Page 5 of Atlas (The Chaos Demons MC #6)

She’s smaller than I expected. Thinner. Tired.I don’t go straight in. I hang near the bar, grabbing myself a beer and taking a seat just behind a support beam so I can watch her.

She’s got that look, chin tilted like she’s braver than she feels, legs crossed like she’s comfortable, but one hand grips the edge of the table too tight. The guy talking to her leans in close. She keeps shifting back, eyes darting to the exit every few seconds like she’s planning her escape.

I’ve seen that look before. Girls like her, they learn to scan every room. Look for danger and for exits. She’s doing both.

She tries to laugh at something he says. It’s flat. He puts a hand on her knee.

She flinches.

That’s enough.

I drain what’s left of my beer, set the bottle down, and cross the room.

The guy doesn’t even notice me until I’m right behind him.

“Move,” I say, low and steady.

He turns, blinking like he’s trying to figure out whether to puff his chest or piss himself. “What the fuck?”

I hold up my patch-covered cut and raise a brow. “Say that again.”

His eyes scan my badge and suddenly he doesn’t look as confident.

Kasey looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Who are you?”

“Someone your sister sent.” I look back to the guy. “Last chance, dickhead.”

He bolts. Doesn’t even say a word. Just grabs his coat and slides out the side door like smoke.

Kasey stands, still holding her bag like she expects me to snatch it.

I nod towards the exit. “We should talk. Not here.”

She doesn’t move.

“You really from the club?” she asks, voice sharp with doubt.

I pull the photo from my jacket and hold it up.

“I’ve been riding half the country looking for you.”

“Congrats,” she mutters. “You found me. Now, what?”

I jerk my chin towards the door. “Now, I take you somewhere safe.”

She hesitates then grabs her drink and downs the last of it. “Fine, but if you’re planning on locking me in a basement or selling me to some creepy biker friend, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

I crack the first smile I’ve felt all day. “You’ll fit right in.”

We roll into the edge of town just after midnight. I find the least flashy, least memorable bed and breakfast I can, the kind with a flickering neon ‘VACANCY’ sign and zero questions asked at the front desk.

The woman behind the counter gives me a once-over and doesn’t bother hiding her distaste. “Just the one room?” she asks.

“Yeah, separate beds.”

Kasey scoffs behind me. “How romantic.”

She hands me a key, her judging eyes watching as we both head upstairs.

The room smells like old toast and cleaning spray. Two twin beds, one rattling radiator, and a suspicious stain on the curtain. I toss my bag onto the nearest bed and lock the door behind us.

She drops her jacket and flops onto the other bed like she owns the place.

“I’m not gonna run, you know,” she mutters, staring at the ceiling.

“You thought about it though.”

She shrugs. “I always think about it.”

I don’t reply. I sit down, pull off my boots, and set them neatly by the wall. My gun goes under my pillow, not because I think she’s dangerous but because it’s habit. She watches me the whole time.

“You always sleep with that thing?”

“Only when I’m babysitting.”

She smirks. “Cool. I’ve been downgraded to a toddler. I don’t need you looking after me,” she says after a moment.

“I’m here to get you back to the clubhouse in one piece.”

She rolls onto her side, facing away from me. Her voice is quieter now. “You have kids?”

I blink. That one hits deeper than I expect. “No.”

“You talk like you might’ve.”

I don’t answer that.

She shifts again. “Is it true what they say? About clubs like yours?”

“What do they say?”

“That women disappear. That you sell girls, kill people, that sort of thing.”

I snort. “You watch too many shit documentaries.”

“But you have killed people,” she says. Not asking. Stating.

I don’t answer that either.

She finally goes quiet. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Her breathing slows. I think she’s asleep, until she whispers, barely audible, “Thanks for coming to find me.”

I stay silent. But I hear it, the crack in her voice, and for the first time since Nita slammed the door on me, something in my chest shifts. Just a little.

Anita

I stare at the phone longer than I should.

No messages. No missed calls. No smug little text from Atlas reminding me what I’m missing.

Good.

I toss the phone onto the sofa and cross the apartment, heels echoing off marble tiles. Everything here is curated—polished, modern, detached. Just like me.

I’m dressed for dinner. My hair is pinned into a messy updo and my dress is sharp, with a neckline low enough to distract from how much I don’t want to be going. Another date . Another man who ticks all the boxes. Educated. Safe. Boring.

And not him.

Atlas hasn’t reached out since yesterday when he left the office. Not even a smartass comment through one of the guys. I never usually go a couple hours without him calling me or showing up. I should be pleased that he’s given me an out.

So, why do I feel so empty?

The buzzer sounds, and I grab my clutch, checking my reflection one last time. Lipstick flawless. Smile locked in.

Let the performance begin.

Damian always preferred this kind of place. Elegant, expensive, cold. My date, Anthony, fits in well. He orders wine without asking and tells me about his rich family like I’m meant to be impressed.

I laugh at all the right moments. I nod when I’m supposed to. I even let him touch my hand across the table.

But the whole time, I’m wondering where Atlas is. What job Axel sent him on. Whether he’s sleeping with someone else tonight. Whether she’s younger. Softer. Less of a goddamn coward than I am.

“You’re quiet,” Anthony says, tilting his head.

“Just tired,” I lie.

He smiles. “I’d love to help you unwind.”

It takes everything in me not to recoil.

Instead, I offer a polite smile and excuse myself to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me and lean against the sink, heart hammering.

What the hell am I doing?

Atlas is wrong for me. He’s messy, violent, reckless. My parents would faint. Damian would use it in court. Leo might hate me.

But the way he cares for me, the way he looks out for me. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt safe. And something inside me is screaming to tell him the truth, because the finality in his eyes as he left yesterday, scares the crap out of me.

I open my clutch and pull out my phone. Still nothing from him.

I lean my head back and stare at the glittering lights on the ceiling. “Come on, girl. Get it together,” I whisper.

I return to the table with a fresh coat of lipstick and the same frozen smile.

Anthony stands when I approach, polite, polished, completely performative. Just like this whole evening.

“You okay?” he asks as I sit down.

“Of course.” I fold my napkin back across my lap like nothing’s unravelling inside me.

He launches into another story about business in Dubai, something about investors and property and maximising market volatility . I nod along, but my brain tunes out. My gaze drifts to the couples around us—the flicker of candlelight, laughter, fingers brushing over white tablecloths.

I try to picture Atlas here.

He’d hate it. Probably insult the wine list and order a beer they don’t stock. He’d sit too close, say something crude, smirk like he knew I’d soak through my knickers when he whispered what he’d do to me under the table.

And I would.

“Nita?” I blink, pulled sharply back. Anthony is watching me, head tilted. “You looked miles away.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Just a long day.”

He smiles like he understands. He doesn’t. “You know . . . I was thinking. We should go away for a weekend. Somewhere calm. Tuscany, maybe.”

Tuscany.

I try to imagine it. I see the rolling hills, the wine, the silence. And me, sitting in a silk robe on a balcony with a man I don’t want, wondering if Atlas will show up just to ruin it.

“I’d like that,” I lie.

Because that’s what I do—I choose the path with the least resistance. The one that earns the approval of people who never had to fight to be respected.

Anthony reaches over and brushes his fingers against my wrist. The gesture is meant to be romantic.

It makes my stomach turn.

He’s not dangerous. He’s not possessive. He’s not grabbing my waist like he owns it. He’s not Atlas.

And that’s the whole fucking point.

Anthony pulls up outside my building in a car so sleek it looks like it doesn’t touch the road. Silent. Sculpted. Soulless.

The engine hums as he cuts it. “Is this you?” he asks, glancing up at the apartment block.

I nod.

His expression doesn’t shift much, but I see it—that faint wrinkle of disapproval. Like he’s trying to make sense of a designer bag hanging in a discount store window.

“It’s . . . modern,” he says diplomatically.

“It’s central,” I reply.

And it is. It’s expensive, minimalist, high-end by most standards. But not his . Not guarded-gate-and-private-lift enough.

It’s only the third date and I can see it clearly, the pressure to be something else, something better.

The subtle nudges, the reshaping. It took months of therapy to see the signs, the same ones I went through with Damian.

And even though I see them clearly, I’m still here, smiling politely, wanting him to pick me. Pathetic.

He opens the door before the valet can move and walks me to the entrance like he’s guiding a guest. His hand finds the small of my back again, gentle, possessive in that soft, acceptable way.

My stomach coils as we pause by the steps.

“I enjoyed tonight,” he says. “I feel like we’ve really connected.”

I smile, automatic. “Me too.”

He leans in. And I let him. His lips brush mine. They’re soft, dry, careful. He kisses like someone following a tutorial. Exactly the right pressure. Exactly the right pause. It doesn’t make my heart race. It doesn’t make my knees weak.

It doesn’t make me feel anything.

When he pulls back, he’s smiling like we’ve sealed a deal.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “Maybe book something for next week?”

“Sure,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

He waits for me to go inside before returning to his car. I watch him drive away, the lights vanishing into the city.

Inside the lift, I stare at my reflection in the polished steel walls. Lipstick barely smudged. Hair still perfect.

Everything in place.

Third date, I think, and already he’s choosing restaurants, destinations, future weekends. Already he’s nudging me away from my postcode and into his world. Already I’m being reshaped.

And still, somehow, he fits the brief.

But all I can think about is how Atlas kisses me with his whole body. With his hands, his teeth, his damn heartbeat.

And this one barely grazed the surface.

I press the button for my floor, pulse oddly steady. Safe is the right choice.

So, why does it feel so damn suffocating?