Chapter Nine-Atlas
Leading her out of the Den, I am painfully aware that I’m barely in control of myself.
My nerves are vibrating, my heart hammering like I’m going into combat, not into a car with a woman I intend to have aboard a plane before sunset tomorrow so I can marry her halfway around the world from her family and friends.
Why is that important to me? If I’m being honest, it’s because I won’t risk them talking her out of it.
Fuck. This woman has me unhinged.
Every instinct screams to take her, mark her, put my ring on her finger and my name at the end of hers.
But there are politics at play.
War behind the curtains.
And this woman—my wicked, brilliant siren, my sweet, sexy Cecilia—is so much more important than all of it.
Fuck it. Why wait till tomorrow?
“You have your passport?”
She blinks, her breath still unsteady from dancing, from anger, from me.
“My passport? Um, I do. In my briefcase. In my trunk.”
I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
For a beat, she hesitates.
Then she hands them over.
Good girl.
I lead her to the armored SUV, open the door, and help her inside—my hand on her hip, my body crowding hers for one stolen second of heat. I toss her keys to one of my security men and speak in Greek, rapid-fire.
“Put her bags in this car. Everything. Don’t miss a damn thing.”
“What are you doing?” she snaps, twisting in her seat.
“You went shopping today? Good. You already have a head start on a wardrobe. Anything else we’ll buy once we land.”
“Land? Where? Atlas!”
I ignore the outrage in her voice as I scroll my phone, pulling up the prenup Luc Batiste sent me.
I forward it to my lawyers.
Within 10 seconds, my assistant texts back—documents received, handled, marriage license en route to the airport for printing.
Perfect.
Something soft hits my face.
I blink, look down.
Her bra is on my lap.
Her bra.
My lips quirk. My chest vibrates.
Her shirt is still on, but now I can see the bars of her pierced nipples through the thin fabric, the twin metal glints pressing against cotton.
My cock gives a vicious kick, and a sound—half growl, half warning—rumbles out of me before I can stop it.
“Put this back on,” I say, holding the bra out to her.
“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
“You want answers?” I lean in, voice low, dangerous. “Then you’ll obey me.”
“Fuck you,” she snaps, looking mutinous, and sexy as hell.
“Not now, kardhoúla.” I smirk. “But later, yes. I will fuck you. And you’ll love it.”
She stares at me like she wants to slap me and straddle me at the same time.
“You really are an arrogant asshole. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
Of course I do.
Arrogance runs in my blood.
If my bastard ancestors were still on a throne instead of buried in forgotten graves, they would have called it confidence.
“Atlas?”
“What.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my house in Mykonos. Then we board my yacht. The captain will marry us at sea on the way to Bodrum.”
She exhales. “Bodrum?”
“Turkey.”
There’s a small, resigned pause. A heartbeat. Then, she exhales.
“Okay.”
Pleasure rises in me like the tide, unstoppable.
I nod once so she knows I heard her.
She makes me feel protective.
Needy.
And hungry.
Also, suspicious.
Cecilia’s agreeing too easily, and I don’t know why.
Maybe she wants control, maybe she wants freedom, maybe she wants me.
I’d take any of those answers—and all of them.
But underneath the lust and the impatience, there’s something else boiling in my veins. That’s purpose.
I swore on my father’s deathbed that I would make the men who ruined him pay. That this deal—this fucking deal—would be my revenge.
But the second she walked into that boardroom tonight?
Everything changed.
Revenge matters less than the woman sitting beside me.
Cecilia Batiste isn’t some simpering piece to a puzzle.
She isn’t a means to an end. She is the end.
And if I have to lie to protect her—about me, about how this started—then I will.
Because I’ve stolen empires with my bare hands.
Now I’m stealing a bride.
And the world can go straight to hell before I ever give her back.