Page 26 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"Always." I bend to kiss her, soft and sweet. "Nothing keeps me from you. Not Rodriguez, not death, nothing."
She catches my hand as I stand, pressing a kiss to my palm. "Be careful."
"For you? Always."
As I leave the room, giving orders to post guards at our door, I'm struck by the transformation the past weeks have wrought. Six weeks ago, I married Fern to protect her, to possess her. Now, I realize with crystal clarity that I would tear the world apart to keep her safe. Would kill without hesitation. Would die without question.
Because somewhere between forced vows and flour fights, between claiming her body and building her a kitchen, I've fallen completely, irrevocably in love with my wife.
And God help anyone who tries to take her from me.
nine
. . .
Fern
The mansion feelsdifferent after the attack—the security tighter, the guards more visible, Atlas more vigilant. It's been three days, and I still flinch at unexpected sounds, still wake in the night reaching for him to make sure he's real, still feel the echo of terror when I think about how close I came to losing... everything. That's what stops me each time. Not the fear for myself, though that was real enough as I huddled in that bathroom, listening to gunfire and shouting. No, what keeps jerking me awake at 3 AM is the memory of Atlas's face when he found me—the raw fear there, the vulnerability beneath his rage. The realization slams into me again: I could have lost him. And that thought is unbearable in a way that tells me everything I've been trying not to admit.
I wander through the east wing, trailing my fingers along the walls, trying to reconcile the violent invasion with the home this place has become. The damage has been repaired—bullet holes plastered over, broken furniture replaced, blood scrubbed frommarble floors—but knowing what happened here has changed something fundamental in how I see this fortress. It's not just Atlas's protection anymore; it's where we live. Together.
In my kitchen—the beautiful space he created just for me—I move through the familiar motions of baking, finding comfort in measuring, mixing, creating. The dough beneath my hands is smooth and forgiving. Unlike life. Unlike love.
Love.
The word I've been avoiding rises unbidden. I pause, hands deep in bread dough, flour dusting my arms to the elbows. Love. Is that what this is? This ache when he's not near, this sense of rightness when he is, this fear of losing him that eclipses even my fear of the danger surrounding us?
It makes no sense. This marriage began as protection, as survival. A business arrangement between a mob boss and a witness who saw too much. Love wasn't part of the equation. Shouldn't be part of the equation.
Yet here I am, kneading dough and admitting to myself what I've suspected for weeks: I love Atlas Vale. The man who forced me into marriage. The man who kills without hesitation to protect what's his. The man who built me a kitchen and fights flour battles and looks at me sometimes like I'm the answer to questions he never knew to ask.
I shape the dough into loaves, set them to rise, and clean my workspace, all while examining this revelation from every angle. Does it change anything? Everything? How can I love a man whose world is so different from mine, whose hands have blood on them, whose power comes from fear and violence?
But that's not all he is. Not to me. To me, he's the man who whispers praise against my skin as we make love. Who notices when I'm sad and brings me lilacs because he remembered I mentioned they were my favorite. Who drinks the terribleexperimental tea I made without complaint, even though I could see him fighting not to grimace.
"Deep thoughts?"
I startle at his voice, turning to find Atlas leaning in the doorway, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. He looks tired—the past three days have been a blur.
I startle at his voice, turning to find Atlas leaning in the doorway, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. He looks tired—the past three days have been a blur of meetings and phone calls, of "sending messages" I don't ask about, of reinforcing security and hunting down the person who ordered the attack.
"Just thinking," I say, wiping flour from my hands onto my apron.
He crosses to me, his movements fluid despite the exhaustion evident in the lines around his eyes. "About?"
"Us." The word hangs between us, simple and complex all at once.
His expression softens as he reaches me, one hand coming up to brush flour from my cheek. "Us," he repeats, like he's testing the word. "I like the sound of that."
"Me too." I lean into his touch, craving the connection. "How did the meeting go?"
"Fine." His standard answer for anything business-related, his way of shielding me from the uglier aspects of his world. "Rodriguez won't be a problem anymore."
I don't ask what that means. Don't want to know the details. But I'm not naive enough to think it ended peacefully.
"Are you okay?" I ask instead, noting the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.
"Better now." He draws me closer, his arms encircling my waist. "Now that I'm with you."
