Page 5 of His Stolen Bride

I climb out with my hands still tied, and my knees wobble before I can steady myself, but a man grips my elbow and holds me upright without a hint of gentleness. Once I’m outside, I force my gaze up and take in the house in front of me, huge and built from pale stone, its dark windows sealed and unlit, giving nothing back.

Men line the entrance and the drive, all armed to the teeth, but the man at the top of the steps doesn’t bother with a gun. He’s tall, broad, built like a damn wall, every inch of him solid and unhurried. Silver streaks through the dark hair at his temples, and the trimmed stubble on his hard jaw looks rough enough to leave a burn on skin if he got close.

His steel-gray eyes lock onto me, stripping me bare with a single look. Heat pools low in my belly, and I hate how my breath catches, how my eyes betray me by tracing the way his dark suit hugs every hard line of his body. The open collar of his white shirt reveals a glimpse of tanned skin, the edge of dark ink peeking out. His hands rest in his pockets, but there’s a tension there, like he’s choosing restraint, barely holding back from reaching out and claiming what he wants.

I shift on my feet, trying to shake the feeling, but my thighs clench without permission, and I’m painfully aware of the damp heat building between them. My mind screams to look away, to stop this, but my body’s already betraying me, imagining those rough hands sliding out of his pockets, gripping my hips, pulling me against that solid chest. I bite my lip, hard, trying to snap myself out of it, but his gaze doesn’t waver, and the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Keep staring, sweetheart,” he says, voice rolling over me like a rough caress. “I don’t mind the attention.”

My face burns, but I can’t look away, not when his words hit like a touch, making my skin prickle and my core tighten. “I’m not staring,” I snap, but it’s weak, and we both know it.

He takes a slow step down, closing the distance just enough that I can smell the faint spice of his cologne. “Liar,” he murmurs, and that single word sends a shiver straight down my spine, pooling hot and heavy between my legs.

2

ALINA

The man gripping my elbow clears his throat and speaks toward him, not to me. “We’ve brought her.”

The man doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches long enough to make my pulse jump. His eyes stay on me as he takes me in properly this time, from my face to my coat to my shoes and back again, slow and thorough. Finally, he speaks. “I can see that, Enzo.” His voice is rich, textured without being loud. “Release and untie her. She’s not going to run.”

It isn’t a suggestion. The grip on my elbow tightens for a fraction of a second, and my ties are cut. I stay still, rooted in place. Running feels ridiculous now, like trying to outrun a decision that’s already been made. “You’re afraid,” he says, calm and observational, like he’s stating a fact he’s already accounted for.

I draw in a breath and hold it, and his gaze flicks briefly to my throat before returning to my eyes. One of his hands leaves his pocket, and he reaches out slowly, not touching me at first, giving me time to pull back if I want to. I don’t. His fingers brush a loose strand of hair away from my cheek, light and controlled. “Don’t be,” he says quietly. “Fear doesn’t buy you anything here.”

His hand drops, but the awareness of it doesn’t, and when he looks at me again, something sharper glints behind the restraint, not warmth, but interest. “When someone owes me,” he continues, his voice steady, “I collect. Your father thought the rules were flexible. He was wrong.”

He pauses, watching my reaction without missing a beat. “You, however, are not your father,” he adds. “And you’re standing here instead of screaming, which makes you worth examining.”

A single corner of his mouth twitches, not a smile, but close enough to unsettle me. I lift my chin. “Who are you?”

His gaze stays steady. “Mikhail Morin.”

My chest tightens. I don’t let it show.

“I want to go home,” I say.

Mikhail’s expression doesn’t change. “Your home is gone.”

“My mother is at home.”

His eyes spark once, and briefly, and I know he already knows where she is. I force the words out. “Sergei is dead.”

“I know.”

“Who killed him?”

Mikhail’s mouth tightens slightly. “We’ll need to figure that out, but I suspect it’s all because of you, malyshka.” A shiver runs up my spine at how he rolls the endearment on his tongue in a deep, husky rasp.

I dig my nails into my palms. “What does that mean?”

He raises a brow like the question amuses him. “It means your father made promises he couldn’t keep.”

My throat tightens. “My father is dead.”

Mikhail steps closer. “Your father,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin, “sold you to my brother. Any wise girl would’ve accepted the deal. But your insolence, your stubborn little fire, cost me a family member.” His eyes burn into mine, dark and unyielding, with a gaze that makes my stomach flutter with a sick mix of fear and something hotter. He leans in, so close I can feel the heat rolling off him. “And now, little one, you’re mine to break.”

My breath catches. “No.”