Page 7 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

six

. . .

Atlas

She's wearing blue tonight—a deep midnight shade that makes her eyes look like summer skies by comparison.

The dress hugs curves I've spent hours memorizing with my hands, my mouth.

My wife. The word still feels new on my tongue, a sweet unfamiliar weight that I roll around like expensive whiskey.

Three weeks of marriage, and I still catch myself staring at her like she might evaporate.

Three weeks of having her in my home, in my bed, and the hunger hasn't diminished—it's grown teeth.

I shouldn't be taking her out at all. She should be tucked away in my fortress where Silva's men can't find her.

But I need to make a statement tonight. Need everyone to see who she belongs to.

"You're staring again," Fern says, a blush coloring her cheeks as she applies lipstick in the car's mirror. The color matches the marks I left on her inner thighs this morning. My marks. My wife.

"Can't help it." I run a hand up her leg, feeling her shiver under my touch. "You're fucking beautiful."

"Atlas." She says my name like a warning, but leans into my touch anyway. "We're almost there."

"I know." I withdraw my hand reluctantly. "Just reminding you who you belong to."

She rolls her eyes, but I see the heat there, the way her pupils dilate. "As if I could forget."

The car pulls up to Obsidian, my club in the heart of downtown.

Exclusive, expensive, and very much part of my legitimate business portfolio.

Vex opens the door, and I step out first, then offer my hand to Fern.

She takes it, letting me help her from the car with a grace that makes my chest tighten.

Mine.

The thought comes unbidden every time I look at her now. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep.

"Remember what I told you," I say quietly as we approach the entrance, my hand on the small of her back. "This is a business event. These people work for me, with me. You're safe, but?—"

"But I'm here as Mrs. Vale, not Fern the baker." She finishes for me, a small smile playing at her lips. "I remember."

She's adapted to my world with surprising speed.

In three weeks, she's gone from terrified witness to confident wife, at least on the surface.

She still bakes when she's anxious—my kitchen has never smelled so good—and sometimes I catch her staring out windows like she's looking for escape.

But at night, she comes to me willingly, hungrily.

Takes everything I give her and demands more.

The club is already full when we enter, the low bass thrumming through the floor, the lighting dim and intimate.

Heads turn instantly. Of course they do—I rarely bring anyone to these events, and never a wife.

The rumors have been circulating for weeks, but this is the first public confirmation that Atlas Vale is off the market.

"Everyone's staring," Fern whispers, her hand tightening on my arm.

"Let them." I guide her through the crowd, nodding to those who matter, ignoring those who don't. "They're just in shock that I found someone worth claiming."

The VIP section is cordoned off, guarded by two of my men who step aside instantly when they see me. Inside, the music is quieter, the lighting better, the seating more comfortable. The real business happens here, behind velvet ropes and privacy screens.

Donovan approaches first, his eyes quickly assessing Fern before returning to me. "Boss. Glad you could make it. Romero's people are here already."

"Good." I keep my hand on Fern's back, anchoring her to my side. "Make the introductions. I want this deal closed tonight."

As Donovan leads us to a private booth, I feel Fern tense beside me. "Business deal?" she asks quietly.

"Legitimate business." I squeeze her waist reassuringly. "Romero owns restaurant chains. We're discussing a partnership with my import company."

She relaxes slightly, and I realize she's been worried about witnessing more illegal activity. The thought bothers me more than it should. I want her to know all of me eventually, the darkness and the light, but not yet. Not until she's ready.

The meeting goes smoothly. Romero is a businessman first, a criminal second—like me, he prefers to keep his interests diversified and at least partially legitimate.

Fern sits beside me, quiet but attentive, sipping occasionally from the champagne I ordered.

I keep one hand on her thigh under the table, a constant reminder of my presence, my claim.

When business concludes, Romero raises his glass in a toast. "To new partnerships," he says, his accent thickening the words. "And to Mrs. Vale—a surprise to us all. Your husband has been notably... solitary until now."

Fern smiles diplomatically. "Lucky timing, I suppose."

"Lucky indeed." Romero's eyes linger on her a beat too long, and I feel my fingers tighten on her thigh. He's not stupid enough to actually make a move—not on my wife, not in my club—but the appreciation in his gaze still makes something primal rear up in me.

"If you'll excuse us," I say, standing and drawing Fern with me. "I need to circulate."

We move through the VIP section, stopping to speak with various associates. I introduce Fern simply as "my wife," offering no explanation for our sudden marriage. No one asks. In my world, questions can be dangerous.

I'm speaking with a supplier when I notice Fern is no longer beside me. A quick scan locates her at the bar, waiting for a drink. And beside her, leaning too close, is James Harker. Mid-level player, ambitious, hungry. And apparently suicidal, judging by the way he's smiling at my wife.

I watch, a cold fury building in my chest as he says something that makes Fern laugh. His hand comes to rest on the bar beside hers—not touching, but close enough. Too close.

"Excuse me," I murmur to the supplier, already moving before the words fully leave my mouth.

I approach silently, catching the tail end of their conversation.

"—must be difficult, being married to someone like Vale," Harker is saying, his voice pitched low and intimate. "A woman like you deserves a gentler touch."

Fern's response is cut off as I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her firmly against my side. "Harker," I acknowledge, my voice deceptively calm. "I see you've met my wife."

To his credit, he doesn't flinch, though his eyes betray a flicker of unease. "Vale. Just getting acquainted with Mrs. Vale. She was telling me about her bakery."

"Was she." The words come out flat, dangerous.

Fern glances between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Atlas, Mr. Harker was just?—"

"Leaving." I finish for her, my eyes never leaving Harker's face. "Weren't you?"

He straightens, attempting to salvage some dignity. "Of course. Mrs. Vale, a pleasure."

I wait until he's well out of earshot before turning to Fern. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing important." She frowns slightly. "Atlas, he was just being friendly."

"Friendly." I repeat the word like it tastes foul. "Men like Harker aren't friendly with beautiful women for no reason."

"You're overreacting." She tries to pull away, but my arm tightens around her.

"Am I?" My voice drops lower, for her ears only. "He was flirting with you. In my club. In front of my associates."

"So? I didn't flirt back. I'm wearing your ring, remember?" She holds up her left hand, where my diamond catches the light. "I'm well-marked as your territory."

The word—territory—ignites something in me. Something possessive and primitive that I've been keeping on a tight leash since we arrived.

Without warning, I take her hand and pull her through the crowd toward the back of the club. She follows, confusion and irritation warring on her face.

"Atlas, what are you?—"

I push through a door marked 'Private,' tugging her into a darkened hallway that leads to my office. But we don't make it that far. As soon as the door swings shut behind us, I press her against the wall, my body caging hers.

"What exactly did you talk about with Harker?" I demand, my face inches from hers.

"Nothing! The bakery. How we met. Why are you so?—"

I cut her off with a kiss, hard and possessive, my hands gripping her wrists and pinning them beside her head. She makes a noise of surprise against my mouth, then melts into the kiss, her body arching toward mine.

When I pull back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dazed. "Atlas?—"

"Did you know every man in that room wants you?" I move my mouth to her neck, finding the spot that makes her gasp. "Every single one looked at you and thought about taking what's mine."

"That's ridiculous?—"

"It's not." I bite down lightly, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. "They all see what I see. How fucking beautiful you are. How sweet." My hand slides up her thigh, bunching her dress. "But they can't have you. No one touches what's mine."

"I didn't—I wouldn't—" She's breathless now, her protests weakening as my fingers find her through the thin silk of her panties.

"I know." I press harder, feeling her wetness. "Because you're mine. My wife. Say it."

Her head falls back against the wall, her eyes closing as pleasure overtakes her anger. "I'm yours."

"My what?" I tug her panties aside, sliding a finger into her heat.

"Your wife," she gasps, her hips moving against my hand. "Atlas, please?—"

The plea breaks something loose in me—the last thread of restraint. I spin her to face the wall, lift her dress to her waist. My hands are rough with need as I free myself, position myself at her entrance.

"Everyone out there is going to know exactly what happened when we come back," I growl against her ear. "They're going to see you, flushed and satisfied, and know that I fucked my wife backstage because I couldn't wait. Because you're mine."

I enter her with one hard thrust, swallowing her cry with my mouth on hers. She's wet, ready for me despite her protests, her body honest even when her words aren't.

"Mine," I grunt as I establish a punishing rhythm, one hand holding her hip, the other braced on the wall beside her head. "My wife. No one else touches you. No one else sees you like this."

"Atlas," she moans, pushing back against me, taking me deeper. "God, Atlas?—"

"Say it again," I demand, slowing my pace to torment her. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," she gasps, desperation in her voice. "I belong to you. I'm your wife. Please, Atlas, don't stop?—"

I give her what she begs for, driving into her with renewed force. The sounds she makes—little gasps and moans that go straight to my cock—echo in the narrow hallway. Anyone passing would hear, would know exactly what we're doing.

Good. Let them know. Let them all know.

"Touch yourself," I command, needing to see her come, needing to know I've satisfied her. "Make yourself come on my cock, wife."

She obeys, one hand sliding between her legs as I continue to thrust into her. The sight of her pleasuring herself while I take her from behind nearly undoes me.

"That's it," I encourage, feeling her begin to tighten around me. "Let go. Show me who makes you feel this good."

"You," she cries, her body beginning to convulse around me. "Only you, Atlas, only—oh god?—"

She comes with a shudder that travels through her entire body, her inner muscles clenching around me in waves that drag me over the edge with her. I bury myself deep, my release hitting me with an intensity that whites out my vision for a moment.

For several heartbeats, we stay locked together, both panting, both trembling. My forehead rests against her shoulder, my arms now wrapped around her waist, supporting her.

"You're insane," she finally whispers, but there's no real anger in her voice. Only a breathless wonder.

I turn her in my arms, adjusting her dress back into place with surprisingly gentle hands. Her face is flushed, her hair slightly mussed, her lips swollen from my kisses. She looks thoroughly claimed. Thoroughly mine.

"Not insane," I correct, pressing a softer kiss to her mouth. "Just possessive of what's mine."

She shakes her head, but a small smile plays at her lips. "Most husbands don't drag their wives backstage for sex because someone talked to them."

"I'm not most husbands." I smooth her hair, tuck a strand behind her ear. "And you're not most wives."

Something shifts in her expression at that—something vulnerable and open that makes my chest feel too tight. Before I can analyze it, she rises on tiptoes and kisses me, soft and sweet.

"Take me home," she whispers against my lips. "Take me to bed properly."

The request—the word 'home' falling so naturally from her lips—does something to me. Something I'm not ready to examine too closely.

"Whatever my wife wants," I murmur, taking her hand.

We return to the main club, and I don't miss the knowing looks, the subtle smirks. Fern's cheeks flush deeper as she realizes everyone knows exactly what we've been doing. But she doesn't shrink away—instead, she walks closer to my side, her hand firmly in mine.

Pride swells in my chest. She is mine, by law and by choice now. And she's not ashamed of it.

I spot Harker across the room, his expression souring as he takes in our disheveled appearance, the mark blooming on Fern's neck that I don't remember leaving. I meet his eyes deliberately, a clear message in my gaze: Try again and die, fucker.

He looks away first.

Without another word to anyone, I guide Fern through the crowd toward the exit. My hand rests possessively on the small of her back, my wedding ring gleaming under the club lights—another visible sign of my claim.

Outside, I lift her into my arms, ignoring her surprised laugh.

"Atlas! I can walk!"

"I know." I carry her to the waiting car anyway, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, the way she holds onto my neck. "But I like carrying what's mine."

She shakes her head, but nestles closer, her lips brushing my jaw in a way that makes me want to skip the car and take her against the nearest wall again.

"Caveman," she accuses softly.

I smile against her hair, inhaling the scent that's become as familiar to me as my own. "Your caveman."

And for the first time, those possessive words—mine, yours, ours—don't feel like a claim of ownership. They feel like a promise. Like something dangerously close to love.