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.”
