My hands slid into his hair, and something in me gave way.I kissed him again, longer this time, pouring every unsaid thing into the space between our mouths.All the years.All the violence.All the strange, impossible roads that had led us back to each other.
38
Neve
Asound split the night open.
There was a crack, and it was too violent, too exact and too familiar to be anything else but a gunshot.
My body reacted before my mind did.I bolted upright, my heart jackhammering, my breath locked in my chest.For a second I couldn’t move.I couldn’t think or breathe as I focused on the sound that had woken me from my sleep.I would know that sound anywhere.
“Atlas,” I whispered, shaking his shoulder.
He didn’t stir.
“Atlas.”My voice came louder.Panicked.
His eyes snapped open instantly.There was no drowsiness or confusion.Just alert, intense focus like a switch being thrown.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—” My throat closed.“I heard something.”
His gaze narrowed.“What kind of something?”
“A gunshot.”
Everything in him went still.
Completely.Utterly.Still.Then the storm hit.
He was out of bed in one fluid, brutal movement.I scrambled back as he grabbed sweatpants from the chair and pulled them on, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the shadows like he was already calculating each and every movement.
“Neve.Get dressed.”
My legs shook as I climbed out of bed.“Atlas?—”
“Now.”
I grabbed my jeans off the ground where I’d dropped them hours ago.I found my shirt and flung it on with shaking fingers.My muscles wouldn’t cooperate, and the fabric kept catching, but I forced myself through it.
Behind me, I heard him pacing, listening, breathing like a man ready to tear through a wall, his phone pressed to his ear.
“Alessio,” he snapped.“Pick up.”
Silence.He tried again.Nothing.
His chest expanded like he was trying not to explode.Then he dialed another.
“Marcello,” he muttered.“Come on.Come on.”
Another ring.Another silence.
He ended the call with a vicious exhale.
My heart thundered.“Atlas, what’s happening?”
He didn’t answer.