A real one—sharp as knives and twice as dangerous.
I walk out, back straight, chin high.
But my chest?
My chest aches.
Because that night, when he kissed me, some traitorous part of me thought—maybe this could be real.
Now I know better.
Now I know exactly what he wants.
And it isn’t me.
Chapter Seven-Atlas
Little prince?
That stings.
Still, I’m impressed.
Cecilia leaves the room like a conqueror—head high, shoulders squared, hips moving to a private rhythm only she knows.
Every step is a punctuation mark, an argument in motion, and the way the light catches the ink at her hip makes my jaw go stupid for a second.
Fuck. Me.
Did I say impressed?
I’m floored.
She doesn’t look back.
Of course she doesn’t.
That’s the part that rips something open inside me. This woman doesn’t know what she does to me.
She walks out assuming she’s cleared the board, put her pieces in order, handled business the way she always does—sharp, brilliant, dangerous—and all I can think about is the way that snake coils and unfurls beneath her skirt.
The way her laugh lingers at the edge of my hearing like a dare.
The way she moves like she owns every room she steps into, and I want nothing more than to own the moment she gives me.
Obsession is a small word for what this is.
It’s an ache behind the ribs, a hunger that doesn’t go away with distance or time.
I should be a man of plans, of strategy—I am.
But the truth is filthy and simple. Something in me breaks softer around her.
I want to map every inch of that sexy as fuck inked and pierced skin.
I want to learn every secret she keeps for herself.
I want to be the reason she never needs to be protected.
