Page 29 of Atlas (The Chaos Demons MC #6)

Atlas

Rue storms off, her heels clacking sharp against the floor. My stomach sinks.

I don’t even think. I just move, straight over to Anita, who’s still sitting where Rue left her, staring after her like she’s trying to undo the damage with sheer will.

“What the hell did you say to her?” My voice is sharp, colder than I mean it to be, but I can’t help it. The second I saw Anita cross the room, I knew it wouldn’t end well.

“I was trying to help,” she mutters, eyes flicking to me and away just as quickly.

“Well, don’t,” I snap. “You’ve done enough.”

And then I’m gone. I catch Rue halfway up the stairs, her back tense, shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for more bad news.

“Wait,” I call, reaching her.

She turns, just enough to look at me over her shoulder, and rolls her eyes when she sees it’s me.

Perfect.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

“Was that down to you?” Her voice wobbles, and I see the sheen in her eyes, the way her mouth trembles. She’s barely holding it together.

I shake my head. “No. It’s my mess, I’d never ask anyone else to fix it.”

She nods once then presses a hand to her stomach. “I feel sick.”

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, reaching for her hand and guiding her the rest of the way upstairs. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean into me either. Just follows, shaky and silent.

We reach my room. I push the bathroom door open and flick the light on.

“You don’t drink,” I say gently, crouching beside her as she lowers herself to the tiled floor.

“I was joining in,” she mumbles, already on her knees in front of the toilet.

Her words choke me, that quiet, stupid reason. Just trying to fit in, to belong.

“Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “No. Leave me alone.” Her voice cracks as she tries to push the door closed between us.

I block it with my foot. “You can’t lock it. Not if you’re sick. I’m staying right here.”

She doesn’t argue. Just bows her head and breathes slow, like she’s trying not to cry or throw up.

I stay by the bathroom door while she throws up, my hand braced against the frame, listening to the awful sound of her retching.

Every second of it twists something in my chest. I hate that I let things get this far.

Hate that Anita opened her mouth. Hate that Rue is the one hurting because of our messy, complicated past.

Eventually, the room goes quiet.

I give it a beat before easing the door open. She’s curled over the toilet, pale and damp with sweat, her arms limp at her sides. My heart squeezes.

“Hey,” I murmur, crouching down and pressing my hand to her clammy forehead.

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are glassy, half-lidded, barely holding on.

Gently, I scoop her up into my arms. She doesn’t resist, just sighs and lets her head fall against my shoulder like she’s been waiting for this all night. Her body’s soft and warm, despite the chill on her skin.

I carry her to my bed, kicking off my boots without bothering to untie them. She groans as I lay her down, and I hush her gently, brushing damp hair from her forehead.

“You’re okay, baby. Just rest.”

I undress her carefully, unzipping her jeans, sliding them down her legs, peeling her top away from her clammy skin. I grab one of my clean T-shirts from the drawer and pull it over her head, guiding her arms through like she’s sleepwalking.

Then, I fetch a glass of water and some painkillers from the bathroom before sitting on the edge of the bed until her lashes flutter.

“Rue,” I whisper, nudging her gently. “Hey, come on. Just sip some water for me. Take these.”

She groans but lets me tilt the glass to her lips. She swallows the tablets with barely a grimace. Then she flops back down and rolls onto her side, pulling my T-shirt tight around her body like it’s armour.

“Lay with me,” she whispers.

I hesitate for a second. “You sure?”

She nods without opening her eyes. Then, she just scoots back and leaves space for me.

I climb in beside her, staying on top of the covers at first, afraid to assume too much. Her hand finds my chest, then travels down to my stomach, like she needs to know I’m really here.

“Can I ask you something?” she mumbles.

“Anything.”

“What was it like? Being with someone like her?”

My throat tightens.

She opens her eyes then, just enough to look at me. There’s no accusation in her voice, just quiet pain.

“Someone pretty. Someone powerful. Clever.” Her voice shakes. “She’s a lawyer, Atlas.”

“Don’t do that,” I say, sharper than I mean to. I turn on my side to face her. “Don’t make me listen to you cut yourself down.”

She looks away, but I gently guide her face back to mine.

“She’s not you,” I say. “She’s never been you. Rue, you’re brave in ways most people aren’t. You’ve got the kindest heart. The funniest sense of humour. You feel everything so deeply, even when it hurts. You make people feel seen. You make me feel seen.”

She blinks, slow and heavy.

“And yeah, you’re beautiful. You always have been. But it’s not about that. Not for me. It’s the way you scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh. The way you hold your breath when you’re nervous. The way you never let anyone in, but you let me in.”

Her lips part like she’s about to cry or kiss me. I don’t know which.

“I don’t want Anita,” I whisper. “I want you.”

She leans in then, and our mouths meet in a kiss that’s soft and aching and desperate. Like she’s trying to believe me, one brush of her lips at a time.

She climbs over me, straddling my waist, her hands sliding beneath my shirt like she needs to feel my skin to stay grounded.

“Rue,” I murmur against her lips, my hands settling on her thighs, trying to still her. “We shouldn’t. You’ve been drinking.”

“I know,” she whispers. “But I want to remember this. I want to feel something good.”

She kisses me again, deeper now. Bolder. Her body melts into mine, and it takes everything I have not to flip her off me and walk away, not because I don’t want her, but because I want her too much to do this wrong, knowing tomorrow she might regret it.

But she’s looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping her afloat, and I don’t have the strength to let go.

So I let my hands roam over her body, up my shirt and over her breasts. She gasps, arching forward and pressing her core against the outline of my erection over my jeans. I grip her hips, encouraging her to keep moving, rocking against me until the friction sends her spiralling over the edge.

Her cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes sleepy as she falls against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, pulling the sheets over us. And for the first time in days, I relax. Rue is in my arms, right where she belongs.

Rue

I wake with a start and realise straight away I’m not at home. Yesterday comes flooding back and I groan, rolling onto my side to see Atlas’s side empty. I sigh with relief. Thank God . And then I push to sit, looking around for my clothes.

I grab my jeans and pull them on, I whip off Atlas’s shirt, right as the door swings open and he waltz’ in with a smile. It fades when he spots me half dressed.

“Morning,” I almost whisper as I pull my top on.

He places a tray on the bed and the smell of pastries hits me, making my stomach growl out loud with hunger. “I got us breakfast,” he says, his eyes full of mistrust.

“I’m gonna grab something with Kasey,” I say, picking up my shoes. “Thanks though.”

I head for the door, and he steps in front of me, blocking my exit. “Wait, what’s going on?”

I stare down at the floor. “Thanks for looking after me last night, Atlas, but that’s all it was. I was drunk.”

“You asked me to hold you,” he snaps.

“Again, I was drunk.”

“You came on my jeans,” he snaps, and I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “You practically begged me to fuck you.”

I bristle at his words. “And you’re so easy when a woman begs,” I snap.

He relents, sighing. “I just thought . . . yah know, maybe we’d turned a corner.”

“You nearly had sex with your ex,” I snap.

“But I didn’t.”

“Only because you were interrupted,” I yell. He stills. “Anita told me that you only stopped because Tom arrived.”

“Everything I said last night was true. I am falling for you.”

His words cause more pain, and I inhale sharply, placing a hand over my chest. “We’re over.” I rush from the room, slamming the door behind me.

The air is cooler now, laced with the hush of late evening. Crickets chirp somewhere in the long grass, and the tree above me rustles every so often, its branches swaying gently like it knows how fragile I feel.

I sit cross-legged on the grass, my palms pressed flat to the earth like I’m trying to ground myself. Everything is still. But my mind is racing.

I should feel better. I should feel something more than hollow. But there’s a quiet ache behind my ribs that hasn’t let up since I left his bed.

I don’t regret it. Not really. I just don’t know what it means . If it was comfort or connection, if it was a goodbye or if I was just too drunk to remember all the hurt.

I hug my knees to my chest, watching the dark outline of the club through the trees. There’s laughter from inside. Music. Clinking bottles and the occasional roar of a bike engine.

None of it feels like mine.

Then I hear footsteps, soft ones, deliberate. I don’t look up. I already know who it is.

Atlas doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels beside me and sets three things on the grass: a blanket, thick and worn, a coffee mug, steaming, and a book, my book, the battered copy of The Night Circus I’ve read a hundred times, the one with my scribbles in the margins and the loose spine I once tried to fix with tape.

I blink down at the items, my chest tightening.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even try. Just lingers there for a beat, like he’s making sure I’m really okay.

Then, quietly, he walks away.

And I break, not in a painful, falling-apart kind of way, but in the way a person softens when they’re seen exactly as they are.