Atlas’s breath is steady, but it feels like he’s holding himself in place.
“What did Alfred do?” he asks after a beat.
“What did he do?” I let out a breathy laugh. “He panicked. Told me he wasn’t ready for ‘that level of complication.’ Said being married to me was more trouble than it was worth—even with my name, my family, my connections.”
My voice cracks, just a little.
“So he backed out of the engagement. I gave him back the ring, and I started to put my piercings back on.”
Silence. I’m touching my left wrist, and Atlas lifts it gently, turning it in his hand.
He traces the delicate sun inked on my skin, its rays bold and fine.
His thumb brushes over it like it’s something sacred.
“When did you get this?”
“After we broke up. My cousin Lucy drew it for me. I had it done somewhere I’d always see it.”
“What does it mean?” he asks softly.
“That no matter how bad things feel today,” I whisper, “the sun will still rise tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say anything.
But he doesn’t have to.
He pulls me tighter into his arms, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself be held.
Really held.
Because for tonight, in this moment, I’m not a lawyer.
Not a disappointment. Not someone too complicated to love.
I’m a woman.
His wife.
And maybe, just maybe, this thing we’re pretending to have isn’t pretend anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Atlas
My entire body is trembling.
Not from arousal—though that’s there, fierce and undeniable—but from something deeper.
Rage. Grief. Awe.
Rage that anyone—anyone—would dare to make this woman feel less than the extraordinary force she is.
Grief that she ever believed them. That she ever doubted herself.
And awe—awe because she told me. Trusted me.
This woman is a goddess. A sharp-tongued, fire-eyed, fiercely guarded goddess—and she just laid her heart bare in my arms.
I don’t deserve it.
