Chapter Eighteen-Atlas
She’s mine.
Mine.
My wife.
And I’m a fucking idiot.
Because instead of joining her in the suite, touching her, tasting her, celebrating the fact that she just said I do, I walked her to the room like some gentleman, told her I had work to handle.
That was a lie.
What I’m really doing is hiding.
Out here on deck, nursing a whiskey neat—the good stuff, from that tiny distillery in Montclair I can’t seem to give up, even after years abroad and access to every luxury bottle imaginable.
But tonight, nothing burns like this fear.
Not of her. Not of the marriage.
Of myself.
Because I know what will happen if I go back to that room.
I won’t be soft.
I won’t be restrained.
I’ll be hers in a way that brands her for life. And I’ll take her in a way that leaves no doubt in her mind or mine that I am completely, irreversibly obsessed.
She deserves tenderness.
And me? I’m not tender.
I don’t want to make love to her.
I want to claim her.
I want to ruin her for anyone else.
I want to mark her in a way more permanent than a signature on a marriage license.
More than giving her my name.
It terrifies me.
Because if I let myself go—if I let myself have her the way I crave—it won’t just be about power or protection or politics anymore.
It will be about love. Possessive, obsessive, eternal love.
And I’ve never known what that word really means.
Who am I if not the vengeful heir of a ruined kingdom? The son of a disgraced legacy?
Who am I if I stop chasing retribution?
The answer slams into me, hard and clear.
I don’t even need to think.
I down the last of my whiskey.
Who am I? That’s easy.
I am hers.
I stop in the connecting bathroom first, stripping off my clothes and stepping under the steaming spray.
The shower is quick—just enough to clear the salt and sweat and shame from my skin.
When I step into the suite wearing only silk boxers, I expect her to be asleep.
She’s not.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in a pale pink slip, the kind that clings and hints and makes a man forget his own name.
My body reacts instantly, hard and hungry, but I push it down.
Because my bride—my wife—is crying. Sobbing softly.
And the sight guts me.
Her shoulders tremble.
Her fingers twist in the sheets.
Her face is turned down, but her red-rimmed eyes glisten in the dim light.
“Hey,” I say gently, crossing the room and sinking down beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She flinches like she didn’t even hear me come in, like she thought she was alone.
She wipes her cheeks quickly.
“Sorry. This must seem silly. I—I just,” she stops.
“Cece, we both know you’re not the silly type. Now, talk to me,” I whisper.
She takes a shaky breath.
“I know this isn’t a real wedding, but still. It’s not how I thought it would happen.”
Fuck.
I’m a total piece of shit.
I left her alone down here, spiraling, while I was upstairs brooding like a coward. I should’ve been with her.
Should’ve held her. Kissed her. Given her a reason to smile.
Not this.
She turns her face to me again, lashes damp and voice so soft it nearly breaks me.
“I—I was engaged before, you know.”
My chest goes tight.
No, I did not know that.
I go still, every muscle clenched. Rage coils in my gut like a living thing. But she doesn’t need my jealousy. Not now.
What she needs is someone steady.
A man she can lean on. A man who listens. A man who stays.
So I rein in the beast and whisper, “Come here.”
She lets me pull her down with me, her head resting over my heart like it belongs there. I settle us beneath the thin blanket, arms wrapped around her like armor.
“Tell me,” I murmur, kissing the soft curls on her head because I can’t seem to help myself.
“It was five years ago,” she says into my skin, her voice just a breath.
I wait. I listen. I hold her.
Because whatever story she has to tell, I’ll take every word.
And I swear—on the gods, on the sea, on my fucking soul—that I’ll never make her feel that kind of heartbreak again.