Page 14 of Guarded by Atlas (Steel Rebels MC #6)

“It’s the eyes,” she says, letting me take her temperature. “He had kind eyes too. My John was built like a stick pole and the biggest muscle on him was that kind and generous heart of his. Fifty years of marriage, and I still remember the first time I saw him.”

“When was that?” I ask absently, humming when I note her temperature is just slightly above normal. I’ve heard this story a million times, and I imagine she’s not telling it to me but the man standing by the door, faced turned away but ears tuned in.

“He was a small thing when we were younger, and the boys in my neighborhood would pick on him a lot. Until one day, at eight, I jumped one of them and scratched his face, yelling for them to bully someone their own size. I lost a tooth that day and my daddy whooped my ass for fighting, but I gained a best friend, and twelve years later, he became my husband,” she muses, with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“I spent my entire youth loving the man, through the good and the bad. I can flirt all I want with these old geezers here because what else does an old lady like me have to do? However, none of them can or will ever replace my John.”

“That’s a lovely story, Debbie,” Atlas says, and I turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the door, staring into the hallway and seems to be deep in thought. There is something about his stance that has my brows furrowing.

Atlas seems distracted, and he remains that way for the rest of my shift.

He manages to get himself pulled into a game of cards, then later into some conversations on politics by another group, and before the end of the day, he’s made his rounds in the nursing home, pulled in all directions.

Everyone seems to love him and won’t let him leave until he promises to come back again.

But despite it all, he still has that thoughtful look on his face when he hands me the helmet at the end of the day.

“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned when he climbs onto the bike without a word.

“The seniors didn’t say anything to offend you, did they?

Sometimes they get like that, but don’t take it to heart. ”

“No, I enjoyed my time there,” he says quietly, and I want to push, but I don’t say anything as I climb on to the back behind him. I decide I’ll bring it up later when we’re not in public.

Atlas tears out of the parking lot, and fifteen minutes later, we’re arriving outside my building.

I find I appreciate the speed. It normally takes me half an hour or so to get home when I have to take public transit.

A little less if I order a ride, but nowhere near as fast as Atlas’s bike got us here.

I find myself already missing the clubhouse.

There is something about staying there that feels like an entirely different world, and leaving kind of snaps a person away from it.

I find myself desperate to keep some parts of what I had there, turning to Atlas and hoping he’ll follow me up to my apartment, but he doesn’t climb off the bike when I do.

I try to hide my disappointment when I speak, but it seeps through to my voice. “You’re not coming up?”

“Not tonight,” he says, those green eyes unreadable when they meet mine. “I figure you are tired after everything that’s happened this week. You’ll need to rest.”

We can rest together , is what my breaking heart wants to say, but I push it down. “Okay,” I say instead, passing him the helmet and trying to keep a cheerful air, but I fail. There is a sense of finality in this moment that makes my heart clench painfully.

“You don’t have to worry about your safety here,” he says, staring up at the brick and glass that is the place I consider home —or used to. “We got the men who kidnapped you. Ransom is keeping an eye on the building’s surveillance, but we’re confident you’re safe.”

“Sure, thanks for the ride.”

Feeling rejected and unwilling to let him see the effect it has on me, I turn around and walk to the entrance without once glancing back at him.

I embrace the anger, but it lasts only until I get to the bank of elevators before my mood sinks into depression.

This morning, I was convinced that he wanted me.

It seems I was wrong.

My head hangs low and swirls so wildly with thoughts of the man who turned away from me that I don’t notice the one standing outside my door until I’m only a few steps away from him.

I notice the bright glint of the knife first before my wide eyes look up and lock with a familiar face.

The knife is pressed against my throat before I can open up my mouth to scream.

“Open the fucking door!” the man hisses, his voice fierce.

So much for being safe. As I reach into my purse for my keys, my heart cracks at the thought of this being the end. It bleeds for my parents who might lose their only daughter, my big brother who’ll not have a little sister to spoil anymore, and my patients who need me.

I let the tears fall as the biggest ache comes from regret. Deep crushing regret that Atlas will never know just how much I love him.