Page 6 of The Mob Boss's Bride
I watch her falling apart and make my decision. One that will protect her. One that will give me what I want.
"There's a way to keep you safe," I say quietly. "A way to make sure no one touches you."
She looks at me through her fingers, suspicious and hopeful at once. "How?"
"Be my wife."
The car fills with silence so absolute I can hear the rain on the roof.
"What?" she whispers.
"Marry me. Become a Vale. No one would dare touch you then. And—" I lean closer, into her space. "A wife can't testify against her husband. You'd be protected legally too."
"You're insane." She shrinks further against the door. "I barely know you!"
"You know enough." I catch her chin, forcing her to look at me. "You know I can protect you. You know what happens to witnesses."
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for cruelty, for any reason to refuse. I let her look. I have nothing to hide—not my desire, not my determination to possess her, not my willingness to do whatever it takes to keep her.
"This is crazy," she breathes, but there's less conviction in her voice.
"It's survival." My thumb traces her lower lip, and I feel her shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with cold or fear. "And it's the only offer you're getting."
The car turns onto the road leading to my estate. In the distance, lightning flashes, illuminating her face—pale, damp, beautiful in its vulnerability.
She closes her eyes briefly, defeat and acceptance washing over her features.
"Okay," she whispers. "God help me. Okay."
I pull her against my chest, feeling her surprise and resistance before she surrenders, melting against me. "No one will ever hurt you," I promise against her hair. "You're mine now. And I protect what's mine."
She doesn't respond, just trembles in my arms. But it's enough. She's agreed. She's mine.
And I’ll never let her go.
three
. . .
Fern
I waketo sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the sensation of drowning in fabric. The sheets beneath me feel like liquid silk, the duvet heavier and softer than anything I've ever slept under. For one blissful moment, I forget everything—where I am, how I got here, what I saw last night. Then reality crashes back like a wave breaking over my head, and I bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. Gunshots. Blood. Atlas pulling me against his chest. His voice in the car: Be my wife.
"No," I whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no."
My clothes from yesterday are gone. Instead, I'm wearing an oversized t-shirt that smells faintly of expensive cologne and something darker, more masculine. Atlas's shirt. The thought sends a shiver through me that I refuse to examine.
The bedroom is huge, minimalist but luxurious—all creams and grays with touches of black. A masculine space softened just enough to not feel stark. There's a door that must lead to abathroom, another that's probably a closet, and the main door that?—
I slide out of bed and pad across the plush carpet, my hand closing around the doorknob. I twist, expecting resistance, but it opens smoothly. Not locked. Somehow, that's more unsettling than if it had been. Atlas doesn't think he needs to lock me in. He's that confident I won't—or can't—leave.
The hallway outside is empty, silent, stretching in both directions with more doors, more rooms. This place is a labyrinth. Even if I wanted to escape, where would I go? In a t-shirt and nothing else, no phone, no money, no idea where I am beyond "Atlas's mansion"?
I retreat back into the bedroom, hugging myself. The events of last night play in an endless loop behind my eyes. The warehouse. The gunfire. Men running, bleeding. Atlas appearing like some dark guardian, wrapping himself around me, his body solid and warm despite the rain. The car ride. His impossible proposal.
Be my wife.
"Absolutely insane," I mutter, pacing the room. "Completely, utterly?—"
