Page 63 of His Stolen Bride

Mikhail’s voice drops further, and it feels like the room narrows. “You want control, then you get control, but you don’t get to do it alone.”

“I don’t intend to do any of it alone, Mikhail,” I whisper.

Mikhail’s gaze sharpens. “You’ve already drafted terms.”

“Yes.”

He inhales slowly, then he says, “Say them.”

I don’t waste time.

“Neutral location,” I begin. “Public enough for witnesses, private enough for exits. No children. No visible weapons. One car for me with a driver he approves. One car for him with the same. Cameras allowed, so he feels safe. That’s key.”

Enzo’s brows lift slightly. “You want cameras.”

“I want him thinking he’s collecting proof,” I say. “I want a record he trusts. I want him relaxed enough to talk.”

Mikhail’s mouth tightens. “He won’t relax.”

“He will if he thinks he’s winning,” I say.

Mikhail’s gaze holds mine like a test. “And what do you want him to say?”

“I want him to recite the contract,” I answer. “I want him to say Morozov’s terms. I want him to admit he was the groom. I want him to say what he wants now.”

Enzo’s voice is sharp. “Confession.”

“Yes,” I say. “And once we have it, you end him or you break him. Either works.”

Mikhail turns his head slightly. “You’re proposing a trap.”

“I’m proposing strategy,” I reply. “You’ve been fighting him with guns and routes. I’ll fight him with his ego.”

Mikhail’s gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then returns to my eyes. The shift is subtle, but it changes the air. I feel it, and it’s surprising how much I’ve come to want his attention. He steps around the desk and stops close enough that I have to tilt my chin to keep looking at him.

“You’re not going,” he says.

“I am.”

“You’re not leaving me guessing,” he says, and his voice is tight now, controlled with effort. “You’re not walking out and daring me to react.”

“I’m not daring you,” I say. “I’m asking you to do something harder.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“Trust me,” I say, and my voice stays calm even as my pulse climbs. “Trust my brain as much as you trust your guns.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze holds mine like he’s weighing what it costs.

Then his hand lifts, and he cups the side of my face with his palm. “You don’t get hurt,” he says.

“I can’t promise that,” I reply.

His thumb presses at my jaw. “You don’t get taken.”

“I can promise you that,” I say. “He won’t take me. Not again.”

Mikhail’s breath shifts, and he leans closer.