His usually immaculate shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes glowing like molten gold.
He’s all tension and danger, an avenging god in a three-piece suit.
He stalks forward, grabs the dockworker by the front of his shirt, and hauls him up like he weighs nothing. “Apologize,” he says, voice like thunder.
The guy sputters, eyes wide. “I—uh?—”
Atlas doesn’t wait.
His fist connects with the man’s jaw in a clean, brutal strike that echoes through the empty dockyard.
The worker crumples again, out cold this time.
“Forget it. You’re not good enough to even speak to her. Get rid of him,” Atlas says the last to one of his men, who’s materialized out of nowhere like they always do.
The guy nods once and drags the limp body away into the shadows.
Atlas turns back to me, expression softening just enough to make my stomach twist.
“Are you okay, kardhoúla?”
I know that word. It’s Greek.
Uncle Angel speaks it sometimes, mostly to his wife, my Aunt Sisi.
She’s kind of who I’m named after, though it’s my nickname. And it’s spelled differently, even though it’s pronounced the same.
My Cece to her Sisi.
Anyway, I know I should be mad.
He just punched a man half to death on my behalf. I’m a lawyer, I know the power of words over brawn.
But instead of angry, I’m breathless.
“I’m fine,” I manage.
“Good.” His mouth curves into a slow, arrogant grin. “But I’d feel a lot better if you let me make sure. Over dinner.”
And before I can even think of saying no, the bastard leans over, opens the drivers’ side door.
Then, he walks right past me, opens the passenger-side door of my car, and settles in like he owns the place.
Like letting me drive doesn’t bother him one bit.
And somehow, that—more than the punch, more than the possessive Greek endearment, more than the way his muscles flexed under the dim dock lights—is what does me in.
Because a man like Atlas Stavros, a man who could command a room full of killers with a glance, doesn’t mind letting me lead.
And that might be the sexiest thing of all.
I get in and turn in my seat to look at him.
“Why were you still here?”
“Because a woman like you shouldn’t be here alone unaccompanied. Not this late, kardhoúla,” he says from beside me, his voice low, deep—velvet and smoke.
“I can take care of myself,” I reply.
