Page 5 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

five

. . .

Fern

I wake up tangled in sheets that smell like sex and Atlas's cologne, my body tender in places I've never felt before.

The memories flood back in vivid detail—his mouth on mine, his hands mapping my body like territory he intends to memorize, the words he growled against my skin as he claimed me over and over.

I should feel used. I should feel trapped.

Instead, I feel a liquid heat pooling in my belly at the mere memory, and a confusion that runs soul-deep.

How can my body betray me like this, responding so eagerly to a man who practically forced me into marriage?

A man who, I remind myself firmly, represents everything I should fear?

Sunlight streams through the windows, indicating it's well into morning. Atlas is gone, his side of the bed cold. I stretch, wincing slightly at the pleasant ache between my thighs, then curl back into the warm spot where our bodies joined repeatedly through the night.

Three times. We had sex three times, each more intense than the last. The third time, he'd taken me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, something in his gaze so intimate it frightened me more than his roughness. That wasn't just sex. That was... something else. Something I'm not ready to name.

"It's just physical," I whisper to the empty room. "Just chemistry. Just survival."

But the diamond on my finger catches the light, throwing tiny rainbows across the ceiling, and even I don't believe my words.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, looking for something to wear.

My dress from yesterday is draped carefully over a chair, but beside it lies one of Atlas's t-shirts—left deliberately, I'm sure.

The thought of him selecting clothes for me to wear should irritate me.

Instead, I find myself lifting the shirt to my nose, inhaling his scent before pulling it over my head.

The bathroom is a marble palace with a shower big enough for six people.

I stand under the spray for long minutes, trying to wash away my confusion along with the evidence of our night together.

It doesn't work. Every soap and shampoo smells like him.

Every bruise and mark on my body reminds me of his mouth, his hands, his possession.

When I emerge, wrapped in a plush towel, Atlas is there. He lounges against the doorframe, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. He's dressed in black pants and another henley, this one deep blue that makes his eyes seem even darker by contrast.

"Morning, wife." He says the word like it tastes good in his mouth.

"Morning." I clutch the towel tighter, suddenly shy despite everything we did last night.

He crosses to me, one hand lifting to brush damp hair from my face. "You're beautiful in the morning."

"I'm a mess," I counter, but my voice lacks conviction.

"A beautiful mess." His fingers trail down my neck to the edge of the towel. "My mess."

I should object to the possessiveness. I should step away. Instead, I lean into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight.

"I brought you breakfast," he says, nodding toward a tray on the bedside table I hadn't noticed. "And checked on your bakery. Your assistant manager has things under control. I told her you had a family emergency and would be in touch."

Panic flares in my chest. "You called my bakery? What exactly did you say? They'll worry?—"

"Relax." His thumb strokes my collarbone, soothing. "I was discreet. Said I was a friend helping you handle things. She seemed relieved someone was looking after you."

"I need to call them myself. I need my phone, my?—"

"After breakfast." He guides me to the bed, urging me to sit. "You need to eat. You barely touched dinner last night."

There was a reason for that, but I don't mention it. Instead, I watch as he uncovers the tray—fresh fruit, yogurt, pastries that look suspiciously like the ones from my own bakery, and coffee that smells like heaven.

"How did you get these?" I pick up one of my signature lemon-lavender scones.

A slight smile curves his lips. "I have people."

"You had someone go to my bakery and buy my own pastries to bring to me?" I don't know whether to be touched or disturbed.

"I wanted you to have something familiar. Something that would make you feel at home." He pours coffee into a mug and adds exactly the right amount of cream—how does he know that?—before handing it to me. "Drink. You need the caffeine."

I accept the mug, our fingers brushing. That small contact shouldn't send a shiver through me, not after everything, but it does.

"Thank you," I say softly, surprised by the thoughtfulness behind the gesture.

He watches me eat, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. When I've finished half a scone and most of the coffee, he stands. "I'll show you around today. You should know the house. Know where the security measures are."

Right. Security. The reason I'm here. The reason I'm married to this intimidating, magnetic man who watches me like I'm simultaneously precious and edible.

"Do you think they're looking for me?" I can't help asking. "Silva's men?"

Something dark flashes in Atlas's eyes. "They've been asking questions. But they won't find you here. You're safe."

The fierce protectiveness in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. This isn't just about making me his legal shield or satisfying his desire. He genuinely wants to keep me safe.

"Get dressed," he says, his voice gentler than I've heard it. "I'll wait outside."

But he doesn't leave without touching me again—a brush of his fingers along my bare shoulder, as if he can't help himself. As if he needs the contact as much as I apparently do.

I dress in clothes he's provided—soft leggings and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than a week's revenue at my bakery.

When I emerge, he takes my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.

His thumb brushes over my wedding band, a gesture that feels both possessive and reassuring.

The tour of the house reveals both opulence and practicality. Every room is a study in masculine elegance—dark woods, rich leathers, touches of chrome and glass. Nothing fussy or ornamental, but everything of the highest quality. Like the man himself.

"Security system is state-of-the-art," he explains, showing me a panel near the front door. "Every entrance is monitored. Guards patrol the perimeter 24/7. You're never unprotected here."

"It's like a beautiful prison," I murmur, gazing out at the manicured grounds.

His hand tightens on mine. "Not a prison. A fortress. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"A prison keeps people in. A fortress keeps threats out." He turns me to face him. "You're not a prisoner, Fern. You're my wife. This is your home now too."

The sincerity in his voice makes it hard to maintain my emotional walls. He shows me the library, filled with first editions behind glass. The gym, where he trains daily. The heated indoor pool. Each room, he tells me, is mine to use as I wish.

Throughout the day, he touches me constantly—a hand at the small of my back, fingers brushing my arm, tucking hair behind my ear. Each touch feels like a claim, a reminder. Each makes my body respond with embarrassing eagerness.

He feeds me lunch on the terrace, insisting I try his favorite wines.

He asks about my bakery, my recipes, listening with genuine interest. He gives me my phone, but it's been wiped clean—"For security," he explains.

My contacts and photos have been backed up and transferred to a new, secure device.

I should be outraged at the invasion of privacy. Instead, I find myself touched by his thoroughness. By his care. By his determination to integrate me into his life while keeping me safe.

By evening, I'm exhausted from the emotional whiplash. While Atlas takes a business call, I wander away, seeking a moment of normalcy, of familiarity. I find it in the kitchen—that industrial-grade kitchen where I first displayed my pastries for him.

It's empty now, gleaming and pristine. Without conscious thought, I begin opening cabinets, assessing ingredients, checking equipment.

Baking has always been my therapy, my comfort, my way of making sense of a world that often feels too large and dangerous.

And right now, I need that comfort desperately.

I find flour, sugar, butter. Vanilla extract and baking powder. Good chocolate. All the basics, plus some specialty items I wouldn't have expected. Whoever stocks this kitchen knows food. I pull out mixing bowls, measuring cups, a stand mixer that's clearly never been used.

Soon I'm elbow-deep in cookie dough, the familiar motions soothing my frayed nerves.

I've made these dark chocolate sea salt cookies a thousand times—the recipe is so ingrained I could do it blindfolded.

The repetitive action of scooping and placing dough on baking sheets centers me, brings me back to myself.

For the first time since the warehouse, I feel like Fern again, not just Atlas's scared "wife. "

The cookies are just coming out of the oven when I sense him. I don't hear him—Atlas moves with an uncanny quietness for such a large man—but I feel his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.

I turn to find him leaning against the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression. I'm suddenly aware that I'm wearing only his t-shirt and panties, having discarded the leggings and sweater for comfort while baking. The shirt barely covers the tops of my thighs.

"Found everything you need?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my bones.

"Yes." I set the hot cookie sheet on a cooling rack. "I hope you don't mind. I needed to..."

"To bake." He pushes off from the doorframe and approaches, his movements fluid and predatory. "To feel normal."

"Yes." The simple acknowledgment of my need throws me slightly. I hadn't expected him to understand so easily.