Page 19 of Atlas and the Traitor

Atlas glared at the irresistible menace, and Robin’s answering laugh was as sexy as it was irritating. And when he released his face to brace his forearm on the wall behind Atlas, to cushion Atlas’s head from the hard stone, Atlas didn’t want to think about the pinch in his chest. An obnoxious ache that intensified when Robin pressed their temples together, grunting in Atlas’s ear with each stroke toward their climax. That damn near exploded when they spilled together over Robin’s fingers, and Robin spilled the sweetest, most terrifying words in his ear. “I’m done letting you hide from me.”

Fuck, what would that mean for them, for their allies and enemies, for Nature and Chaos? Robin didn’t know the half of it. And he never could. It was easier—and safer—to keep up the not altogether difficult pretense of hate.

To keep running.

Atlas dropped the magic around them and let the cool December air dissipate the heat that had built between them. Let it harden his voice and spine as he rebuilt his walls. “I still hate you.”

“I know you do.” Robin pushed off the wall, then had the fucking gall to lick his fingers clean. “And you still hate yourself more, same as me.”

Thank fuck for the wall holding Atlas up, the sight and the verbal shot taking his already wobbly knees out completely. And thank fuck Robin had already turned back toward the cottage, tossing a dismissive “Meet us at the mountain” over his shoulder.

Atlas lowered his arms that he’d left above his head against the wall, his fingers free the entire time. Not once during that entire encounter had he ever considered snapping himself out of the coyote’s hold.

They were so fucked.

Thirteen

Atlas didn’t immediately go to Talahalusi like he’d ordered the others.

After catching his breath and cursing himself, he cleaned himself up, then bent to pick up the picture of his brothers.

And the one behind it that had jostled loose when he shook the other free of the broken glass. Two green-eyed women and a third one with golden eyes and honey blond hair, each of their faces split with a smile.

He should burn it, let their secret die here, but that seemed like a push too far, especially on a day when he’d already tempted fate to the max. Folding the photo instead, he hid it inside the other and shoved them both in his wallet, then with a last look at the blazing cottage up the hill, snapped himself to the cemetery where he’d buried another brother eight days ago. He’d been prepared to kneel alone next to the second freshly dug grave but found a familiar form sitting cross-legged between the two, like he was hanging out with friends. Souls the medium could see and hear.

“I know,” Paris said with a laugh to one of them. “But I consider him a friend.” He twisted half around and threw him a smile. “There you are. Took you long enough.”

“Did they take your plane and leave you behind?” Atlas teased as he wove through the Shaw graves to reach his former pupil, as Robin had called him.

“I told them you’d get me home.” He looked good, color in his cheeks, brown eyes lively, a wide easy smile. He seemed comfortable in his skin in a way Atlas had never seen the young man. “And I thought you might need a friend.”

A knot formed in Atlas’s throat, and he swallowed hard to force it down. Paris Cirillo was the one thing he’d done right in this world. Teaching him, sheltering him, believing in him. “You thought wrong.”

“Cut the crap, Atlas.”

“Oh,” Atlas drawled, dramatically rearing back, a hand splayed on his chest. “Growing more of that backbone.”

“Thanks to you.”

He lowered himself onto the ground beside Paris. “I tried to sacrifice you.”

“So did Robin. You both had your reasons.”

“That’s not?—”

Paris bumped a shoulder against his. “I forgive you. Same as I forgave him.” Then jutted his chin at the freshly dug grave. “Can you forgive her?”

“Some part of me understands.” He propped his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands, fingers tugging at the roots of his hair. “The things I did at Vincent’s side...”

“The things my fathermadeyou do because he had your brother.” Atlas whipped his gaze back up. “I saw it,” Paris explained.

“I was there voluntarily, at first.”

Paris shook his head. “Not voluntarily. You were doing your job. Did you forgive Cole, or Canton, or your mother, for putting all this on you?”

The kid was also growing into that big brain Atlas always knew he had. Wrap all that knowledge and intuition in a blanket of empathy, and it was a powerful combination. He was a perfect medium; Atlas only hated what he’d had to put Paris through to get him there.

He raked a hand through his hair, then let his arms hang over his knees. “I lied before. I am sorry for what I did to you.”

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