Page 55 of His Stolen Bride

Mikhail doesn’t look at me this time. He keeps his eyes on Oisin. “After,” he says, calm and final, but not unkind.

Oisin considers that, then nods once, satisfied with the terms.

I let out a quiet breath and lift my glass, watching the two of them across the table and realizing how quickly something steady is forming where I expected resistance.

The food comes quickly, plates set down with ease, and the smell alone makes my stomach tighten. The chicken is roasted deep gold, skin crisp and crackling, the potatoes smashed and browned at the edges with salt still clinging to them, and the tomatoes are warm and sweet, cut small just the way Oisin asked, glistening under a light drizzle of oil. Steam rises as Oisin digs in, his shoulders squared with concentration, his fork moving carefully from plate to mouth like this is serious work he intends to do well.

He eats with focused seriousness, careful not to spill and quietly pleased each time he manages it, and I catch myself smiling before I stop. Mikhail barely touches his plate, but he notices everything. He shifts a napkin closer when Oisin’s elbow drifts, slides the knife farther from the edge of the table without breaking conversation, and catches a drop of sauce with his thumb just before it stains Oisin’s sleeve, wiping it away with the napkin like it’s instinct, not effort.

The table bends around him without anyone acknowledging it. The waiter checks with him before asking anyone else, the noise seems to lower in a subtle radius around our seats, and even I feel it, that steady gravity that doesn’t need volume to hold a room. When his gaze lifts, it lands on me briefly, warm and assessing, and something flutters down in my stomach before I can stop it. He doesn’t stare, doesn’t smile, just looks, and that somehow feels more intimate.

“You’re not eating again,” Oisin says suddenly, pausing mid-bite to look at him.

“I’ll eat later?” Mikhail replies, calm and unbothered.

“Why?”

Mikhail considers him for a moment, then answers honestly. “Because I like to make sure everyone else eats first.”

Oisin thinks about that, chewing slowly. “Mama does that too.”

My fingers tighten around my fork, and I feel my pulse jump in a way I don’t appreciate.

Mikhail’s eyes flick back to me, just for a second, and his mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. The waiter returns with fresh bread, still warm, the crust splitting as it’s set down, and Mikhail breaks a piece without looking and slides it toward Oisin. “Careful. It’s hot.”

Oisin blows on it obediently, then grins when it cools enough to eat. I watch the exchange, the ease of it, the way Mikhail gives direction without sharpness and attention without crowding, and I feel that quiet ache settle in my chest again. This is what he’s like when he’s not performing, when there’s no one to intimidate or negotiate with, and it’s dangerously compelling.

I force myself to take a bite, letting the flavors ground me, but my awareness keeps drifting back to him, to the way he commands the table without raising his voice, to the way Oisin responds without fear, and to the uncomfortable truth settling deeper with every passing minute.

I didn’t imagine this version of him. I just never gave myself room to see it.

When dessert arrives, Oisin digs in with gusto and Mikhail watches him with an intensity he doesn’t bother hiding anymore. I don’t interrupt it, even when it feels intimate enough to intrude on.

We leave before the room thins out. Mikhail walks on Oisin’s other side, close but not touching, and when Oisin stumbles on the curb, Mikhail steadies him with a hand to the shoulder that lasts exactly as long as it needs to.

We get home just after nine. Security moves with us without hovering, and Oisin’s hand stays in mine as we walk the familiar corridor toward the east wing. “Teeth,” I tell him gently when we reach my room. He groans like it’s a great injustice, then trudges toward the bathroom anyway. I follow, squeeze toothpaste onto the brush, and steady the stool with my foot while he climbs up.

He brushes seriously, brows furrowed, foam gathering at the corner of his mouth. I tuck his pajamas on the counter and smooth his hair back while he spits.

“You did good today,” I tell him.

He shrugs, pretending not to care, but his shoulders lift just a little. “Mama, he looks scary.”

I pause. “Who?”

“Your husband,” he says plainly.

I huff out a quiet laugh. “He looks serious. That’s different.”

Oisin considers that, then nods, satisfied, and goes back to brushing.

A knock sounds at the door, firm and unintrusive. “Come in,” I call.

Mikhail steps inside with a woman at his side. She’s in her early thirties, dark hair pulled back, posture relaxed but alert. She takes in the room in one glance, clocking exits the same way I do. “This is Sofia,” Mikhail says. “She’s Enzo’s sister.”

Sofia smiles at Oisin immediately. “Hey.”

Oisin spits again, wipes his mouth, and looks at her with interest. “Do you tell stories?”