Page 12 of His Stolen Bride

Good. Now she understands a little more.

I leave her room before I touch her, and I leave because touching her would turn into taking, and taking would turn into something I don’t have time for.

The week moves fast because I make it move fast.

My mother handles the church and the formalities, and my house manager handles the vendors, and Enzo handles security, and I handle the message.

People need to see the Morin name intact, and they need to see that Sergei’s death didn’t open a door.

The day of the dress fitting, I tell myself I’m checking on the guest list, then I find myself outside the room anyway.

I don’t knock. I open the door and step in, and the seamstress freezes, but Alina doesn’t.

She’s standing on a small platform, and the dress is white and fitted, and it sits on her like it was made for her body and nobody else’s. She looks too young for this, and she looks too steady, and my body reacts before my brain finishes the thought.

I get hard, and it makes me furious, and I don’t look away because I won’t.

Alina’s gaze meets mine in the mirror first, then she turns her head and looks at me directly.

“You’re here to inspect,” she says.

“I’m here to make sure you don’t embarrass me,” I reply.

She lets out a short breath, then she looks back at the mirror. “You’re afraid of gossip.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” I say.

Her eyes flick to mine again. “Then you’re angry.”

“Yes,” I answer, and I step closer because I’m not going to pretend distance is saving me right now. “And you’re still standing there like you have the power.”

She lifts her chin. “I have something you need.”

My jaw tightens. “You don’t know what I need.”

“You need to look strong,” she says, and her voice stays calm. “You need people to stop thinking Sergei’s death made you weak.”

I stare at her. “Don’t speak about my brother.”

Her eyes flash. “Then don’t speak about my father like I handed him a gun.”

The seamstress and her assistants pretend they’re invisible, and they do it well, but I can feel the room holding its breath.

I take another step, and I stop close enough that Alina’s breathing changes.

“You’re playing a game,” I say.

“I’m staying alive,” she answers.

“Alive,” I repeat, and I let my gaze drop to the line of her throat, then back up to her eyes. “Don’t confuse survival with winning.”

Her lips part, and her cheeks flush, and I know she feels the heat between us because I feel it too, and it’s ugly and sharp and addictive.

She doesn’t back down. “Are you going to touch me,” she asks, “or are you going to keep staring like you’re punishing yourself?”

The question hits hard because it’s accurate.

I lean in, and my voice drops. “If I touch you,” I say, “you won’t get to pretend you’re in control.”