Page 21 of When Love Found Us
It’s a lie.
A flimsy, useless lie.
But I need him to believe it.
I need to get out of here before this spirals into something I can’t control. Before he decides I’m a problem that needs fixing before, he starts asking questions I can’t afford to answer. Before he becomes just another man standing between me and my escape.
Atlas doesn’t move.
He doesn’t let go.
His grip is firm but careful, keeping me upright without making me feel caged in. It’s the restraint that unsettles me the most. The consideration. I don’t trust it.
“Blythe.” His voice is lower now, less of a command, more of an offering. “You’re not fine.”
“I am,” I whisper.
His jaw tenses, his fingers flex slightly where he’s holding me up. “You just threw up all over my shop.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliation licking at my skin like fire. “I’ll clean it.”
“That’s not the point.” He exhales through his nose, then shifts his grip, not releasing me but not holding on tighter either. “Come upstairs.”
My pulse spikes. “No.”
“We need to talk.” His voice is calm, too calm like he already knows I’m going to lose this fight.
I try to step back, but my legs aren’t cooperating, my body still weak and shaky. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There’s a lot to talk about.” He studies me, gaze sweeping over my face, my posture, like he’s trying to piece something together that I’m desperate to keep him from seeing. “You’re sick?—”
“I’m not sick.” The words rush out too fast, too sharp, and his eyes narrow slightly, catching on the edge of my desperation.
“You’re throwing up, you look like you’re about to collapse, and you want me to believe that’s normal?”
I grind my teeth, hating that my body has betrayed me so publicly. “It’s just something I ate.”
His expression darkens. “That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
I jerk against his hold, trying to put space between us, but he doesn’t let me go. Not forcefully. Not in a way that makes me feel trapped. But in a way that tells me he’s not going to let me run—not yet.
“Blythe.” His voice softens, threading through my defenses like a needle through frayed fabric. “Come upstairs. Just for a minute.”
I shake my head. “I need to go.”
“I’m not asking you to stay,” he says, and the quiet conviction in his tone makes my throat tighten. “Just talk to me, and probably change your clothes. If after we’re done, you still want to leave, I’ll even give you money so you can head to another town.”
I want to believe him.
I need to believe him.
But trusting a man’s word has never worked out for me before.
I hesitate, staring at the door, at my purse still slung over my shoulder, at the street beyond this place that I should already be walking down. But my stomach still churns, my body still feels like it’s running on fumes, and the idea of making it more than a few blocks in this state seems impossible.
Atlas watches me carefully like he knows exactly what’s going through my head, like he’s waiting for the moment I realize I don’t have much of a choice.
I hate that he’s right.
