It hurts.
But I know what patience costs. I’ve had a lifetime of lessons in that particular art.
“That’s—well, that’s unexpected,” she says after a beat, her voice a little breathless.
“Is it?” I tilt my head, studying her. “I think maybe you planned it this way.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You think I had some master plan to make a prince fall in love with me? As if.”
Her tone turns bitter.
Her eyes sharpen.
“How do you even know it’s real?”
She pushes up from the table, pacing, agitated now. Like I’ve just pulled the pin on a grenade she thought she buried.
“Cece,” I call, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look at me.
Then she storms below deck.
Fuck.
I don’t move for a full five seconds. My fists clench. My jaw grinds.
And then I shove back from the table and stalk after her.
She slams the stateroom door before I’m halfway down the stairs.
“Cece.” I knock once. Twice. “Open the door.”
Nothing.
Wrong choice.
I don’t think—I just react.
I kick the door in.
The wood cracks and flies open.
And there she is—perched on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, chin lifted, looking mutinous and glorious and so fucking pretty it actually hurts.
My wild little wife.
My fire.
“What the hell was that?” she snaps.
“You ran,” I say evenly, stepping into the room. “Why?”
“Why?” Her laugh is sharp. Almost hysterical. “Because you don’t get to do that, Atlas!”
“Do what?”
“Say you love me like it means something. Say it like it’s a promise when you and I both know it’s not!”
My temper sparks.
