Page 3 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

three

. . .

Fern

I wake to 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 a bathroom, 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?—"

The door opens, and I freeze mid-step.

Atlas fills the doorway, a garment bag in one hand, a tray in the other.

He's dressed in black pants and a charcoal henley that clings to his chest and arms, revealing the strong lines of his body.

The tattoos on his neck disappear beneath his collar, making me wonder how far down they go.

His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered. He looks devastating.

"You're awake." His eyes travel over me, lingering on my bare legs. "Sleep well?"

"Where are my clothes?" I demand, tugging the hem of the t-shirt lower.

"Being laundered." He steps in, setting the tray on a side table. "I brought you breakfast. And something to wear."

He hangs the garment bag on a hook by what I now see is a walk-in closet. The normalcy of his actions—bringing breakfast, providing clothes—contrasts so sharply with the insanity of the situation that I want to scream.

"You can't be serious," I say, the words bursting out of me. "About last night. About... marrying me. That was just—you were just?—"

"I'm always serious." He pours coffee from a carafe on the tray, the scent rich and enticing despite everything. "Milk? Sugar?"

"I don't want coffee! I want to go home!" My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. "This is kidnapping. This is insane."

He sets the coffee down and levels those dark eyes on me. "Is it? You witnessed a gang war and police raid last night. Three men died. Two were arrested. The rest scattered, including Ramon Silva, who saw you standing there under that streetlight."

My stomach drops. "How do you know his name? Were you—" I swallow hard. "Are you one of them?"

A cold smile touches his lips. "I'm not 'one of' anything, Fern. I own this territory. Every shipment, every deal, every movement of merchandise happens because I allow it."

The room seems to tilt slightly. I sink onto the edge of the bed. "You're... what? A mob boss?"

"If you want to be dramatic about it." He approaches, and I fight the urge to shrink back. "I prefer to think of myself as a businessman with specialized interests."

"Illegal interests."

"Sometimes." He sits beside me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. "The point is, Silva thinks you saw enough to identify him. To testify."

"But I didn't! I barely saw anything! I was just walking to my car after a delivery and then there were gunshots and people running?—"

"Doesn't matter what you actually saw. Matters what he thinks you saw." He picks up the coffee again, presses it into my hands. "Drink. You're pale."

I take the cup automatically, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. "So I'll tell the police I didn't see anything. I'll sign a statement."

"And Silva's men will believe that? They'll just let you go about your life?"

I take a sip of coffee—it's perfect, exactly how I like it, which is disconcerting—and try to think rationally. "There has to be another way. Witness protection or something."

Atlas laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "You think the government will protect you better than I can? They'll stick you in some shitty apartment in Omaha with a new name and no resources. And the first time you call your mother or check your old email, they'll find you."

"So your solution is marriage?" I set the coffee down with a sharp click. "To you? A man I met yesterday?"

"My solution," he says, voice dropping lower, "is to make you untouchable." His fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The contact sends an electric current down my spine. "As my wife, you'd have my name. My protection. My resources. No one would dare come near you."

"And the legal part? About not testifying?"

His mouth curves. "That too. Convenient, isn't it?"

"For you." I stand, needing distance from his overwhelming presence. "What about my life? My bakery? I can't just disappear into your world!"

"You won't have to." He remains seated, watching me pace. "You can keep your bakery. Keep your life, with a few adjustments for security. The only thing that changes is your last name. And your address."

I stop, turning to face him. "You expect me to live here? With you?"

"That's generally what married people do." There's a hint of amusement in his eyes now. "Share a home."

"And a bed?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His expression shifts, darkens. The amusement vanishes, replaced by something hungrier. "Eventually."

That single word, the way he says it—like a promise, like a threat—makes my body respond in ways I don't want to acknowledge. Heat pools low in my belly.

"I don't even know you," I say, the words sounding weak even to my own ears.

"You know enough." He stands in one fluid motion. "You know I can keep you safe. You know I want you. And you know what happens to witnesses in my world."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm telling you the reality." He approaches slowly, like I'm a skittish animal he doesn't want to frighten. "I'm offering protection the only way I can guarantee it. Take it or don't. But don't pretend there are better options."

"There have to be!"

"Name one." He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "One that doesn't end with you looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. One that keeps you alive and lets you keep your bakery."

I open my mouth, then close it. My mind races for alternatives and finds none.

"I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't want this."

"Want has nothing to do with it." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. Despite everything, I don't pull away. "This is survival, Fern. For both of us."

"Both?"

Something flickers in his eyes. "I told you. I want you. Have since you walked into my house with those pastry boxes and those big blue eyes. Marrying you solves two problems at once."

My breath catches. The intensity in his gaze makes me feel exposed, like he can see every thought crossing my mind. Every unwanted flicker of attraction I've felt since meeting him.

"What if I say no?" I whisper.

His expression hardens. "Then I'll still protect you as best I can. But I can't guarantee your safety. Not completely. Not like I could if you were mine."

There's that word again. Mine. Like I'm something to be possessed, claimed.

"And if I say yes?"

"Then no one touches you." His voice drops to a growl. "No one hurts you. Ever. You become untouchable."

I close my eyes, feeling trapped in an impossible choice. "I need time to think."

"We don't have time. Silva's already looking. My men intercepted one of his yesterday evening, asking questions about the 'blonde witness.'"

Fear slices through me, sharp and cold. "How did they find me so fast?"

"The hotel delivery. Your car was parked nearby. It wouldn't take much." His hand slides to my neck, warm and strong. "Say yes, Fern. Let me protect you."

I open my eyes, finding his face closer than before. "If I agree to this... marriage... it would be temporary, right? Just until this blows over?"

Something dangerous flashes across his features. "Is that what you want? Temporary?"

No, whispers a treacherous voice inside me. I ignore it. "Yes. A business arrangement."

He studies me for a long moment, then reaches into his pocket. When his hand emerges, he's holding a ring—platinum band, single large diamond, elegant and obviously expensive.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself." He takes my left hand, the diamond catching the sunlight. "But understand this: while you wear my name, you're mine. Completely. I don't share, not even on paper."

"That's not?—"

"Wives can't testify." He slides the ring onto my finger, where it sits, heavy and foreign. "You'll be safe. And I'll never let anyone touch you."

Before I can respond, his mouth crashes down on mine.

The kiss isn't gentle or questioning—it's possessive, demanding, his hand cupping the back of my head to hold me in place.

His lips are firm, insistent, coaxing mine open.

And god help me, I respond. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams to push him away.

He tastes like coffee and something darker, something addictive. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming it like he's claimed the rest of me. A small sound escapes my throat—not protest, but surrender.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have gone nearly black, pupils dilated with desire.

"Mine," he whispers against my lips, the word a brand. "Say it."

"Yours," I breathe, the word bypassing my brain entirely. "God help me. Yours."

His smile is all predator, all satisfaction. The diamond on my finger catches the light again, winking like it knows a secret.

And maybe it does. Maybe some part of me wanted this all along. Maybe that's the most terrifying thing of all.