Page 12 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

. . .

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.

"Almost perfect." She shapes the dough into neat rounds. "I'm still tweaking the ratio of cardamom to cinnamon."

I smile, remembering a time when such details would have seemed trivial to me. Now I understand. In Fern's world, the balance of spices matters as much as the balance of power does in mine.

That's been the most surprising discovery of the past six months: how seamlessly our worlds have woven together.

I've built legitimate businesses around her bakery—a coffee roaster, a specialty food importer, a chain of cafes featuring her pastries.

She's embraced parts of my world too, hosting dinner parties for business associates, learning which conversations to avoid, which men never to trust.

We've created something new together, something neither of us envisioned when I dragged her into my car that rainy night and demanded she become my wife.

"I need to check the ovens," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Can you put those in the proofing drawer?"

I do as asked, handling the delicate pastry with care I wouldn't show for anything else in my life except her. When she returns, she looks surprised and pleased at my handiwork.

"You're getting good at this, Mr. Vale."

"I have an excellent teacher, Mrs. Vale."

Her eyes soften at the name, as they always do. It took months for her to truly embrace being Fern Vale, to stop introducing herself as Fern Whitaker when meeting new people. Now she says it with pride, with ownership.

She moves around her kitchen with practiced grace, checking timers, adjusting temperatures, adding finishing touches to pastries already cooling on racks.

I marvel at her focus, her artistry, the way her hands create beauty from simple ingredients.

Just as she's created beauty from the wreckage of our beginning.

"I need to step out for a bit," I tell her, checking my watch. Everything is set, but I need fifteen minutes to make sure the final details are perfect. "I'll be back before opening."

She looks up, curious. I rarely leave once I've arrived. "Everything okay?"

"Perfect." I kiss her forehead. "Don't go anywhere."

Outside, I confirm arrangements with Marco, who's coordinating the surprise. The spring morning is perfect—blue skies, gentle breeze, the kind of day Fern loves. At exactly 6:45, I reenter the bakery through the back door, approaching Fern as she pulls a tray of croissants from the oven.

"Perfect timing," she says, sliding the tray onto the cooling rack. "These are your favorite—the dark chocolate ones."

I wait until she turns, until she can see my face clearly. "Fern, I need to talk to you."

Something in my tone makes her pause. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I take her hands in mine, careful of the lingering heat from the oven. "I just need to do something I should have done months ago."

Confusion crosses her features as I drop to one knee before her, still holding her hands in mine. "Atlas, what are you?—"

"Six months ago, I forced you into marriage," I begin, the words rehearsed but sincere.

"I gave you no choice, no courtship, nothing a woman like you deserves.

I took your freedom in the name of protection.

And somehow, miraculously, you've forgiven me for that.

You've built a life with me. You've loved me despite how we began. "

Her eyes widen, filling with tears as she realizes what's happening. "Atlas?—"

I release one of her hands to pull the box from my pocket. "I want to do this right, Fern. I want to give you the proposal you should have had. The choice you should have been offered."

I open the box, revealing the ring inside—a cushion-cut blue diamond surrounded by smaller white diamonds in a vintage-inspired platinum setting. The color matches her eyes exactly, as I knew it would when I commissioned it months ago.

"Fern Whitaker Vale," I say, using her full name deliberately, acknowledging all of who she is.

"I love you more than I thought it was possible to love another person.

You've changed me, challenged me, made me better than I was.

Will you choose me, this time? Will you be my wife—for real, forever, because you want to, not because you have to? "

A tear slides down her cheek, then another. "You ridiculous man," she says, her voice trembling with emotion. "I already am your wife."

"Say yes anyway," I urge, my own voice rougher than intended. "Choose me, like I've chosen you."

"Yes." The word is soft but certain, her free hand coming to cup my face. "Of course yes. I chose you months ago, Atlas, when I told you I loved you. When I stayed even after the danger passed."

I slide the ring onto her finger, just above her wedding band, where it sits like it was made to be there. Then I'm on my feet, pulling her into my arms, lifting her off the ground as I claim her mouth in a kiss that's equal parts tenderness and possession.

When I set her down, she examines the ring in wonder. "It's beautiful. It matches my?—"

"Your eyes. I know." I brush a tear from her cheek. "I had it made specially."

"You've been planning this." It's not a question.

"For months." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wanted it to be perfect. Wanted you to have the romance you deserved from the beginning."

She laughs softly, shaking her head. "Only you would think a proper proposal requires a custom ring and a speech when we're already married."

"You deserve more than I can ever give you," I say simply. "But I'll spend my life trying."

Her expression softens, and she rises on tiptoes to kiss me again. "I love you, Atlas Vale. My husband. My choice."

The words—my choice—settle something restless inside me, some lingering doubt that she might eventually regret the circumstances that brought us together. She has chosen me, freely and fully.

I deepen the kiss, my hands sliding down to her hips, drawing her flush against me. She responds immediately, her body molding to mine in the way I've grown addicted to. When she feels my arousal pressing against her stomach, she pulls back slightly, laughing.

"Atlas, the bakery opens in twenty minutes?—"

"Plenty of time." I'm already backing her toward her office, toward the small daybed she keeps there for long workdays. "I need to make love to my fiancée."

"I'm already your wife," she reminds me, but she's not resisting, her hands already working at the buttons of my shirt.

"Both." I kick the office door closed behind us, lifting her to sit on her desk. "My wife who just agreed to be my wife again. Who chose me." I pull her apron over her head, then work on the buttons of her blouse. "Who I'm going to spend forever making happy."

Her hands are just as busy, pushing my shirt from my shoulders, running over the tattooed skin she knows as well as her own now. "Twenty minutes," she says again, but there's no conviction in it.

"I'll be quick." I slide her blouse off, unhooking her bra with practiced ease. "But not too quick."