Chapter Thirty-Five-Atlas
I’ve never driven so recklessly in my life.
Helicopter. SUV. Private jet. Another SUV. And now, finally, home.
Not just any home. Our home.
The one she doesn’t know about. The replica castle in Rumson, New Jersey that I bought before this all began.
Before I knew I’d be bringing a queen back here to live with me.
The air in South Jersey is colder, cleaner this late in January.
The kind of sharp that wakes you up and clears your mind.
But nothing has ever made me feel more alive than holding Cecilia in my arms again.
She’s bruised.
Bandaged.
Exhausted.
But she’s mine. She’s fucking mine.
And I’m not letting her walk.
I don’t let her carry a single thing either.
I scoop her into my arms as soon as we step outside the car.
She protests weakly, but when I growl her name, she quiets. She knows this isn’t about dominance or show. It’s about need. I need to take care of her.
I need to be the one who holds her together so she can fall apart if she needs to. Or maybe because I’ll fall apart without her.
The latter. Definitely the latter.
We make it to the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
I carry her like she’s something holy—and she is.
I lay her down on the bed, the massive one I chose because nothing less felt worthy of her.
Warm blankets, sheets softer than anything else in this cold world.
A nest I built with my hands, with my money, with my fucking heart.
The glow from the fireplace flickers across her skin, painting her in porcelain and gold.
“Are we home now?” she whispers, voice small but anchored in steel—because she never breaks, even when she should. Even when she’s hurting.
I take her hand gently, lift her bruised knuckles to my lips.
“Home and safe,” I tell her. “Or as safe as I can possibly make it.”
“Good,” she breathes.
Her eyes drift closed, lashes trembling. I swallow hard and force myself to move slowly, carefully.
I remove her shoes, then her socks, each touch reverent. I tuck her beneath the bedspread like she’s made of something rare and fragile and irreplaceable.
I should shower. I should check security. I should call Michail, clean the blood off my hands, burn the shirt I’m wearing.
I do none of it.
I crawl in beside her and pull her into my arms, letting the heat of her body ease the animal inside me inch by inch.
I bury my face in her hair and inhale the faint lingering scent of her shampoo beneath the iron tang of stress and fear.
And for the first time since I kicked down those fucking doors, I thank God—out loud, silently, desperately—that she’s alive, that she’s here, that she’s still mine.
Dreams don’t haunt me.
Not anymore.
Not after all the real nightmares I’ve already actually lived during the past twenty-four hours.
But still, I wake before dawn, some instinct tearing me out of sleep the second I hear movement downstairs.
I slip out of bed with care, with reluctance. I tuck the blankets around her so the cold can’t reach her.
Then I leave the room quietly and meet Michail at the top of the stairs.
“What is it?” I ask.
He offers me a phone. “Your father-in-law.”
Fuck.
I take the phone and put it to my ear.
“It’s done,” Luc Batiste growls.
His voice is sharp even through static—plane noise, probably. Private jet. Of course.
“Done?” I echo, still shaking off sleep.
“Cleaned. Everything has been taken care of. Now—how’s my girl?”
My jaw clenches. Hard.
Because I know he means Cecilia.
And I know he has the right.
But Cece is my girl.
My wife.
Mine.
And it takes everything I have not to let a snarl curl out of my throat.
“She’s asleep,” I say. “A little bruised.”
My voice sounds rough, like gravel and broken glass. Rage, grief, and something else I’m still not ready to name.
He grunts. “Anything broken?”
“No,” I whisper. “Thank God.”
Another pause. Then, “I saw what you did to him. And don’t think for a moment I’ll forget she got taken under your watch—”
Every muscle in my body locks.
I brace for the verbal beating I deserve.
“—but I saw what you did.”
I go still.
“You got her back, Atlas. You got her back, and you made him pay.”
Then, the last thing on earth I expect, he sniffs and says, “Thank you.”
Everything inside me stutters.
My heart.
My breath.
My thoughts.
Approval.
From a man like him.
From a father—something I haven’t had in a very long time.
I can’t speak. Not without breaking whatever fragile composure I have left.
So, I just stay silent.
He exhales.
“Well, I don’t suppose I can expect this annulment to go through now, can I?”
“Not a fucking chance,” I answer immediately.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He sounds almost amused. “I land in a couple hours. I can hold her mother back for maybe a day, but don’t expect us to wait more than that before we come see you both.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
The line goes dead.
I hand the phone back to Michail, and he gives me something in return.
The Stavros ring. Cece’s ring.
I look up sharply. He meets my eyes and nods.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly—in Greek.
“Of course, my prince,” he replies, bowing.
I don’t waste another second.
It feels like I’ve been away from her for years, not minutes. Something in my chest claws and thrashes until I’m moving, walking—no, hunting—back to the bedroom where she sleeps.
As soon as I step inside, I freeze.
She’s awake. Barely.
Staring at me.
Her lashes flutter, fighting exhaustion. She blinks at me like she’s trying to make sure I’m real.
Like maybe she dreamed me.
Like maybe she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
And something in me vows—silently, violently—that I never fucking will.
Not again.
Not ever.
Then she reaches for me, and I move closer.
Her tiny fingers close over the hem of my shirt, and she pulls me close.
I go willingly. I’m her slave in this, and truly, in all things.
“Kiss me,” she whispers, and I do.
I kiss her tenderly, careful of where she’s bruised.
“Really kiss me. Remind me who I am,” she says, and I moan.
“Don’t wanna hurt you, Wife.”
“You won’t. You can’t. But please, I want to feel whole again, Atlas. I want to feel like yours.”
My heart fucking cracks.
“You are mine,” I whisper. “You’ve always been mine.”
Her pine colored eyes glitter up at me, and in them I see so much emotion. I wonder if it’s mirroring my own. Heat fills me. Desire, a wild thing, too.
And I move.
I strip down beside her, careful of her injuries.
But when our skin touches, when her lips find mine, we’re no longer broken.
We’re fire.
Cece moans when I kiss her neck, her hands threading into my hair, pulling me closer. I kiss every bruise.
Every inch of her that hurts.
And I make her feel everything else too—pleasure, safety, devotion.
I hold her as she trembles, and I groan out loud as she claws at my shoulders.
It’s not rough. Not like the first time. But it’s not soft either.
This is reverent.
Her nipples are hard, and I bend down to tend to them, licking each one around her piercings and giving them not so soft tugs from my hungry mouth.
“You taste so sweet, so damn good.”
I groan as I lick my way down her body, flexing my hips against the mattress just to relieve some of the pressure building inside my aching cock.
“Christ, Cece, you’re soaked for me,” I murmur when I spread her legs wide.
Her pussy is glistening for me, the evidence of her arousal dripping down to the crack of her ass.
I snake out my tongue and lick her from her puckered hole to her clit.
The Viper tattoo is still there, still fierce and sexy as fuck, and I make eye contact with the little beastie above my wife’s sweet cunt as I eat her out, reveling in the feeling of her fingers threading my hair and my name on her lips.
Her naturally tan skin means her folds are a shade or two darker than her thick thighs, so soft and delicious, so damn pretty I lose myself in her.
I worship her.
“Atlas!” she cries out, and I shove two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to where I find that special, rough patch of skin.
“Right there!” she tells me, and I gift her by sucking her clit inside my mouth. Two tugs is all it takes for her to fall apart.
Then, I’m climbing up the bed, caging her in as I fit myself to her slit. And when I finally slide into her, when her body welcomes me like it’s been waiting for this moment all its life, she wraps her arms around me and whispers the only thing I’ve been dying to hear.
“I love you, Atlas.”
I still.
Everything inside me stills.
And then I fall again—hard, deep, and real.
Because that? That right there?
That is worth more than the entire world.
“I love you, too. So damn much,” I tell her and slide my cock out a fraction.
“Love you more than anything. Love your mind.”
I push back in and swirl my hips.
“Love your heart.”
I withdraw.
“Love your sweet fucking pussy so much.”
I slam my hips against hers.
“Tell me it's mine,” I command.
I do it again, and again. Rutting into her like the beast that I am.
“Oh God,” she whimpers, walls clenching around me.
“Tell me, Wife.”
Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, legs wrap around my waist. It’s like she’s trying to pull me inside her, and fuck, and yes, I want to go.
I belong there. With her. Only her.
“Yours. It’s yours! I’m yours, Atlas!”
Cece’s eyes roll back, but I don’t want that.
I want her eyes on me.
I wrap one hand around her neck, and those gorgeous dark green eyes flash to mine. Her pupils are blown.
She’s panting, and my name is on her lips.
Christ, she’s gorgeous.
I lick into her mouth, tasting her passion. My balls tighten. I’m going to come.
“That’s right. You. Are. Mine. No one else’s. Just mine. My wife. My love.”
And that’s what sends her right over the edge with me.
Our bodies pulse as one. My movements slow, but I don’t stop. Not until I’ve wrung out every last drop of pleasure.
“That was—” she whispers some long moments later.
“Yes, it was,” I concur, kissing her sweet temple before raising up on my elbows to gaze down at her.
“Come, kardhoúla. Let me clean you,” I whisper and stand, lifting her in my arms.
“They way you’re always carrying me you’d think I weighed nothing at all.”
“You weigh perfect. And I love carrying you,” I tell her honestly.
She gifts me with a smile, and my heart swells inside my chest. I might not deserve her, but she’s mine now.
And no force on Earth will ever change that.