Page 49 of His Stolen Bride

Mikhail doesn’t look away from me. “We’re leaving. Now.”

I look at the exits, the men, and the body covered near the door. Then I stare at my son, shaking but silent. There’s no space left to run. “Promise me,” I finally say.

“Name it.”

“No punishment,” I say. “I won’t live like that again.”

Mikhail holds my gaze. “You won’t.”

“And Lira?” I add. “You dealt with her?”

A flicker of something dark passes over his face. “She won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

I swallow.

“Then don’t make this worse,” I say. “Don’t drag us.”

Mikhail steps back half a pace and extends his hand. Not to me. To Oisin.

Oisin looks up at me. “It’s okay,” I tell him quietly. “Stay close.”

Mikhail doesn’t touch him. He just stays there, hand open, waiting.

I take Oisin’s hand myself and step forward.

Mikhail nods once. “Let’s go.”

We move fast as his men form a tight perimeter. We exit through the kitchen and out a back door. The air outside is sharp and loud with engines and radios.

Two vehicles wait, doors open.

Mikhail turns to me. “You’re coming with me now.”

I don’t argue. There isn’t another move left on the board and for the first time since I ran, I know it.

16

MIKHAIL

Vienna looks the same from the air, which means nothing important has changed on the surface and everything underneath has shifted. I don’t relax when the plane touches down. I don’t breathe easier when the gates close behind us. Home is only useful when it’s secure, and right now, my house is a liability.

Alina doesn’t speak on the drive back. She sits in the rear seat with the boy tucked against her side, one arm firm around him, her posture straight and guarded like she expects the windows to explode at any moment. I keep my eyes forward and let the silence sit. Forcing conversation would only turn this into something fragile, and fragility gets people killed.

The gates open on my command. The perimeter lights are already up. Men I didn’t authorize stand where they shouldn’t. I register faces, count unfamiliar ones, and make notes without showing it. This is my house, and I don’t recognize enough of it.

I issue orders the moment the cars stop. Rooms cleared. Floors locked. No movement without direct clearance. Alina and the boy go to the east wing, two levels up, not the master suite and not her old rooms. Neutral ground. No windows facing the garden.

She notices.

“Not there,” she says flatly as one of my men gestures down the hall.

“I know,” I answer. “That wing’s exposed.”

She nods once and doesn’t argue, which tells me she’s exhausted and still calculating.

I assign guards she hasn’t seen before and guards I trust not to speak. No overlap. No chatter. I tell them to keep distance unless called. I don’t need her feeling cornered. I need her alive and thinking clearly.

The boy watches everything. He’s quiet, observant, and already clocking power dynamics. I don’t like how familiar that feels.