Page 28 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"I love you," I whisper as he begins to move within me, gentle waves rather than crashing tides. "My husband. My Atlas."
Something breaks open in his expression at the word 'husband'—joy and wonder and something fiercely protective. "Yours," he agrees, his rhythm never faltering. "As you are mine. My wife. My heart."
We move together, finding a perfect rhythm that builds slowly, inevitably toward release. There's no rush, no desperate grabbing at pleasure. Just the gradual ascent toward something that feels like coming home.
When I finally crest that wave, it's with his name on my lips, his eyes holding mine, his body joined with mine so completely I don't know where I end and he begins. He follows moments later, my name a benediction on his lips as he shudders above me.
After, he gathers me close, my head on his chest, his heartbeat strong beneath my ear. Neither of us speaks for long minutes, content in the silence and the warmth of our connection.
"I never thought I'd have this," he finally says, his voice rumbling under my cheek. "Never thought I'd want it."
I trace patterns on his chest, connecting the lines of his tattoos. "What changed?"
"You." The simplicity of his answer brings fresh tears to my eyes. "You changed everything, Fern."
I lift my head to look at him, finding his expression open and unguarded for perhaps the first time since I've known him. "This isn't just a deal anymore," I repeat my earlier words. "This is real."
"It's always been real for me," he admits. "From the moment I saw you. I just didn't have the words for it."
I kiss him softly, sealing this new understanding between us. When I pull back, I see everything I feel reflected in his eyes—love, commitment, a future neither of us planned but both of us now want.
"I love you, Atlas Vale," I say again, the words feeling more right each time I speak them.
He tucks me closer, his arms secure around me. "And I love you, Fern Vale. More than I thought possible."
Outside, the sun sets on another day in our strange, unexpected life together. But inside, in the circle of his arms, in the warmth of our shared bed, in the truth of our feelings finally spoken aloud, something new is dawning.
Something that feels remarkably like forever.
epilogue
. . .
Sic months later
Atlas
Six months.Half a year since Fern became my wife in name, then in body, finally in heart. The ring on her finger—the one I placed there during our hasty wedding—catches the morning light as she works the dough for today's specialty pastries. She's in her element here, back at Sweet Ferns, her hands creating beauty from simple ingredients. I watch from the doorway of her office, something warm and unfamiliar expanding in my chest. Pride. Contentment. Love. Words that weren't in my vocabulary before her. I touch the small box in my pocket, the ring inside nothing like the one I forced on her finger during our first ceremony. This one I chose carefully, spent weeks finding something as unique as she is. Because today isn't about protection or survival. Today is about choice. About forever.
"You're hovering again," Fern says without looking up, a smile in her voice. She's learned to sense my presence, just as I've learned to read the minute changes in her expressions.
"Just admiring the view." I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She smells of vanilla and butter and home.
She leans back against me, her hands still working the dough with practiced efficiency. "You have meetings this morning. Marco already texted twice."
"Marco can wait." My hands slide up to cup her breasts through her flour-dusted apron. "This is more important."
She laughs, the sound light and free in a way it wasn't when we first met. "Feeling possessive today?"
"Always." I nip gently at her earlobe. "But I can control myself. For now."
She turns in my arms, rising on tiptoes to kiss me properly. "Good. Because I have three special orders to complete before noon."
I release her reluctantly, stepping back to let her work. The bakery won't open for another hour, giving us rare private time in her domain. Six weeks ago, when we determined Silva had been sufficiently dealt with and the danger had passed, Fern insisted on returning to Sweet Ferns. Not just to oversee operations, but to work—to bake, to create, to touch base with her customers.
I resisted at first. The idea of her unprotected, out in the open, went against every instinct I'd developed over our months together. But she was adamant. And so we compromised. Security upgrades throughout the bakery. Two of my men on rotation outside at all times. And me, dropping in unexpectedly throughout the day, both to check on her and because I've grown addicted to watching her in her element.
"How's the new recipe coming?" I ask, leaning against the counter.
