Page 13 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"Morning." I clutch the towel tighter, suddenly shy despite everything we did last night.
He crosses to me, one hand lifting to brush damp hair from my face. "You're beautiful in the morning."
"I'm a mess," I counter, but my voice lacks conviction.
"A beautiful mess." His fingers trail down my neck to the edge of the towel. "My mess."
I should object to the possessiveness. I should step away. Instead, I lean into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight.
"I brought you breakfast," he says, nodding toward a tray on the bedside table I hadn't noticed. "And checked on your bakery. Your assistant manager has things under control. I told her you had a family emergency and would be in touch."
Panic flares in my chest. "You called my bakery? What exactly did you say? They'll worry?—"
"Relax." His thumb strokes my collarbone, soothing. "I was discreet. Said I was a friend helping you handle things. She seemed relieved someone was looking after you."
"I need to call them myself. I need my phone, my?—"
"After breakfast." He guides me to the bed, urging me to sit. "You need to eat. You barely touched dinner last night."
There was a reason for that, but I don't mention it. Instead, I watch as he uncovers the tray—fresh fruit, yogurt, pastries that look suspiciously like the ones from my own bakery, and coffee that smells like heaven.
"How did you get these?" I pick up one of my signature lemon-lavender scones.
A slight smile curves his lips. "I have people."
"You had someone go to my bakery and buy my own pastries to bring to me?" I don't know whether to be touched or disturbed.
"I wanted you to have something familiar. Something that would make you feel at home." He pours coffee into a mug and adds exactly the right amount of cream—how does he know that?—before handing it to me. "Drink. You need the caffeine."
I accept the mug, our fingers brushing. That small contact shouldn't send a shiver through me, not after everything, but it does.
"Thank you," I say softly, surprised by the thoughtfulness behind the gesture.
He watches me eat, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. When I've finished half a scone and most of the coffee, he stands. "I'll show you around today. You should know the house. Know where the security measures are."
Right. Security. The reason I'm here. The reason I'm married to this intimidating, magnetic man who watches me like I'm simultaneously precious and edible.
"Do you think they're looking for me?" I can't help asking. "Silva's men?"
Something dark flashes in Atlas's eyes. "They've been asking questions. But they won't find you here. You're safe."
The fierce protectiveness in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. This isn't just about making me his legal shield or satisfying his desire. He genuinely wants to keep me safe.
"Get dressed," he says, his voice gentler than I've heard it. "I'll wait outside."
But he doesn't leave without touching me again—a brush of his fingers along my bare shoulder, as if he can't help himself. As if he needs the contact as much as I apparently do.
I dress in clothes he's provided—soft leggings and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than a week's revenue at my bakery. When I emerge, he takes my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushes over my wedding band, a gesture that feels both possessive and reassuring.
The tour of the house reveals both opulence and practicality. Every room is a study in masculine elegance—dark woods, rich leathers, touches of chrome and glass. Nothing fussy orornamental, but everything of the highest quality. Like the man himself.
"Security system is state-of-the-art," he explains, showing me a panel near the front door. "Every entrance is monitored. Guards patrol the perimeter 24/7. You're never unprotected here."
"It's like a beautiful prison," I murmur, gazing out at the manicured grounds.
His hand tightens on mine. "Not a prison. A fortress. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
