's what the old Max would do—swallow the truth, bury it, let Atlas have this moment and deal with the fallout later. Hiding is what I do. It's the only survival skill I've ever mastered.
But I don't want to be the old Max anymore. And if there's ever going to be a world where I don't have to choose—where wanting all three of them isn't a betrayal but a beginning—then it starts with honesty.
Right here. Right now. Even if it ruins this.
"Atlas." My hand finds his wrist. Stills his hand where it’s working my cock. "Wait. I need to tell you something."
He pulls back enough to look at me. His eyes are almost black in the dark. His lips are swollen. His chest heaving. Every line of his body saysdon't stopand I'm asking him to stop.
"Something happened," I say. "With Bane. In the facility."
He goes still.
His nostrils flare. My stomach drops.
I keep going. Because if I stop I'll lose my nerve.
"The guard withheld my suppressants. My heat came back. Bane was there—drugged, restrained, in that cell because he walked in voluntarily to keep me safe." I swallow. "We… We had sex. He knotted me."
Silence.
"He didn't bite me. He chose not to. Even with the knot, even with everything his body was screaming at him to do—he stopped. I wasn’t ready for that."
Atlas hasn't moved. His hand is still on my hip but it's gone rigid—locked in place, the tendons standing out. His jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding. His chest rises and falls in the controlled breathing pattern I recognize—in through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. The thing hedoes when everything inside him is screaming and he's forcing the scream through a sieve.
"I'm not telling you to stop what's happening between us." My voice is steady. Calm. Even though my heart is hammering and my body is still aching for his hands. I reach out and wrap my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him slightly closer. "I'm telling you because I don't want secrets. Not between us. Not about this." I take a breath. "And because I saw what's happening between you three. At dinner. The way you all watch each other watching me. I won't be a secret that breaks this family apart."
Atlas exhales. Long and shaking. His hand slides off my hip. He shakes off my hand. His body creates distance—one step back, then another—and the absence of his warmth is a physical loss that makes my chest ache.
But I can see him. Still hard. Visibly, achingly hard, his body saying yes while the rest of him tries to say something else. His hands flex at his sides. He turns toward the window. Presses his palms against the glass—hands flat, arms locked, shoulders rigid.
I watch his shoulder blades move with each breath. Watch his hands press harder against the glass. I give him the space he needs even though every part of me wants to cross the room and put my hands on his back and saycome back, don't stop, please don't stop.
"When?" His voice is rough. Scraped raw.
"The night before they released us."
He nods. Once. Processing. I watch the information move through him—layered, categorized, each piece slotted into place. The hurt. The jealousy. The understanding that Bane was there when he wasn't. That Bane showed up while he held back. That the thing he denied himself, his youngest brother gave freely.
"He didn't bite," Atlas says. Quietly.
"No."
