Page 27 of The Mob Boss's Bride
The simple honesty in his voice breaks something open inside me. All the feelings I've been examining, turning over, trying to understand—they surge forward, demanding expression.
"Atlas, I need to tell you something." My voice comes out steady despite the thundering of my heart.
He pulls back slightly, his gaze searching my face. "What is it?"
"This isn't just a deal anymore." The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. "This isn't just about protection or survival or... any of the reasons we got married."
Something flickers in his eyes—hope, fear, I can't tell. "What is it about, then?"
I take a deep breath, gathering courage. "It's about how I feel when I'm with you. How everything seems right when you're near and wrong when you're not. It's about how I was more scared of losing you during the attack than I was of dying myself." My voice wavers slightly. "It's about how I've fallen in love with you, and I don't know what to do about it."
The confession hangs in the air between us. Atlas goes utterly still, his expression frozen. For one terrible moment, I think I've miscalculated, misread everything.
Then his hands are framing my face, his eyes blazing with an intensity that steals my breath. "Say it again," he demands, his voice rough.
"I love you." The words come easier this time, truer. "I love you, Atlas."
He makes a sound—half groan, half something primal I can't name—before his mouth crashes onto mine. This kiss is different from all the others we've shared. Not possessive or claiming or desperate. It's reverent. Wondering. Like he's discovered something precious and fragile.
When he pulls back, his thumbs stroke my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn't know I'd shed. "Fern," he breathes, my name a prayer on his lips. "My Fern."
"I know it's complicated," I rush to explain. "I know this isn't how either of us planned things. But I need you to know how I feel, even if you don't?—"
"Don't." He cuts me off, resting his forehead against mine. "Don't say I don't feel the same. Don't even think it."
Hope blooms in my chest, fragile and tender. "Then what do you feel?"
Instead of answering with words, he lifts me into his arms, carrying me from the kitchen toward our bedroom with long, purposeful strides. His eyes never leave mine, something burning in their depths that makes me tremble with anticipation.
Our bedroom is bathed in late afternoon light, golden and warm. He sets me on my feet beside the bed, his hands gentle as they remove my flour-dusted apron, then begin working on the buttons of my blouse.
"I've never been good with words," he says softly, his fingers brushing skin as each button comes undone. "Not for this. Not for things that matter."
My blouse falls open, and he pushes it from my shoulders, his touch reverent. "But I can show you. Let me show you."
"Yes," I whisper, understanding what he's offering. Not just his body, but his soul. His truth.
He undresses me slowly, each garment removed with care, each newly revealed patch of skin honored with touches and kisses. This is nothing like our previous encounters—the desperate claiming after the attack, the playful passion in the kitchen, the rough need of our first times together. This is worship. This is communion.
When I stand naked before him, he steps back, his gaze traveling over me with such tenderness that tears prick behind my eyes again.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he says simply.
I reach for him, needing to touch, to reciprocate this care. He lets me undress him, patient as I unbutton his shirt to reveal the tattooed chest I've come to know so well. Each scar, each mark, each line of ink is familiar to me now. I trace them with my fingers, then my lips, feeling his breath catch as I move lower.
When we're both naked, he lays me on the bed with a gentleness that makes my heart ache. He stretches out beside me, propped on one elbow, his other hand tracing patterns on my skin.
"Before you," he says, his voice low and serious, "there was nothing but the business. Power. Control. I thought that was enough."
His fingers trail along my collarbone, down between my breasts, circling my navel. "Then you walked into my house with those pastry boxes and those blue eyes, and something in me knew." His hand settles over my heart. "Knew you were what I'd been missing. What I needed."
I cover his hand with mine, pressing it more firmly against my racing heart. "I was so afraid," I confess. "Not just of you, but of what I was feeling. How quickly everything changed."
"I know." He bends to press his lips to the pulse at my throat. "I was afraid too. Afraid of wanting something—someone—I couldn't control. Couldn't own through force or money or power."
His admission—this vulnerability from a man who shows weakness to no one—undoes me. I pull him to me, desperate suddenly for his weight, his heat, his presence.
He covers me with his body, settling between my thighs, but doesn't rush. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that speaks of devotion, of promise. When he finally enters me, it's with exquisite slowness, our eyes locked, our breathing synchronized.
