I collapse over her, breathing hard against her neck, her heartbeat thrashing against mine.
It takes a long moment before either of us can speak.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispers.
When I find it, my voice is rough and certain.
“That answer’s easy, kardhoúla. I want it all.”
She swallows hard, chest rising against mine as I wrap my hand around her throat using my thumb to force her gaze upward when she would’ve looked down.
“You’re mine now.”
Chapter Fifteen-Cecilia
Atlas took a shower and went to check on transportation.
Before he left, he leaned down, kissed the corner of my mouth like he didn’t want to go at all, and said, “Don’t leave without me.”
I won’t.
I promised him.
And no, they’re not going to revoke my feminist card for that, thank you very much.
This isn’t about obedience—it’s about trust.
I’m choosing this.
I’m choosing him.
Even if I can’t quite explain why.
Anyway.
We’re leaving as soon as he gets back—heading for his yacht, which, apparently, doubles as a floating chapel of impulsive life decisions.
So now I’m standing in front of a ridiculously huge closet, staring at an open suitcase and wondering how the hell I’m supposed to pack for a wedding and a fake honeymoon and an international crime lord negotiation in Turkey.
What even is my life right now?
I shouldn’t be nervous. I know why we’re doing this.
The marriage is strategic. Tactical. Clean.
It keeps all of us out of a fucking land war in Asia, which, trust me, sucks.
Marrying him secures his position without causing an incident.
It buys us time.
It’s smart. Efficient.
Unemotional.
Keep telling yourself that, Cece.
Something twists inside me, low and sharp and terrifying.
