Page 13 of His Stolen Bride

Her breath catches, and her eyes don’t move away. “I’m not pretending.”

I hold her gaze for one more beat, then I straighten and look at the seamstress.

“Finish,” I say, and I turn and walk out because I don’t trust myself in that room.

The wedding happens a week after she arrives, and it happens the way a Morin wedding should happen. The church is full, the guest list is curated, and every person present understands they’re watching more than vows.

I stand at the altar and keep my face blank, and I watch the doors.

When Alina walks in, the room shifts, and it’s not because she’s naive or sweet. It’s because she’s beautiful, and she looks expensive in the dress, and she looks like she knows she’s walking into a cage and she’s doing it anyway.

My hand closes around hers when she reaches me, and her skin is warm, and I get hard again, and I keep my face calm because my men are watching and my enemies are watching.

The priest speaks, and the vows are said, and the rings go on, and the paperwork is signed. Alina’s hand doesn’t shake when she signs her name, and I notice that more than I should.

When it’s time to kiss, I do it quickly and I keep it clean, and I don’t give anyone more than they’re owed.

She doesn’t look relieved. She looks thoughtful.

Good. Let her think. Thinking won’t save her, either.

The reception runs like a controlled machine. I shake hands, I accept congratulations, I let people see Alina beside me, and I watch every man who looks at her too long. She handles herself well, and she smiles when she needs to, and she doesn’t drink too much, and she doesn’t cling to me like a frightened bride.

That should please me. It irritates me.

When the night is over, I don’t take her to bed, and I don’t even go to her room.

I go to my office instead, and I lock the door, and I sit down with Sergei’s accounts because I can’t fix this family by touching my wife. I fix it by finding who shot my brother and by closing every crack he left behind.

Enzo comes in after midnight, and he shuts the door behind him.

“You’re not going to her,” he says, and it’s not a question.

I keep my eyes on the papers. “No.”

Enzo hesitates, then speaks anyway. “The men will talk.”

“Let them,” I say.

“They’ll wonder if she’s already under your skin,” he adds.

I look up then, and Enzo holds my gaze.

I don’t raise my voice, and I don’t soften it either. “If anyone thinks they can test me because I didn’t fuck my wife on the first night, they can try.”

Enzo nods once and leaves, and the room goes quiet again.

I work for hours, and I find small messes everywhere, but then I find something that isn’t small.

A separate register sits tucked behind a false bottom in a folder that looks harmless, and the handwriting is tight and careful. It isn’t income. It isn’t expense.

It’s inventory.

Names appear in sequence. Some are crossed out. Some are circled. Amounts are penciled beside them. Terms are noted. Conditions are attached.

Marriage required. Transfer upon union.

My jaw tightens as I turn pages.