The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“What if I tell you I don’t know?” she murmured, maneuvering from behind his chair to position herself against the table, leaning back on her palms. His hands seemed to levitate in a trance, moving of their own accord to find her hips. “Maybe you intrigue me. Maybe I like a puzzle.”

“Play a game with someone else, then. Nico. Callum.”

The mention of Callum’s name gave her an involuntary bristle, and Dalton looked up, brows furrowed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” The room was lit from above, but down here there was only the single desk lamp to cast illumination over Dalton’s features. “I have no interest in Callum.”

Dalton lips brushed the fabric of her dress; above her sternum, below the hollow of her throat. His eyes closed, then opened.

“I saw what he did, you know. I watched.” Dalton gestured evasively around. “There are surveillance enchantments, wards everywhere, and I was watching the two of you at the time. I saw it.”

“So you saw him kill her, then.” The reminder nearly gave Parisa a shiver; or would have, if she were less responsible with her own control.

“No, Parisa.”

Dalton reached up, touching her cheek; a single brush of his thumb, right over the bone.

“I saw her kill herself,” he said softly, and though it was the worst time, surely the wrong one, Parisa instinctively pulled him closer. Impulsively, she wanted him in her grasp.

She had nursed his affinity for her, making him crave her like an addict. One drop and he would go too far. He gave in easily, readily; perilously, like madness. His hands clutched her hips and he set her roughly at the edge of the table, inciting a burst of heat.

“People can do unnatural things. Dark things, sometimes.” He sounded hungry, ravenous, desperate. His lips brushed her neck and she sighed; something she’d done countless times before and would do countless times again. Still, it was different even when it was the same, and with him it was unprofessionally persuasive.

This was the magic of sex, the animation. Something coming alive inside her at his touch.

“Can’t you strike a deal with the devil if it means getting what you want?” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she thought of Callum.

Aren’t you tired? All this work, all this running, none of it you can ever escape; I can feel it in you, around you. You feel nothing anymore, do you? Only erosion, fatigue, depletion. Your exhaustion is all you are.

Parisa shuddered and pulled Dalton closer, so that his pulse aligned with hers. Both were arrhythmic and unsteady.

What are you fighting for? Do you even know anymore? You can’t leave this behind you. They will chase you, hunt you, follow you to the ends of the earth. You already know this, you know everything. How they will kill you a thousand different ways, bit by bit. Piece by piece. How they will destroy you, little by little, by robbing your life from you.

Her hands traveled over Dalton’s spine, nails biting into the blades of his shoulders.

Your death will have to be at their hands, on their terms, not yours. They will have to kill you to keep themselves alive.

She felt him come closer to breaking, teetering on the edge.

You have a choice, you know. You have only one true choice in this life: live or die. It is your decision. It is the only thing no one else can take from you.

Dalton’s lips, when they met hers, were spiced with something; brandy and abandon. She slid her fingers through his hair, reveling in his shiver that tugged her closer, like a reflex from a fall. She reached behind her, shoving the books aside; Dalton slid his hands under her dress, wrapping his hands around her thighs.

That gun you’re pointing at us… Do you even know who we are? Do you know why you’re here?

“Promise me,” Dalton said. “Promise me you’ll do something.”

Turn the gun around.

“Dalton, I—”

Pull the trigger.

Parisa gasped, blood and madness coursing through her when he shoved the dress up her legs, drawing her closer. In her mind, she watched the assassin’s death again, over and over. Turn the gun around. The smell of fire, a woman’s blood spraying at her feet. Pull the trigger. Callum hadn’t even lifted a finger. He’d barely drawn breath. Turn the gun around. He had looked that woman in the eye and convinced her to die. Pull the trigger. Her death had cost him nothing; not even a second thought.