Page 20 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"Of course. It's my creation. My..." I trail off, unsure how to explain what Sweet Ferns means to me.
"Your sanctuary." He finishes the thought with surprising accuracy. "Like this office is mine."
I nod, struck again by how well he can read me sometimes. "Yes. Exactly."
He stands abruptly. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
Curious, I follow him from the office, through the west wing of the mansion where I rarely go. This area has been under renovation for the past two weeks—workers coming and going, doors closed to me with vague explanations about "improvements."
We stop before a set of double doors I don't recognize. Atlas turns to me, something almost like nervousness in his posture. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Just trust me."
Those words—trust me—would have made me laugh bitterly five weeks ago. Now, I find myself obeying without further question. I close my eyes, feeling his hand on the small of my back guiding me forward. The doors open with a soft click.
"Keep them closed," he murmurs, leading me forward several steps. The air changes—cooler, somehow, with a faint scent of... vanilla? "Okay. Open."
I blink, adjusting to the light, then gasp. We're standing in a kitchen. Not just any kitchen—a baker's dream. Professional-grade ovens line one wall, pristine stainless steel countertops gleam under recessed lighting, and a massive island workspace dominates the center. Open shelving displays every tool, every specialized pan I could ever need. A cooling rack holds enough space for dozens of baking sheets. In one corner sits acomfortable seating area with a small table—perfect for recipe planning or coffee breaks.
"Atlas," I breathe, turning in a slow circle. "What is this?"
"Your sanctuary." He watches my reaction carefully. "Until it's safe for you to return to Sweet Ferns. And after, if you want."
I run my fingers along a countertop, noting the marble section perfect for pastry work. "You built me a bakery? In your house?"
"In our house." He corrects gently. "And yes. The equipment is top of the line. I had your recipe books brought over. There's a pantry through there—" he nods toward a door "—stocked with everything you mentioned using in the past month."
Emotion swells in my chest, too big to contain. This isn't just a gift—it's understanding. It's Atlas seeing what I need, what I miss, and providing it without being asked. It's acknowledging that I'm more than just his wife, his protection, his bedmate. I'm Fern, the baker who creates with her hands.
"I don't know what to say." My voice catches.
He shrugs, looking almost uncomfortable with my emotion. "You don't have to say anything. Just use it. Create. Be happy here."
I cross to him, rising on tiptoes to kiss him softly. "Thank you."
His hands settle on my waist, keeping me close. "You like it?"
"I love it." The words feel dangerous—too close to what I'm really feeling. I pull back slightly. "Can I try it out now?"
A smile tugs at his lips. "It's yours. Do whatever you want."
What I want is to bake something immediately. I explore the pantry, finding it meticulously stocked with premium ingredients. Returning to the main kitchen, I pull out flour, sugar, butter—the basics for a simple shortbread. Atlas leans against the counter, watching me with what looks almost like amusement.
"What?" I ask, measuring flour into a bowl.
"I like watching you work. You get this look—focused, happy." He pushes off from the counter. "Need help?"
The offer surprises me. "You bake?"
"No. But I can follow instructions." He rolls up his sleeves, revealing tattooed forearms that still make my mouth go dry. "Put me to work, Mrs. Vale."
The name sends a shiver through me—not unpleasant, just... significant. I've been Mrs. Vale on paper for weeks, but hearing him say it like this, in this space he created for me, feels like a shift.
"Okay. You can cream the butter and sugar." I point to the mixer, then hand him the ingredients. "Just don't overdo it."
He approaches the task with the same focus he gives everything, his brow furrowed in concentration. There's something endearing about seeing this dangerous man carefully measuring sugar, his powerful hands gentle on the delicate equipment.
