All Chapters of The Substitute Bride of the Ruthless Mafia Boss: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Sunlight. Real, unfiltered, *warm* sunlight. It’s the first thing that registers, painting stripes across Brielle’s bare shoulder where the quilt has slipped down. Milk-pale skin, dusted with faint freckles like scattered gold. My arm is a dead weight around her waist, possessive even in sleep. The quiet isn’t just absence; it’s a presence. Rustling leaves, distant water, the soft sigh of wind through pines. It’s… alien. Beautiful, in a way that scrapes against nerves honed for decades in concrete canyons and the staccato rhythm of gunfire.She shifts, a small murmur escaping her lips, burrowing back against my chest. Mine. Utterly, irrevocably mine. The thought isn’t new, but here, in this impossible quiet, it hits with the force of a physical blow. Brielle Wallace. The girl forced into my world, who shattered its rules and remade herself in fire and blood. My salvation. My damnation. My *everything*.Her eyes flutter open, sleep-hazed, that impossible blue finding mine. A slow, soft

"You," I said, the word ripped from somewhere deep, raw. "Only you. Not the crown. Not the kingdoms. Not the fucking vaults or the keys or the blood." My grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to impress the absolute truth of it. "I dragged you into hell, Brielle. I broke you, remade you, used you… and you…" A disbelieving, almost pained sound escaped me. "You stood. You fought. You became… everything."I took a shuddering breath, the wind whipping around us. The confession felt like stepping off a cliff. "I don’t know how to do this. This peace. This… softness. But I know this: Every breath I take is yours. Every beat of this fucked-up heart belongs to you. You are my redemption and my ruin. My only salvation. My only truth." My thumbs brushed her cheekbones. "I am a monster, Brielle. Forged in blood and betrayal. But I am *your* monster. Wholly. Irrevocably. And I…" The final word, the terrifying, powerful word, lodged in my throat. I forced it out, a low, guttural vow again

The cabin door clicked shut behind us, the sound final, like a tomb sealing. Outside, the mountain air was sharp as broken glass, scented with pine resin and the damp earth of early autumn. Brielle stood beside me on the rough-hewn porch, her breath plumbing white in the chill. She wore practical hiking gear – sturdy boots, dark pants, a thick sweater under a weatherproof jacket – but she still looked like sunlight trapped in winter. My sunlight."Ready?" Her voice was calm, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the strap of her small backpack. Inside, I knew, nestled beside water and energy bars, was the compact Glock 26 I’d insisted she carry. My own Beretta M9 was a familiar, heavy reassurance against my ribs beneath my jacket."Always," I murmured, my gaze sweeping the tree line. The forest felt different now. Not a sanctuary, but a chessboard. The carved wolf’s head on that mossy rock was the opening gambit. Esther’s latest intel, delivered via a burner phone call last ni

The smell of cheap coffee and scorched batter shouldn’t feel like a sanctuary. But after the jagged tension of the gorge, the carved crown burning like a brand in my mind, the cabin’s cloying warmth is a fortress. Brielle moves with a forced calm by the stove, the rhythmic *hiss* of batter hitting the hot griddle a counterpoint to the adrenaline still humming in my veins. Pancakes. Our absurd, fragile flag of normalcy."Burnt offerings again?" My voice rasps, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching her. Always watching her. The way the soft light catches the gold in her hair, the precise angle of her wrist as she flips a pancake, the faint tension tightening the line of her shoulders beneath her thin sweater. She’s braced, like I am. Waiting for the hammer to fall.She doesn’t turn, but a ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Only the edges. Adds character. Like us." She slides a plate towards the small table – two lopsided, slightly charred discs. "Sit. Eat. Before they g

Sleep is a futile concept. We lie tangled on the narrow bed, not for comfort, but for warmth and the primal need for contact, for reassurance that the other is still there, still breathing. The cabin groans around us. The wind howls like a banshee. Every sound is amplified, a potential herald of death. Brielle’s breathing is slow, even, but I know she’s not asleep. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, over the scars beneath my shirt."You think they know about the island?" she whispers into the darkness. "About… everything?"The mansion exploded in flames. Valerie’s terrified face. The moment Brielle, bloodied and resolute, claimed the title of Don to save us all. The frantic escape into anonymity. "Possible," I admit, my voice rough. "We covered our tracks, but… traces remain. Especially for someone motivated. Someone who knew where to look." The specter of Julia Green, of Dawson, of the fragmented remnants of the Five Kingdoms, hangs heavy in the unspoken words."Maybe it’s