Chapter Twenty-Eight-Atlas
My heart clenches.
God help me.
She understands. In a way no one ever has. This isn’t diplomacy or seduction. It’s something raw, something real.
Cecilia Bat—no. Cecilia Stavros.
Her name is mine now.
And the second I remind myself of that, heat flares in my chest—not just lust, but a violent wave of emotion I can barely contain.
Possession. Pride.
Something terrifyingly close to hope.
“I love you,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words land between us like a thunderclap.
Her dark green eyes lock with mine, wide, unblinking—and in that unguarded second, I see her.
All of her. The pain. The longing. The fear.
She doesn’t say it back.
It hurts.
But I know what patience costs. I’ve had a lifetime of lessons in that particular art.
“That’s—well, that’s unexpected,” she says after a beat, her voice a little breathless.
“Is it?” I tilt my head, studying her. “I think maybe you planned it this way.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You think I had some master plan to make a prince fall in love with me? As if.”
Her tone turns bitter.
Her eyes sharpen.
“How do you even know it’s real?”
She pushes up from the table, pacing, agitated now. Like I’ve just pulled the pin on a grenade she thought she buried.
“Cece,” I call, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look at me.
Then she storms below deck.
Fuck.
I don’t move for a full five seconds. My fists clench. My jaw grinds.
And then I shove back from the table and stalk after her.
She slams the stateroom door before I’m halfway down the stairs.
“Cece.” I knock once. Twice. “Open the door.”
Nothing.
Wrong choice.
I don’t think—I just react.
I kick the door in.
The wood cracks and flies open.
And there she is—perched on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, chin lifted, looking mutinous and glorious and so fucking pretty it actually hurts.
My wild little wife.
My fire.
“What the hell was that?” she snaps.
“You ran,” I say evenly, stepping into the room. “Why?”
“Why?” Her laugh is sharp. Almost hysterical. “Because you don’t get to do that, Atlas!”
“Do what?”
“Say you love me like it means something. Say it like it’s a promise when you and I both know it’s not!”
My temper sparks.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about reality!” she explodes, pushing off the bed and coming toe to toe with me. “About the fact that you’re an actual fucking prince. A powerful man. One who needs heirs. A legacy. And I’m broken, Atlas. I can’t give you that!”
I freeze.
Because now I get it.
This isn’t about doubt.
It’s about fear.
She thinks I’ll leave her.
That I’ll choose some shadow of a crown, some hypothetical child, over her.
“I don’t care,” I say, voice low and lethal.
“You will. One day.”
“No.” I step closer. “Let me be perfectly clear, Cecilia Stavros—I love you. Not your bloodline. Not your fertility. Not your family name. You.”
She flinches like she’s been slapped.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “Do you think I don’t know who I am? What I’ve done? I’ve killed men for less than touching what’s mine. I don’t say love. I don’t give love. But you—you break me open. And you don’t get to walk away from me, Cece! Not now. Not ever!”
“Atlas, be reasonable.”
“Reasonable? Reason flew out the door the second I saw you! Don’t you know I’d set this world on fire before I ever let you walk away from me?”
She trembles.
Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t look away.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I close the space between us and cup her jaw.
“I know. So am I.” I kiss her forehead, then the tip of her nose. “But I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
“Atlas,” she breathes.
“I meant what I said. I’d give everything up for you, Cece. You are not broken. You’re mine. And if anyone ever tries to make you feel less again, they’ll answer to me.”
She stares at me for a long, long time.
Then finally—finally—she exhales.
And falls into my arms.
Because that’s exactly where she fucking belongs. And I mean to keep her there.