Page 10 of The Mob Boss's Bride
A small, sad smile curves her lips. "I don't know. Something small but meaningful. Friends. Maybe in the garden behind my bakery when the roses bloom. Not..." She gestures vaguely. "This."
Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest. For the first time, I consider what I'm taking from her. Not just her freedom, but her dreams.
"I'll make it up to you," I promise, the words surprising me as much as her. "We can have another ceremony later. However you want it."
Her eyes widen slightly. "I thought this was temporary."
I don't answer. We both know it isn't.
The officiant waits in the formal sitting room, an older man with a kind face who asks no questions about the rushed ceremony or the lack of guests. Marco has done well—the room is tastefully arranged with white lilies and candles, a makeshift altar created from what must be every flower in my hothouse.
Fern pauses in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene. "Oh," she breathes, and something in her expression softens. She looks at me, a question in her eyes.
"I told them to make it nice," I say with a shrug, as if the effort means nothing. As if I haven't been texting specific instructions for the past hour.
"It is nice," she whispers. "Thank you."
She walks toward me, toward the altar, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. In the candlelight, her skin glows golden, her hair a halo of pale silk. She looks ethereal. Untouchable. And soon to be completely, legally mine.
The ceremony is brief but binding. The officiant speaks of commitment and partnership, words that seem both foreign and strangely right. When it's time to exchange vows, I take Fern's hands in mine. They're small, soft—baker's hands, with a small burn scar on one thumb that I want to kiss.
"I, Atlas Vale, take you, Fern Whitaker, to be my wife." The traditional words feel ancient in my mouth, weighted with more meaning than I expected. "To have and to hold, from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, till death do us part."
Her eyes widen at the standard vows. Perhaps she expected something modified, something that acknowledged the unusual nature of our arrangement. But I meant every word.
When it's her turn, her voice trembles slightly, but she doesn't falter.
"I, Fern Whitaker, take you, Atlas Vale, to be my husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, till death do us part."
The ring I place on her finger is a simple platinum band that nestles against the engagement ring. Her hands shake as she slides a matching band onto mine—a ring Marco somehow procured within hours, another small miracle.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The officiant smiles benevolently. "You may kiss your bride."
I cup Fern's face in my hands, tilting it up to meet mine. This kiss is different from our first—still possessive, still claiming, but with something else too. Something that feels dangerously like tenderness. Her lips are soft beneath mine, yielding then responding, her hands coming to rest lightly on my chest.
When we part, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. She looks beautiful. She looks mine.
The officiant departs with signed papers and a generous envelope. Marco tactfully disappears. And then we're alone, husband and wife of less than five minutes, standing in a room filled with flowers and flickering candles.
"So," she says softly, "what happens now?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implication. I could give her space, time to adjust. I could be patient.
I've never been patient.
"Now," I say, sweeping her into my arms in one fluid motion, "I take my wife to bed."
She gasps, her arms automatically winding around my neck. "Atlas?—"
"Unless you want me to stop." I look down at her, giving her this one chance to set boundaries. "Do you want me to stop?"
Her teeth catch her lower lip, her internal conflict visible in her eyes. Then, slowly, she shakes her head. "No."
That single word unleashes something primal in me. I carry her upstairs, to my bedroom—our bedroom now—her body light and warm against my chest. She smells like my soap, which only heightens my possessiveness. She's wearing my ring, my name. Soon she'll be wearing my marks on her skin.
I set her on her feet beside the bed, the massive four-poster that dominates the room. She looks small standing there, vulnerable in her white dress with her eyes wide and uncertain.
"We don't have to do this tonight," I say, the words costing me. "If you need time?—"
