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.
Chapter Thirty-Six-Cecilia
So here I am.
Back on the East Coast. Back in New Jersey. And living in a literal castle.
Okay—not technically a medieval fortress, but pretty damn close. Atlas bought the sprawling estate in Rumson on a whim—because of course he did—and now we’re calling it home.
It’s grand and dramatic and a little ridiculous, with arched windows, polished stone floors, wrought iron gates, and a view of the Atlantic Ocean that makes my Greek husband look far too smug every time he gazes out like Poseidon surveying his domain.
The man belongs near the sea. I’ve made my peace with it.
And now, apparently, so do I. But hey, there are worse things than an ocean view, right?
It’s early January, and the glitter of the holidays has just started to fade. The world is cold, but there’s warmth in this house—laughter, family, the smell of food, and something I never thought I’d have again after everything that happened.
Joy.
Because we’re doing it.
The wedding.
A real one this time.
And in true Volkov Clan fashion, it’s turning into a full-blown event.
Right now, I’m seated in what Atlas calls the east wing solarium, but I’ve renamed the bridal chaos zone.
There are jewel-toned ribbons everywhere, boxes of finger sandwiches, champagne flutes, and at least five different types of cake because my Aunt Destiny is not taking chances.
“I just can’t believe you kept it a secret,” Clementine says, flipping her hair over one shoulder like she’s auditioning for a bridal reality show. “Married in Greece? No photos? No live stream? You wound me, cousin.”
“Oh my God, shut up, Clemmie. So dramatic!” Lucy snorts.
“You got hitched on a yacht, Cece,” Lee-Lee adds, pouting as she grabs a chocolate-dipped strawberry. “And now you’re in a castle. A real freaking castle. What’s next, a crown?”
“She already has one,” my cousin Jade smirks, handing me a sparkly tiara from the party store. “Princess Stavros. It’s official.”
“You’re all insane,” I laugh, but I let them put it on my head, anyway.
Across the house—probably in one of the wood-paneled studies my husband pretends not to like—is the groom’s luncheon.
I’m told it involves whiskey, cigars, lamb chops, and several members of my family giving Atlas a very hard time.
