Chapter Eleven-Atlas
I return home champing at the bit.
By midnight, I intend to have her—my bride, my goddess, my undoing—wedded and bedded.
The license is filed.
The yacht is ready.
The ring burns a hole in my pocket.
But the house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I walk to my bedroom where I left her hours ago—and she isn’t here.
My stomach drops.
I move through the sun-drenched rooms like a storm front rolling in, tracking down the day maid I left to look after her.
The young woman practically jumps when she sees me.
I’m already firing off questions in rapid-fire Greek before I register how harsh I sound.
“Where is she? Did she leave the villa? When? With whom? Who cleared it?”
The girl wrings her hands, eyes downcast. She looks ready to cry.
Damn it.
I stop.
Draw in a breath.
Get control of the monster clawing its way up my spine.
“I apologize,” I say, quieter now. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
She nods, still nervous, still avoiding my eyes, and finally answers.
“She asked to go to the beach. T-two hours ago.”
The fucking beach.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth grind.
That’s it. I’m done pretending I’m calm.
My woman. My soon-to-be wife. On one of the most famous beaches in the Cyclades—semi-nude, crowded, exposed—for two fucking hours.
And no one thought to tell me?
I shove open the door and stalk out, every step pounding with purpose down the white stone path that leads to the private beach cove.
I’ve walked it a thousand times in my life.
Hell, I’ve entertained women here.
But the idea of Cecilia—my woman—being gawked at, photographed, talked about?
It makes me fucking feral.
My heart pounds. My stomach twists.
The ugly green monster on my shoulder is snarling his fury.
By the time I round the last curve of the path and see them, I’m fucking livid.
Three of my men.
Standing near the rocks.
They’re not looking out for possible threats. Not assessing the layout. Or keeping time.
No, their heads are turned, their posture lazy.
One of them fucking smirks.
The second says something and adjusts his dick.
I go still.
Deadly still.
Then, I follow their line of sight.
And I see her.
Christ.
I see her.
She’s rising from the water like a goddess born from seafoam and sin, the sun dripping off her curves like honey.
The bikini is so miniscule it’s nearly invisible.
The top barely conceals her pierced nipples.
The bottoms—fuck, those cheeky little briefs—ride high on her hips and bare her ass like an invitation only I should see.
Her body is inked and golden, all soft curves and dangerous edges, and she walks with that natural grace that drives me out of my mind.
And they’re looking.
They’re fucking laughing. Wanting. Coveting what’s mine.
I see red.
My vision narrows to one thing—punishment.
I walk straight up to the smirking asshole—the one still grabbing his crotch—and I let my fist fly.
Right to his throat.
The crack is satisfying.
He collapses to his knees, choking, gasping for air.
The others snap to attention like the well-trained bastards they are.
I don’t stop. Don’t spare them a glance.
Cecilia is walking toward me now.
Wet. Glowing. Frowning in confusion.
“Atlas?” she calls, blinking. “What are you—?”
I don’t answer.
I grab the towel from the lounge chair I know is hers—because she left her sandals there, her book, the half-eaten pastry I had sent to the house from my favorite shop.
I cross to her fast.
She’s halfway up the beach, dripping water, chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. Her eyes go wide as I approach.
I don’t speak.
I simply drape the towel over her shoulders, my fingers lingering for half a second longer than they should.
And then I scoop her up into my arms.
“Atlas! Put me down!”
“No,” I growl, voice low and rough.
She wiggles, but it’s no use.
She’s mine.
And I’m done pretending otherwise.