Page 11 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

nine

. . .

Fern

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 from marble 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 terrible experimental 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."

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.

"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.