Page 10 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

eight

. . .

Atlas

The warehouse meeting runs late, numbers and territories and shipment schedules blurring together as evening stretches into night.

I check my watch again, thinking of Fern waiting at home.

Home. The word still feels strange in my mind, but that's what the mansion has become since she arrived—not just my fortress, but our home.

I'm calculating how soon I can leave without offending the Koreans when my phone vibrates.

Vex's name on the screen. He wouldn't interrupt unless— The message flashes:

brEACH AT MANSION. NORTH SIDE. F LOCATION UNKNOWN.

The world stops, narrows to those seven words. Fern. Unknown location. Breach. Someone is in my home. Someone is threatening what's mine.

"Mr. Park," I say, cutting through the interpreter's droning, "we need to conclude. Now."

The Korean businessman raises an eyebrow at my tone, but something in my expression must warn him not to push. He nods once, sharply.

"My associate will finalize the details tomorrow." I'm already on my feet, not waiting for a response. Donovan can clean this up. Right now, nothing matters but getting to Fern.

Outside, I call Vex while sliding behind the wheel of my Audi. "Talk."

"Four men. Armed. They breached the north perimeter through the service entrance. Security responded but they were prepared. Two of our men down."

"Dead?" I pull into traffic, pressing the accelerator to the floor.

"One confirmed. Second critical."

"And Fern?" Her name comes out strangled, fear clawing at my throat like a living thing.

"Last seen in the east wing. Her kitchen. Security cams went down before we could confirm her current location."

"Who?" I swerve around a slower car, ignoring the angry honk.

"Masks, but Rodriguez's crew based on tactics. Targeted strike."

Rodriguez. My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. Miguel Rodriguez, ambitious second-tier player who's been pushing boundaries for months. Testing me. And now he's crossed the one line no one crosses.

He's threatened my wife.

"How many men on site?" I'm already calculating angles, points of entry, the quickest route to Fern.

"Eight of ours still functional. Two of theirs confirmed down. At least two still active in the house."

"I'm five minutes out. No one touches Fern. No one." The words come out as a growl.

"Understood, boss."

I end the call and press the accelerator harder, my mind racing through scenarios, each one worse than the last. Fern hurt.

Fern taken. Fern—no. I can't think like that.

I need cold clarity now. Need to be the man who earned his territory through blood and ruthlessness, not the husband frantic with worry.

The drive that normally takes fifteen minutes I cover in seven. The gates to the estate are already open—not a good sign. I take the service entrance, tires squealing on gravel as I brake hard.

Marco meets me at the side door, blood streaking his face from a cut above his eye. "Two intruders still unaccounted for. East wing secure, but Mrs. Vale isn't there."

Cold dread pools in my stomach. "The panic room?"

"No sign she made it there."

I draw my gun, checking it with practiced efficiency. "Find her. Kill anyone who isn't ours."

Marco nods, understanding the order for what it is—no prisoners, no mercy. Not tonight.

I move through the house like a ghost, every sense heightened. The west wing shows signs of struggle—a broken vase, bullet holes in the wall, blood on the marble floor. One of Rodriguez's men lies dead in the hallway, throat cut with clinical precision. Vex's work.

A crash from the library pulls my attention. I approach silently, gun ready. Through the partially open door, I see a man in tactical gear rifling through my desk, clearly looking for something specific. Papers scatter as he yanks open drawers.

I could call out, demand answers. Instead, I step into the room and put a bullet through his knee.

He goes down with a howl of pain, weapon clattering from his grip. I kick it away, then press my foot to his wounded knee. His scream echoes off the bookshelves.

"Rodriguez sent you." Not a question.

"Fuck you, Vale," he spits through gritted teeth.

I apply more pressure to his ruined knee. "Where's my wife?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

I shoot his other knee. His scream cuts off into a choked gurgle as shock sets in.

"Wrong answer. Where is she? What were your orders?"

Blood loss makes him more compliant. "Find the woman. Grab her if possible. Kill her if not." His eyes roll back slightly before he forces them to focus. "Insurance. Leverage."

Cold rage floods my system, but my hands remain steady as I press the gun to his forehead. "Where are the others?"

"Fuck y?—"

I pull the trigger before he finishes. No time for games. Not with Fern in danger.

The distinctive crack of gunfire from the direction of the east wing propels me forward, heart hammering against my ribs. The house feels too large suddenly, too many places where she could be hurt, hiding, afraid.

I find the source of the gunfire in the hallway outside our bedroom. Another of Rodriguez's men lies dead, multiple bullet wounds in his chest. Vex stands over him, reloading his weapon.

"Any sign of her?" I demand.

"Nothing yet. This one was trying to breach the master suite."

A thought strikes me. "The bakery kitchen."

"We cleared it. She wasn't?—"

But I'm already moving, mind racing to the small bathroom attached to the kitchen I built for her. The one with the reinforced door I insisted on "just in case." The one I showed her how to lock from the inside during our first tour.

The kitchen shows signs of interrupted work—a bowl of batter sitting on the counter, oven still warm. My heart contracts painfully at the thought of Fern hearing the commotion, realizing something was wrong.

"Fern?" I call out, approaching the bathroom door. "It's me. It's Atlas."

Silence. I try the handle—locked, as I hoped.

"Fern, baby, it's safe now. Open the door."

More silence, then a small voice: "Atlas? Is it really you?"

Relief crashes through me so violently my knees nearly buckle. "It's me, sugar. Just me. You can open the door."

I hear movement, then the click of the lock disengaging. The door opens slowly to reveal Fern, pale and trembling but gloriously, beautifully alive. Her eyes are wide with fear, a small cut on her cheek the only visible injury.

"Atlas," she breathes, and then she's in my arms, her body shaking with quiet sobs. "There were men—I heard gunshots—I didn't know what to do?—"

"Shh." I crush her against my chest, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped tight around her waist. "You did exactly right. You hid. You stayed safe." My voice breaks slightly. "You stayed alive."

She pulls back enough to look at me, her fingers tracing my face like she needs to confirm I'm real. "You're hurt." Her fingers come away red from a graze on my temple I hadn't even noticed.

"I'm fine." I check her over for injuries, finding only the small cut on her cheek and what will be bruises on her arms—likely from when she ran to hide. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She shakes her head. "Just scared. I heard the alarms, then shouting, then gunshots. I remembered what you said about the bathroom door, so I locked myself in."

Smart girl. My smart, brave girl.

"It's over now," I assure her, though I know it isn't—not really. Rodriguez will pay for this, slowly and painfully. But that's for later. Right now, all that matters is Fern, safe in my arms.

I lift her easily, cradling her against my chest. She doesn't protest, just wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face against my shoulder. I carry her through the house, past my men securing the scene, past the bodies being removed, toward our bedroom.

"What happened?" she asks quietly as I set her down in our suite. "Who were those men?"

"A rival. Someone who thought they could use you to get to me." I stroke her hair back from her face, needing the contact, the reassurance that she's whole. "They were wrong."

She shivers, her eyes darting to the blood on my shirt—not mine, but she doesn't need to know that. "Did you... are they...?"

"Dead? Yes." I don't soften it. Won't lie to her about who I am, what I'm capable of. "Anyone who threatens you dies, Fern. That's non-negotiable."

Instead of fear or disgust, I see relief in her eyes. Understanding. She reaches for me, pulling me into a kiss that starts gentle but quickly blazes into something more desperate, more primal.

"I need you," she whispers against my mouth. "Need to feel you. Need to know we're both alive."

The words ignite something in me—the fear and rage and relief all transmuting into a desperate hunger.

I lift her again, carrying her to the bathroom, setting her on her feet only long enough to strip us both.

Water cascades over us as I turn on the shower, washing away blood and fear and the lingering scent of gunpowder.

"Atlas," she gasps as I press her against the tile wall, my mouth on her neck, her breasts, anywhere I can reach. "Please?—"

I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I enter her in one hard thrust. She cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders, her body arching to take me deeper.

This isn't gentle—it's claiming, reassuring, life-affirming.

Each thrust says what words can't: You're alive. I'm alive. We survived.

"Mine," I growl against her throat, marking her with my teeth. "No one takes you from me. No one hurts you. Ever."

"Yours," she agrees, meeting each thrust with equal desperation. "Always yours."

Water sluices over us as I drive into her, my grip on her thighs tight enough to leave bruises. But she doesn't complain—instead, she urges me on, her heels digging into my lower back, her words a litany of "please" and "more" and "Atlas" that drives me to the edge of control.

"I thought—" The words choke in my throat. "When I couldn't find you?—"

"I'm here." She frames my face with her hands, making me look at her. "I'm right here. Safe. With you."

The tenderness in her voice nearly undoes me. I slow my pace, wanting to savor her, to memorize every inch of the woman who has somehow become the center of my world.

"I can't lose you," I admit, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "Not you, Fern."

Something shifts in her expression—understanding, awe, a reflection of what I'm feeling. "You won't," she promises. "I'm not going anywhere."

I take her mouth in a kiss that's all possession and promise, then resume my rhythm, driving us both toward release.

When she comes, it's with my name on her lips, her body clenching around mine in waves that trigger my own climax.

I bury myself deep inside her, marking her in the most primitive way, my release a physical claim: mine, mine, mine.

Afterward, we stay locked together under the spray, my forehead pressed to hers, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I lower her gently to her feet, but keep her close, unable to break contact.

"Are you okay?" I ask, my thumbs brushing over the bruises already forming on her arms. "I was rough."

"I needed rough." She leans into me, all soft curves and trust. "I needed to feel you. To know it's over."

I wash her gently, tending to the small cut on her cheek, my touch reverent now where it was desperate before. She does the same for me, her fingers gentle on the graze at my temple.

"What happens now?" she asks as I wrap her in a towel.

"Now you rest." I lead her to our bed, tucking her under the covers. "I need to handle some things, make sure the house is secure. Then I'll be back."

Fear flashes in her eyes. "Don't leave. Please."

I sit beside her, brushing damp hair from her face. "Just for an hour. No more. I need to make sure this never happens again." My voice hardens. "Need to send a message."

She studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. "An hour. Then you come back to me."

"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.