Chapter Thirty-Four-Cecilia
The tiny room aboard the private jet is quiet now.
Too quiet.
Except for the soft splash of water in a small bowl and the rustle of gauze being unwrapped with trembling hands.
My hands? No.
His.
Atlas kneels in front of me like a warrior worshiping his wounded queen. His shirt is torn, chest bloodied—not all of it his uncle’s.
His eyes flicker up to mine with each pass of the cloth over my skin.
Gentle. Reverent.
Like I’m breakable.
Like I matter.
And I hate that I flinch when he touches my face, even though I know he’d never hurt me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wincing as he wipes the dried blood from my temple.
“You don’t ever apologize to me,” he says roughly.
His voice is wrecked.
Like he’s been screaming, maybe inside, maybe out.
“Not for this.”
I nod because I don’t have the energy to fight him. Not tonight.
My whole body aches.
My wrists are raw from the zip ties, and my legs are shaking, even sitting on this soft bed.
But it’s the silence that scares me the most.
Not his.
Mine.
Because I should be crying, or screaming, or hurling things across this room, but instead—I’m just numb.
“My parents?” I ask because I have to know, but I’m too tired, too raw, to speak to them just yet.
“Your father landed shortly after we left. He’s pissed, but he’s overseeing cleanup. Your mother knows you’re safe.”
I nod, offering him a small smile. He returns it until his fingers brush a bruise on my ribs, and I gasp.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Do you want the doctor?”
I know there’s one on board the plane. He had the man brought with us. But I shake my head.
I’m through with having strange men touch me for right now.
“I have to see if he broke the ribs, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod and brace myself.
Atlas swears again in three more languages as he peels the dress off my shoulders.
He leans in, and I hold my breath as he gingerly feels over my bruised ribs for breaks.
“Not broken. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and I feel his lips at my shoulder, his breath a trembling thing.
“I’m sorry he hurt you. That I let him hurt you.”
“No,” I say desperately, threading my fingers through his dark curls. “You stopped him. You came for me.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
There’s fire in him.
Fury. Love.
God, he loves me.
I can feel it in the way his hands won’t stop shaking. In the way he bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart in front of me.
“You’re too good for me,” he whispers.
“You’re wrong. I was made for you. You said so,” she tells me.
“What did he—did he say anything?”
“He said I’d be the first to suffer,” I murmur.
Atlas stills. His jaw locks.
“Dimitri said that you were soft. That marrying me made you vulnerable. That you were nothing but your father’s mistake, a half-breed prince clinging to ghosts. He said you didn’t deserve what your father built. And he called me your fat American whore. Said I’d be your downfall.”
Atlas doesn’t move.
But I can see the restraint threading through every muscle in his body.
He’s trying not to erupt again.
“He was wrong,” I whisper.
“Cecilia—”
“I’m not done.”
My voice wavers. I reach for his hand and pull it to my chest, right over my heart.
“He was wrong about everything. You’re not weak. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known. And I don’t just mean the company. Or the mines. The deals. The violence. Or the money. I mean this.”
I press his palm flat to my chest.
“Here. In the way you touched me. In the way you saw me.”
His throat works. His fingers curl.
“You saved me,” I whisper.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I failed you. I should’ve—”
“You. Saved. Me,” I interrupt him. “You came for me. You tore the world apart to find me. You killed for me.”
“So much fucking blood on my hands, but I would do it again,” he growls, chest heaving. “I will do it again if I have to.”
“I know.”
He cups my face with one hand, the other still pressed to my heart.
“I love you, Wife. You’re mine,” he whispers.
I nod.
“I’m yours,” I breathe. “And I think I’ve been yours since the moment you kissed me when we were back in Manhattan.”
He leans in, brushing his lips to mine like he’s afraid I’ll break.
But I don’t.
Not now.
Never with him.
“You terrify me,” I murmur, when he pulls back just a breath. “Because I’ve never felt like this. Because I know this is real. And because if I lose you, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”
“You won’t lose me,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Not in this life. Not in any other. I swear it.”
I believe him.
God help me, I believe him.
Because no man who bathes your wounds with his bare hands, who trembles when you hurt, who kisses your bruises like they were his to bear.
No man who does all that lies about this.
And I know that I’ve loved him this whole time.
I just have to tell him.