Page 64 of His Stolen Bride

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says.

“I grew up in it.”

His eyes drop again, and this time, he doesn’t hide it.

I don’t move away.

The last few weeks have been a steady collision of fear and safety and control and the fact that he’s still the most capable man in any room, and he knows it. I’ve watched him with our son, and I’ve watched him with his men, and I’ve watched him restrain himself around me like restraint is a weapon he keeps sharp.

Now he stops restraining it.

His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, and he pulls me forward.

The kiss is immediate and hungry, and it isn’t careful. His mouth takes mine like he’s done negotiating, and my body reacts like it’s been waiting for permission.

I grab his shirt with both hands and pull him closer, and the sound he makes is rough, like it hurts him to want this.

He kisses me harder, and I open to him without thinking, my breath catching when his tongue slides against mine, when his hand tightens at my neck, when his other hand lands at my waist and drags me flush to him.

It’s too much and not enough. My knees soften and I want more. His mouth breaks away just long enough for him to speak against my lips.

“Say you’ll come back,” he says.

“I will,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I’ll come back,” I repeat, and my voice shakes on the last four words. “Because you’ll be there.”

His hand slides down my back, grips hard at my hip, and he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s marking time, like he’s memorizing. I feel his control fighting his need, and it makes my skin burn.

My hands move on their own, one sliding up his neck, fingers threading into his hair at the back of his head. It’s thick now, touched with gray at the temples, and it makes him look even more dangerous, even more composed, even more unfairly handsome.

He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, and his breathing is heavy but controlled.

“This changes nothing,” he says.

“It changes everything,” I answer.

His mouth twitches like he almost smiles, then he steps back a fraction, and the air goes colder between us.

Enzo clears his throat behind us like he’s been standing there the entire time, which he probably has, and I want to kill him for it.

Mikhail doesn’t turn. “Speak.”

Enzo’s voice is clipped. “Luca’s on comms. He found the cutout.”

Mikhail’s posture tightens again, and the switch back to leadership is instant.

“Where?” Mikhail asks.

“Market cameras caught him,” Enzo replies. “Gloves. Hat. Clean. He walked into a side street, then vanished.”

Mikhail nods once. “Pull the footage anyway. Run the gait. Run the height. Run the movement.”

Enzo hesitates. “Boss. The message.”

“I know what it is,” Mikhail says.