Page 35 of His Stolen Bride

I notice how often I’m escorted now, not just in the garden but between rooms. I notice how guards position themselves closer than they used to, one ahead, one behind. I notice questions that follow my movements, framed as concern but delivered as confirmation.

“Where are you headed?”

“How long will you be?”

“Do you need assistance?”

The next afternoon, I’m walking in the garden when I notice a new rosebush. Fascinated by the warm brown color of the flowers, I walk toward it. The next second, the sound of the gunshot cracks the air without warning. It’s loud enough that my ears ring. The bullet strikes the wall inches from my head, stone exploding outward. I scream and drop instinctively, hands flying up to shield my face.

Shouting erupts immediately. Men move fast. Someone tackles me from the side, driving me to the floor. Arms cover my body. Another shot rings out farther away, then stops. I’m dragged backward, heels scraping, breath knocked out of me. My heart is slamming so hard, it hurts. Voices overlap, sharp and urgent.

“Clear the hall.”

“Get her down.”

“Check the west wing.”

I can’t see anything. My face is pressed against the ground. Dust and mud coat my mouth. I taste blood and realize I bit my tongue. Then silence.

Boots approach. The weight lifts. Hands grip my arms and pull me upright. I’m shaking so hard, my knees barely hold. Mikhail is there. His face is pale with fury, eyes burning, jaw set in a way that leaves no room for anything else. He grabs my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. “Are you hurt?” he demands.

I shake my head, then hesitate. My voice comes out thin. “I don’t think so.”

He scans me fast, hands moving over my arms, my back, my sides, checking for blood, for damage. His breathing is uneven. I’ve never seen him wildly furious like this. “Who fired?” he snaps at someone behind me.

“We don’t know yet,” a voice answers, tight with strain. “They were outside the interior range.”

Mikhail swears under his breath and pulls me closer, shielding me with his body without seeming to realize he’s doing it. His hand presses against the back of my head, firm and protective. “Inside,” he orders. “Now.”

They move us quickly, a wall of men closing in around us. The hallway blurs as we pass through it. My heart is still racing. My hands won’t stop shaking. As the doors close behind us and the house locks down, one thought keeps repeating, steady and terrifying.

This world will kill me before it ever lets me leave.

11

MIKHAIL

Iorder lockdown before the echoes fade and while half the hall is still reacting and the other half is still trying to pretend they’re trained enough not to flinch. “No discussion,” I say, and my voice stays level because volume is for men who want their authority debated. “Seal the gates, double exterior patrols, and pull every interior team into combat spacing.”

Enzo’s already moving, busy with barking instructions to the soldiers who work to get the curfews in place. I keep Alina behind me. The corridor is open and the angle was chosen, and if there’s a second shooter, then they’ll be waiting for the response.

My palm stays firm at her back, and my fingers don’t soften. If she feels comfort right now, she’ll misread it as safety, and safety is the lie that gets people killed.

Her breathing is quick and broken, and her steps are half a beat behind mine. “Keep up,” I tell her, and it lands harshly, but it lands. We move fast, we take the side turn before the main hall, and two men snap into position without being told.

They didn’t want her dead. If they wanted her dead, they would have taken the second shot while my men were still trying to figure out where the sound came from, and they would have taken it before my body crossed between her and the wall.

This was a measure, and the shooter wanted to watch the measure land. I get her to the nearest secured junction and I stop long enough to see her face. Her pupils are wide, her mouth is slightly open, and her hands keep curling and unclenching like she’s trying to remember what control feels like. “You’re not hurt,” I say, and it’s not a question.

She swallows, then forces the word out. “No.”

I don’t ask how close it was, and I don’t ask what she felt, because I heard it and I saw the impact on stone, and I saw her body jolt before she could stop it. I turn to Enzo. “Secure her room,” I tell him, and my tone cuts. “Two men inside, four outside, rotate every hour, and I want them swapped out before anyone gets comfortable.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“And pull the movement logs,” I add. “Every movement since dawn, every door access, every camera blind, and every guard rotation.”

Enzo moves, and his hands are already on the tablet.