Chapter 6

Ivy

I jump up from the table, putting more distance between Atlas and me. If I were a compass, my mechanism would be going crazy. He's a fucking magnet drawing me off course. "Don't say that."

"I won't lie to you," he answers, picks up a plate and slides it into the washer.

Could he be right? If my mother was a calix, had she known? All her warnings against men, all the moving, the hiding. I'd been a bitter teenager to her for it, but what if… My mind darts to my sister, to those horrible monsters today, to the awful message I received that got me on the first bus to Onyx: I need your help, Ivy. I think someone is stalking me. I watch Atlas bend to place another dirty dish in the dishwasher, his t-shirt stretching over his back, his strength and prowess in the swell and sweep of his muscles. I don't know if I believe him… it's hard to, considering what he's claiming, but I do believe myself and what I saw. What if that's what has gone after Hazel?

"My sister," I start.

Atlas straightens after closing the dishwasher door, turns, then waits. He's so even and calm, whereas I feel like I've plugged myself into an electrical socket most days.

"I got a message from her telling me she thought someone was stalking her. Then, a few days later, I get a message on my phone—a stranger…" I lift my eyes to his.

He's uncrossed his arms, his head tilted as he watches me, a worried frown pulling at his mouth. "What did they say?"

I can't reconcile his concern. I'm a stranger, and since my mother's death—who has ever watched over me? "They have Hazel. And I'm supposed to bring them money in exchange for her." I look at my duffle he's dropped on the floor. "That's why I need to get to the city." Tears fill my eyes. "They gave me a deadline, or they said they'd kill her."

"Are you…" He shakes his head as if to reset. "Is there a reason someone might target your sister?"

I shake my head. "We aren't rich, if that's what you"re asking." I swipe the wet tears from my cheeks.

"Then what's in the duffle?" he asks.

"Everything I have—but not nearly enough." I pause as pieces of a puzzle seem to fit into place. "I've chased the why in my head over and over. There isn't any reason. Unless..."

Atlas makes his way around the counter to me. When he reaches me, he touches a curled knuckle under my chin and tilts my head so I'm looking at his face. "Unless it's because she's a calix. And if she's told them she has a sister…"

"Who?"

He releases me and steps away, turning, hands on his hips, silent.

"What do you mean?"

He holds up a finger as if asking me to wait, which confuses me.

I huff in frustration and start past him toward my duffle, only he catches me, grabbing hold of my arms and turning me back toward him.

"I'm talking to my brothers," he says, but it doesn't explain things. He isn't using a phone.

"There's no one here," I say.

He taps his head.

I lean back. "What?"

"They'll be here in the morning."

"What do you mean?"

"Telepathy. We're connected. All Blacks are."

I blink. "What?"

"Black. My surname. My family." He sighs, his thumbs moving back and forth against the sweater over my arms. "I told you it's a lot."

I step back, severing his touch even though instincts are pushing me to step closer. I need to focus. I leave the telepathy for now… because that's just… I just can't. "Why would being a calix matter—for my sister? Is this because of calix being in hiding?" I ask.

Atlas runs a hand through his hair. "Unfortunately, it's come to light recently that not all sentinels are… doing what's right." He crosses his arms over his chest.

I hate that I notice the beauty of his body, and the way my own conjures images of him naked, of him over me, pushing inside me, filling me. I blink and shake my head at the image. Focus, Ivy. You don't fucking know him.

Has that mattered before?a voice inside me asks, and I want to fight it, but I can't. The one-night stands, the sex—it quiets the voices, at least temporarily.

"And–" He stops.

"What?"

"I don't want to overwhelm you."

"You don't think we're well past that? My overwhelm has been running at peak since the bar."

With a nod, he grabs my hand and draws me into the living room, where he sits, pulling me down into the seat next to him. "Calix are rarer now. Since the… demon realm began the Cull."

"The Cull?"

His thumb runs over the skin of my hand. "Killing calix."

"Because if there aren't any calix, there aren't any sentinels." It's hard to form the thought, the sensations he's creating just by touching my hand sparking an inferno of feeling inside my body and of images of fucking him inside my head.

"Theoretically. I won't go into the chicken or the egg conundrum, but with the Cull, it has been harder for Sentinels to achieve incitare."

I want to jump into his lap. I don't. "Which makes them stronger." I stand, avoiding our connection.

"Right." I can feel his eyes track me. "A Sentinel can't just… achieve the fated-bond with any calix. They must belong together—their power signatures aligned—for incitare to occur. Because of the Cull, that's what pushed the calix underground."

"And why a calix might not know what she is." I bite my thumbnail and turn away from Atlas, because looking at him and concentrating feels impossible. He's claiming what we're feeling is this… bond, a need to complete incitare. It's definitely something.

"And why your sister might have been taken and used as bait to get you there as well. Perhaps a sentinel group trying to force bonds."

I whirl back around. "Can it be forced?"

Atlas shakes his head. "No. Incitare is special, but that's what they're looking for, I would bet." He pauses, then says, "But that doesn't mean a sentinel can't still force… things."

"They'd rape her?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

"I have to get to my sister." I start across the room to my duffle. I don't know how I'm going to get to her. I'm not exactly thinking, I'm just needing to move, needing to do something.

Suddenly I'm swept off my feet and hauled over his shoulder.

"What!?" I screech.

"You're not going anywhere," he says, scooping up my bag and walking through the house. "You're getting a good fucking night's sleep, and we'll figure this shit out in the morning."

"What the fuck!" I struggle against his hold. "Let me go."

His hold tightens, and we start down a set of stairs. "Can't. Not sorry. And I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're mine. Mine to keep safe."

I yell obscenities at him, so angry, even knowing logically that leaving here in the middle of the night having no idea where I am and in which direction I need to go is ludicrous. It doesn't change the fact that I'm completely out of control, out of my element, and grasping at what I can control. "I'm not yours!"

"You are," he says, as one of his hands slides up the back of my thigh, nearly to the juncture between my legs.

The sensation of his touch moves through me—a raging river—and I gasp because pleasure floods my core. Heat blossoms, rushing through my body and melting my insides.

His hold tightens around my thigh, and he pushes through a door into a dark room lit only by the moonlight though a window.

The duffle drops with a thud.

Then I'm sliding down the front of his body, until my feet hit the floor and his palms frame my face. "You aren't going anywhere," he growls as he walks me backward. "Not without me. Ever. We'll figure it out. Together."

His words connect with an inner mechanism inside of me, as if popping a gear into place and cranking up everything to its highest speed. I suddenly don't give a fuck that I've only known this man less than twelve hours. I don't give a fuck that I've been manhandled into a bedroom, and he's saying he won't let me out of his sight. I don't give a fuck about weird monsters, crazy stories, or telepathy that may or may not be true. I don't give a fuck about anything but the sudden need gripping my belly in a vice of want.

I yank at his shirt. "And my sister?"

He presses his lips to my jaw and huffs a breath filled with want.

It makes me feel powerful, that sound.

"I'll help. And my brothers." He shifts, letting go of my face, lifting his arms so I can pull the t-shirt over his head. Fuck. His chest, his abs, the divots and swells are something to behold. Marked with ink, his tattoos swirl across his body. It's artwork. A smattering of hair speckles his broad chest, and the trail disappears at the tapered waist under his jeans. My mouth waters as I drop the shirt.

His palms cup my cheeks again, then one shifts around the back of my neck as the other drifts across my jaw to my neck then stops to span my collarbone. He runs his nose along my jaw. "You smell so good." That tone hits a button inside of me, and as he skims his lips across my skin, I turn my face toward him.

Our lips meet.

It's a gentle, getting-to-know-you kind of kiss. Tentative and testing. His lips are soft but strong and bold, taking and giving in equal measure. He doesn't waste movement, tilting his head, seeking depth. That hand on my collarbone moves, dropping to my waist. "I want to feel you," he says against my mouth.

"Yes," I breathe the word against his lips.

As his hand glides up under the hem of my shirt, his fingertips graze the skin of my belly, moving up toward my boobs, but he doesn't touch me, but rather teases me, skims the side of my boob with his thumb as his tongue teases the seam of my lips.

I break the kiss and look at him, then yank the sweater up and over my head. Atlas helps me pull the sweater all the way off. I watch him lick his lip as he appreciates my body.

"Purple. Fuck. This is my new favorite color," he says and skims his fingertips across the lace of the bra, grazing my nipple with his fingers. I whimper as the sensations multiply inside of me, the thrum of heat, sensation, and sound.

I kiss him this time, grabbing hold of his face and pulling him to mine. This time, however, there is no hesitation. This time, the kiss is open-mouthed, hungry, and stakes claim.

Atlas groans, sliding his hands down my back, pressing me tighter against him. I feel the rigid length of his erection against my belly. His hands continue down to my thighs, and he lifts me, his mouth devouring, taking, claiming. Wanting this with every fiber of my being, I wrap my legs around his waist, still connected by our kiss. Then suddenly my back is on the bed, and Atlas has his thigh pressed high between my legs, and I can't help but rock my hips against him, the friction on my clit, propelling a moan and a gasp.

He moves, adjusting so he can access my belt, though his mouth still claims mine. He eventually works my pants down my hips along with my panties. "Fuck, Ivy. I need to feel you," he says. I help, lifting so we can work them over my ass. But he doesn't seem to have the patience to wait, his fingers finding my wet core when my pants have only made it to mid-thigh. His fingers skim me at the same time his tongue skims my lips, a mimicry of the dance between his tongue and fingers.

I grasp at his belt.

"No." He leans back, his dark eyes delving into mine, and I realize I don't know him enough to even understand the look, but I can see his resolve.

"But—"

He grabs my both of my hands and raises them over my head. "Don't touch," he orders me.

I'm not used to being ordered about. There's a part of me that wants to rebel against it, and the other that likes the submission.

"Don't move them," he whispers against my lips, then slides his hands from mine, down my arms, skimming the sides of my breasts and ending at my hips, "or there will be consequences."

And for the life of me I can't figure out why that turns me on so hard. I moan, arching against him, and he chuckles, his fingers finding the slick skin of my pussy once more and weaving magic that spills into my bloodstream, only I can't spread my legs, can't move, and fuck I want to.

"My pants," I gasp, bucking against his touch.

"Leave them," he growls, then flips me over. "Leave your hands where I put them." He yanks my hips up, so I'm bare to him, my jeans and panties still around my thighs. And his hands drift over the skin of my ass, caress my bare back, grip my hips, and pull me higher. "Fuck, Ivy." One of his fingers, then another skims my slit. "Your pussy looks fucking divine. I can't wait to fucking taste it." And he inserts a finger, then a second into me.

I moan, "Oh," then whimper and rock back on my knees toward him, wanting to spread my legs wider, but can't. I'm stuck with my hands over my head, speared by Atlas's fingers behind me, and my pants around my thighs. He slips his fingers out and finds my clit, then owns my body, rotating between his fingers inside me and my clit. "The first moment I saw you, I knew. Tell me you felt it," he asks, a hand squeezing the flesh of my ass as the other expertly plays me.

"I felt it." I gasp out the words, tilting my hips, suppressing the urge to move my hands still above my head. "So hard. I wanted to come."

He growls, his hands offering me pleasure, his fingers working through my labia, offering attention to my clit, sliding in and out. While the physical sensations are pleasurable, it's his sounds, his words, that voice that undoes me. "Fuck, Ivy." I feel his rigidity against the back of my ass. "Your pussy is so fucking hot. I want to feel you come. I want to hear you cry out for me."

The inability to move— my loss of control—somehow heightens the experience and I'm crying out, "Please. Please Atlas?—"

"Fucking beg me for it, beautiful. I want to hear you wild."

"Oh. Fuck," I gasp as my body tightens and spasms. "I'm coming!"

"Fuck. Yes. Scream it for me."

And I do.

As I come down from the high of an orgasm, Atlas leans over me, his still denim-covered cock pressing harder against my backside. He grabs hold of my hands, slides his down to my shoulders and pulls me up, so I'm kneeling in front of him, my back to his front.

"You can move your hands now, Ivy," he whispers into my ear, giving me permission.

I grab hold of the back of his neck, and turn my head, to meet his mouth, and his hand slides down my belly, gripping me tight as we kiss. "Your turn," I say into his mouth and attempt to turn.

He shakes his head and kisses my shoulder, tightening his hold on my belly. "This isn't about turns." A hand cups my pussy. "So fucking wet. Fucking turns me on." He slides a finger through the remnants of my pleasure, removes his hand and brings it up to his mouth. In the dim room, I hear him suck on his fingers. "Tastes like perfection. Like… something that's mine." Then he's pushing my pants down to make more room. "Spread them. Wider—" And his fingers are driving into me again, his palm rubbing against my clit, until I'm moaning and rocking against his hand toward a second orgasm. "It isn't a tit for tat, Ivy," he whispers in my ear as I begin to beg him for release. "This is about showing you who you belong to."

And I come.