Page 30 of Atlas (The Chaos Demons MC #6)

I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and press the coffee to my lips. It’s perfect, and exactly how I always order it, with a hint of vanilla syrup.

Even when I can’t find the words, Atlas seems to hear what I don’t say.

I wake to the scent of him. It’s a subtle hint of leather and smoke and something warm, like cedar, but it wraps around me before I even open my eyes.

For a second, I think I’m still outside. Still under the tree with the night pressing down around me. But then my fingers shift, brushing against sheets instead of grass, and I feel the weight of a blanket tucked around my shoulders.

I blink slowly into the dark room. I reach for the lamp on the nightstand and click it on. The glow floods the room, soft and golden, and my breath catches in my throat.

Atlas is asleep in the chair by the window.

His arms are folded across his chest; his head tipped back against the wall.

One leg is stretched out in front of him, the other bent just enough to suggest he didn’t mean to fall asleep.

There’s a book resting on the arm of the chair, my book, the spine splayed open like he’d been rereading the parts I’ve underlined.

He must’ve carried me inside and tucked me in. My heart twists in my chest.

The sight of him hits me hard, not because he looks good (he always does), but because of what it means . Because he didn’t leave me out there. Because he came to check on me and then took care of me.

He stayed.

Even when I didn’t ask him to.

Especially when I didn’t ask him to.

I sit up slowly, the blanket falling from my shoulders, and I just watch him. Letting myself take in every quiet detail. The crease between his brows. The slight twitch of his fingers like he’s dreaming.

I move quietly, careful not to wake him. The blanket slips from my shoulders as I stand, and I gather it in my hands, walking it over to where he sleeps.

He looks uncomfortable in that chair, he’s too tall for it, and his neck is tilted at an awkward angle, but there’s something peaceful in his face. His chest rises slow, steady breaths, his lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones.

I drape the blanket over him, tucking it around his arms and shoulders. He doesn’t stir.

I should stop there.

But I don’t.

I hover a moment longer, my heart thudding wildly, a war raging behind my ribs. My head is screaming at me to walk away, to leave this thing alone before it ruins us both again.

But my heart?

My heart begs for one stolen second.

He’ll never know.

So I lean down, slow and hesitant, until my lips brush his.

It’s feather-light, barely a kiss at all. Just a breath of contact, a silent confession he’ll never hear. I linger there, like I can pour everything I never said into that one moment. Like I can give him this tiny part of me without ever having to explain it.

And then I pull back.

Only, before I can take a step, his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist.

I gasp, startled, and meet his eyes.

He’s awake.

Not groggy. Not confused.

Awake.

And watching me.

His eyes burn into mine, dark, steady, unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t ask why. He just looks at me, like he’s trying to read every thought I’ve ever had.

My breath catches, frozen between apology and panic.

Then slowly, gently, he releases me.

I stand there a beat too long, my skin tingling where he touched me.

Without a word, I turn and slip into the bathroom, clutching the edge of the sink as I try to catch my breath.

My heart is racing. What did I just do? He wasn’t meant to know. To catch me. I groan. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “You have to get a grip,” I whisper at myself.

By the time I step back into the bedroom, he’s gone. The chair is empty with the blanket draped neatly over the back, like he was never there.

I should be happy he left without a word. But I can’t deny the ache burning deeper in my heart.

Anita

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the clink of cutlery and low restaurant chatter. We’re seated by the window, too exposed, too bright. My palms are already damp.

“We’re laying our cards on the table,” Tom replies, calm and unmoved as ever. “Giving him a chance to back out of the battle.”

I glance towards the door, and my stomach knots. “What if he’s got something worse on me?”

Tom doesn’t flinch. “Like?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. I don’t know . That’s the worst part. With Damien, the truth is elastic. He bends it until it strangles you.

“He’s been known to make stuff up,” I mutter.

“I’ve requested a female judge,” Tom says, folding his napkin with irritating precision. “She’s new but sharp. Not the type to be bribed or bullied. She’ll stick to the evidence.”

“So, why are we doing this?” I ask.

He turns to me fully, his gaze direct. “Because if he’s bluffing, this is where he’ll flinch.”

I don’t get a chance to respond before a voice cuts through the air.

“Anita.”

I jolt, head snapping up.

He’s early.

“Damien,” I manage, trying to sound neutral. My spine stiffens as he slides into the chair opposite me, dressed like he’s walked out of a boardroom—clean, controlled, poisonous.

A waitress materialises beside him. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” he says without looking at her. “I won’t be staying long.”

The second she disappears, his eyes fix on mine. He doesn’t even glance at Tom.

“What do you want?” he asks, crisp and cold like a slap.

I clear my throat, nerves tightening around my vocal cords. “How’s Leo?”

“Get to the point,” he says, voice flatter now. Impatient.

Tom leans forward slightly, finally drawing Damien’s attention. “We wanted to be upfront. Some new information has come to light. We’re giving you the chance to respond before it goes through the courts.”

Damien’s gaze flicks to him, sharp and dismissive. “Such as?”

“Kasey Green,” Tom says evenly.

It’s brief, but I see it—the faint twitch in Damien’s jaw, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knows the name.

“Who?”

Tom chuckles, low and humourless. “Let’s not insult each other with that. I don’t have time for games.”

Damien drums his fingers on the table . Tap. Tap. Tap . He’s rattled, yet trying to cover it with arrogance.

Then, casually, like tossing a grenade with a smile, he turns back to me. “Are you still hooking up with the biker, Anita?”

Tom doesn’t rise to it. “Do you have evidence of that?”

“Do I need it?” Damien replies, smirking slightly. “Your client doesn’t have the cleanest reputation.”

Tom laces his fingers together and rests them calmly on the table. It’s a calculated move, done with quiet authority. “Yes, Mr. Carpenter, you do need it. Because this time, we’re doing things by the book. No backdoor judges. No fabricated scandals. Just facts.”

Damien’s expression falters. Only for a second. But it’s enough. “I see you’ve been taken in by my wife.”

“ Ex ,” Tom corrects without missing a beat.

Damien huffs a dry laugh. “Ex-wife. Trust me when I say, she will make a fool of you in that courtroom once I present what I’ve gathered.”

Tom doesn’t blink. “Judge Griffin is meticulous. And fair. I look forward to hearing what stories you’ve crafted. I’m confident the truth will speak louder.”

For once, Damien has no clever comeback.

I glance down at my hands under the table, pressing my fingers together until they ache. This is it—the beginning of the war.

But for the first time in a long time . . . I don’t feel alone.

He finally stands, yanking his suit jacket into place and straightening his tie like he still has control of something.

“I’ll see you in court,” Damien mutters, his voice tight with the effort of keeping his temper in check.

And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with more force than necessary.

For a beat, I just sit there, staring at the empty space he left behind. The tension still clings to me, like static after a storm. But then it cracks and something warm blooms in my chest.

I turn to Tom, barely containing the rush in my voice. “Oh my god, you were amazing,” I breathe, grinning wide. “He didn’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him so . . . lost for words .”

Tom allows a small smile, but it’s measured, the kind of smile you earn from him, not the kind he hands out.

“He’s not used to being challenged,” he says simply, reaching for his coffee. “Especially not by someone who knows the law better than he does.”

I lean back in my chair, exhaling the tension I hadn’t even realised I was still holding. “I needed that,” I admit. “To see him flinch.”

“You needed to see he bleeds like everyone else,” Tom says.

I nod, and for a moment I let myself enjoy the silence. The weight of Damien’s presence has lifted, and in its place, there’s just me and Tom. Calm, capable, quietly victorious.

“Thank you,” I say, more sincerely this time.

Tom’s eyes meet mine, steady and professional, but there’s a softness there too. “You’re the one doing the hard part,” he replies. “I’m just helping you make it stick.”

My smile fades a little, shifting into something steadier. “Still,” I say, “it feels good to have someone on my side who isn’t afraid of him.”

Tom finishes his drink and sets the mug down with a faint clink . “He should be afraid of you , Anita. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

I bite my lip to stop the smile from spreading. “You have a way with words,” I murmur, letting my gaze drop.

But then he reaches out, takes my chin between his fingers, and lifts my face to meet his. His touch is light, careful, but his eyes burn into mine with something that feels like awe. Like he’s looking at a woman who matters.

“I’m not saying anything you don’t deserve to hear,” he says softly. “I’m just doing what every man before me should have done, reminding you who you are.”

I blink, my heart stalling.

“Somewhere along the way, you forgot,” he goes on, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t. Not for a second.”

The air shifts. I lean in—not fully, not boldly—just enough to let the possibility hang between us. To see if he’ll close the space.

His eyes flick to my mouth, and I swear he sways closer for half a second. My breath catches.

But then he clears his throat and pulls back, letting his hand fall away with a quiet sigh. “We should probably get out of here,” he says, his voice rougher now. “Before I forget I'm your lawyer.”

He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I nod, almost lost for words as I push to my feet, my mind racing with what just happened . . . or almost happened.