“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about reality!” she explodes, pushing off the bed and coming toe to toe with me. “About the fact that you’re an actual fucking prince. A powerful man. One who needs heirs. A legacy. And I’m broken, Atlas. I can’t give you that!”
I freeze.
Because now I get it.
This isn’t about doubt.
It’s about fear.
She thinks I’ll leave her.
That I’ll choose some shadow of a crown, some hypothetical child, over her.
“I don’t care,” I say, voice low and lethal.
“You will. One day.”
“No.” I step closer. “Let me be perfectly clear, Cecilia Stavros—I love you. Not your bloodline. Not your fertility. Not your family name. You.”
She flinches like she’s been slapped.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “Do you think I don’t know who I am? What I’ve done? I’ve killed men for less than touching what’s mine. I don’t say love. I don’t give love. But you—you break me open. And you don’t get to walk away from me, Cece! Not now. Not ever!”
“Atlas, be reasonable.”
“Reasonable? Reason flew out the door the second I saw you! Don’t you know I’d set this world on fire before I ever let you walk away from me?”
She trembles.
Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t look away.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I close the space between us and cup her jaw.
“I know. So am I.” I kiss her forehead, then the tip of her nose. “But I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
“Atlas,” she breathes.
“I meant what I said. I’d give everything up for you, Cece. You are not broken. You’re mine. And if anyone ever tries to make you feel less again, they’ll answer to me.”
She stares at me for a long, long time.
Then finally—finally—she exhales.
And falls into my arms.
Because that’s exactly where she fucking belongs. And I mean to keep her there.
Chapter Twenty-Nine-Cecilia
The soft clink of porcelain on marble draws my attention.
Maria, the same sweet-eyed maid who brought me mint tea yesterday, enters the airy Mykonos suite again, carrying a delicate tray of fresh pastries—flaky bougatsa, this Greek custard pastry baked in phyllo dough that I’m in love with, dusted with powdered sugar—and a steaming cup of herbal tea.
“Thank you,” I say, offering her a warm smile.
