Page 8 of The Mob Boss’s Bride (Obsessed #9)

seven

. . .

Fern

It's been five weeks since I became Mrs. Vale.

Five weeks of living in this fortress-mansion with a man who started as my captor and has somehow become.

.. something else entirely. I catch myself watching him when he doesn't notice—the way his brow furrows when he reads reports, the rare smile that transforms his face from intimidating to heartbreakingly beautiful, the gentleness of his hands when he touches me despite their capacity for violence.

I shouldn't be feeling this. This wasn't supposed to be real.

This was survival, protection, a business arrangement.

So why does my heart race when he enters a room?

Why do I seek his touch even when we're alone and there's no one to perform for?

Why am I starting to think of this place as home?

I sit in the corner of Atlas's office, a book open in my lap that I've been pretending to read for the past hour.

In reality, I've been watching him work—the controlled power in his movements, the quiet authority in his voice as he gives orders over the phone.

Three of his men came in for a meeting earlier, and I was struck by the way they looked at him—not with fear, as I might have expected, but with respect. Loyalty.

"Problem at the docks," Atlas says now, hanging up the phone. "Marco's handling it."

I nod, still fascinated by the glimpses I get of his world. He keeps the uglier aspects from me, I know. The violence. The true nature of his "business interests." But he doesn't hide the fact that he operates outside the law, that his authority comes from power rather than position.

"You're staring again, sugar." His voice drops lower, the endearment sliding over my skin like a caress.

"Just thinking." I close my book, giving up the pretense.

"About?" He leans back in his chair, those dark eyes studying me with an intensity that still makes my pulse quicken.

"You. This." I gesture vaguely between us. "All of it."

Something softens in his expression. "Regrets?"

The question surprises me. Atlas doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't invite criticism. Yet there's a genuine uncertainty in his voice that tugs at something deep inside me.

"Not regrets, exactly." I choose my words carefully. "Just... adjusting. It's a lot to process."

He nods, accepting this. "You've been away from your bakery for weeks."

"I know." I sigh, a pang of longing for my little shop hitting me. "Emma's doing a good job managing things, though. The daily reports help."

Atlas has arranged for my assistant manager to send detailed updates on the bakery's operations. I call in daily, making decisions remotely, but I haven't been back. It's still too dangerous, he insists. Silva's men have been spotted watching the shop.

"You miss it." It's not a question.

"Of course. It's my creation. My..." I trail off, unsure how to explain what Sweet Ferns means to me.

"Your sanctuary." He finishes the thought with surprising accuracy. "Like this office is mine."

I nod, struck again by how well he can read me sometimes. "Yes. Exactly."

He stands abruptly. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

Curious, I follow him from the office, through the west wing of the mansion where I rarely go. This area has been under renovation for the past two weeks—workers coming and going, doors closed to me with vague explanations about "improvements."

We stop before a set of double doors I don't recognize. Atlas turns to me, something almost like nervousness in his posture. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Just trust me."

Those words—trust me—would have made me laugh bitterly five weeks ago. Now, I find myself obeying without further question. I close my eyes, feeling his hand on the small of my back guiding me forward. The doors open with a soft click.

"Keep them closed," he murmurs, leading me forward several steps. The air changes—cooler, somehow, with a faint scent of... vanilla? "Okay. Open."

I blink, adjusting to the light, then gasp.

We're standing in a kitchen. Not just any kitchen—a baker's dream.

Professional-grade ovens line one wall, pristine stainless steel countertops gleam under recessed lighting, and a massive island workspace dominates the center.

Open shelving displays every tool, every specialized pan I could ever need.

A cooling rack holds enough space for dozens of baking sheets.

In one corner sits a comfortable seating area with a small table—perfect for recipe planning or coffee breaks.

"Atlas," I breathe, turning in a slow circle. "What is this?"

"Your sanctuary." He watches my reaction carefully. "Until it's safe for you to return to Sweet Ferns. And after, if you want."

I run my fingers along a countertop, noting the marble section perfect for pastry work. "You built me a bakery? In your house?"

"In our house." He corrects gently. "And yes. The equipment is top of the line. I had your recipe books brought over. There's a pantry through there—" he nods toward a door "—stocked with everything you mentioned using in the past month."

Emotion swells in my chest, too big to contain.

This isn't just a gift—it's understanding.

It's Atlas seeing what I need, what I miss, and providing it without being asked.

It's acknowledging that I'm more than just his wife, his protection, his bedmate.

I'm Fern, the baker who creates with her hands.

"I don't know what to say." My voice catches.

He shrugs, looking almost uncomfortable with my emotion. "You don't have to say anything. Just use it. Create. Be happy here."

I cross to him, rising on tiptoes to kiss him softly. "Thank you."

His hands settle on my waist, keeping me close. "You like it?"

"I love it." The words feel dangerous—too close to what I'm really feeling. I pull back slightly. "Can I try it out now?"

A smile tugs at his lips. "It's yours. Do whatever you want."

What I want is to bake something immediately.

I explore the pantry, finding it meticulously stocked with premium ingredients.

Returning to the main kitchen, I pull out flour, sugar, butter—the basics for a simple shortbread.

Atlas leans against the counter, watching me with what looks almost like amusement.

"What?" I ask, measuring flour into a bowl.

"I like watching you work. You get this look—focused, happy." He pushes off from the counter. "Need help?"

The offer surprises me. "You bake?"

"No. But I can follow instructions." He rolls up his sleeves, revealing tattooed forearms that still make my mouth go dry. "Put me to work, Mrs. Vale."

The name sends a shiver through me—not unpleasant, just... significant. I've been Mrs. Vale on paper for weeks, but hearing him say it like this, in this space he created for me, feels like a shift.

"Okay. You can cream the butter and sugar." I point to the mixer, then hand him the ingredients. "Just don't overdo it."

He approaches the task with the same focus he gives everything, his brow furrowed in concentration. There's something endearing about seeing this dangerous man carefully measuring sugar, his powerful hands gentle on the delicate equipment.

We work side by side, and it's... nice. Domestic in a way I never expected with Atlas. When I reach for the vanilla, our hands brush, and the now-familiar spark of awareness jumps between us.

"Like this?" he asks, turning on the mixer.

"Perfect." I move closer to check, and he puts an arm around my waist, drawing me against his side. It's such a casual, comfortable gesture—the kind real couples make without thinking.

Everything goes smoothly until Atlas reaches for more flour and somehow knocks the bag, sending a cloud of white powder exploding over both of us.

"Shit." He jumps back, but it's too late. Flour dusts his black henley, his jeans, even his hair. "Sorry, I?—"

I can't help it. I laugh. The sight of Atlas Vale—dangerous crime boss, intimidating presence, the man who makes hardened criminals tremble—covered in baking flour is too absurd.

He stares at me for a moment, flour streaking his dark beard, then his lips twitch. "Funny, am I?"

"A little." I try to stifle my giggles. "You look like you've been caught in a snowstorm."

A gleam enters his eye—playful, dangerous. "Is that so?"

Before I can react, he grabs a handful of flour and gently smudges it across my cheek. "There. Now we match."

"Atlas!" I gasp in mock outrage, then grab my own handful, flicking it at his chest. "You started it."

His laugh—a rare, rich sound that transforms his face—fills the kitchen. "So that's how it's going to be?"

What follows is a ridiculous, childish flour fight that leaves us both covered head to toe in white powder.

I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard, nor the last time I saw Atlas so unguarded.

When he finally catches me around the waist, pulling me against his flour-covered chest, we're both breathless with laughter.

"You're a mess," he says, brushing flour from my cheek with his thumb.

"Your fault." I'm still giggling, high on the simple joy of playfulness with this man who so rarely lets his guard down.

"I take full responsibility." His voice drops lower, the laughter fading into something more heated as his thumb traces my lower lip. "And I'll help you clean up."

The mood shifts so quickly it leaves me dizzy. One moment we're playing like children; the next, his eyes are dark with desire, his body hard against mine.

"We're covered in flour," I point out, but my voice has gone breathless.

"So we are." He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Guess we'll need a shower. But first..."