Page 19 of The Mob Boss's Bride
We return to the main club, and I don't miss the knowing looks, the subtle smirks. Fern's cheeks flush deeper as she realizes everyone knows exactly what we've been doing. But she doesn't shrink away—instead, she walks closer to my side, her hand firmly in mine.
Pride swells in my chest. She is mine, by law and by choice now. And she's not ashamed of it.
I spot Harker across the room, his expression souring as he takes in our disheveled appearance, the mark blooming on Fern's neck that I don't remember leaving. I meet his eyes deliberately, a clear message in my gaze:Try again and die, fucker.
He looks away first.
Without another word to anyone, I guide Fern through the crowd toward the exit. My hand rests possessively on the small of her back, my wedding ring gleaming under the club lights—another visible sign of my claim.
Outside, I lift her into my arms, ignoring her surprised laugh.
"Atlas! I can walk!"
"I know." I carry her to the waiting car anyway, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, the way she holds onto my neck. "But I like carrying what's mine."
She shakes her head, but nestles closer, her lips brushing my jaw in a way that makes me want to skip the car and take her against the nearest wall again.
"Caveman," she accuses softly.
I smile against her hair, inhaling the scent that's become as familiar to me as my own. "Your caveman."
And for the first time, those possessive words—mine, yours, ours—don't feel like a claim of ownership. They feel like a promise. Like something dangerously close to love.
seven
. . .
Fern
It's beenfive weeks since I became Mrs. Vale. Five weeks of living in this fortress-mansion with a man who started as my captor and has somehow become... something else entirely. I catch myself watching him when he doesn't notice—the way his brow furrows when he reads reports, the rare smile that transforms his face from intimidating to heartbreakingly beautiful, the gentleness of his hands when he touches me despite their capacity for violence. I shouldn't be feeling this. This wasn't supposed to be real. This was survival, protection, a business arrangement. So why does my heart race when he enters a room? Why do I seek his touch even when we're alone and there's no one to perform for? Why am I starting to think of this place as home?
I sit in the corner of Atlas's office, a book open in my lap that I've been pretending to read for the past hour. In reality, I've been watching him work—the controlled power in his movements, the quiet authority in his voice as he gives ordersover the phone. Three of his men came in for a meeting earlier, and I was struck by the way they looked at him—not with fear, as I might have expected, but with respect. Loyalty.
"Problem at the docks," Atlas says now, hanging up the phone. "Marco's handling it."
I nod, still fascinated by the glimpses I get of his world. He keeps the uglier aspects from me, I know. The violence. The true nature of his "business interests." But he doesn't hide the fact that he operates outside the law, that his authority comes from power rather than position.
"You're staring again, sugar." His voice drops lower, the endearment sliding over my skin like a caress.
"Just thinking." I close my book, giving up the pretense.
"About?" He leans back in his chair, those dark eyes studying me with an intensity that still makes my pulse quicken.
"You. This." I gesture vaguely between us. "All of it."
Something softens in his expression. "Regrets?"
The question surprises me. Atlas doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't invite criticism. Yet there's a genuine uncertainty in his voice that tugs at something deep inside me.
"Not regrets, exactly." I choose my words carefully. "Just... adjusting. It's a lot to process."
He nods, accepting this. "You've been away from your bakery for weeks."
"I know." I sigh, a pang of longing for my little shop hitting me. "Emma's doing a good job managing things, though. The daily reports help."
Atlas has arranged for my assistant manager to send detailed updates on the bakery's operations. I call in daily, making decisions remotely, but I haven't been back. It's still too dangerous, he insists. Silva's men have been spotted watching the shop.
"You miss it." It's not a question.
