Page 77 of His Stolen Bride

“No,” I say quietly.

Mikhail’s gaze flicks to mine. “Yes.”

“This is—” I start, then I stop.

He nods once. “It’s still here.”

The car pulls up to a small place tucked between two buildings, warm light in the windows, a sign that hasn’t changed much. I haven’t seen it in years. I haven’t let myself think about it in years.

I stare like my brain is refusing to accept it.

Mikhail gets out first, then he comes around and opens my door. He holds out his hand again, patient and firm, and I take it without thinking.

The smell hits me the moment we step inside, baked dough, warm sugar, coffee, toasted nuts. My throat tightens.

It’s a pastry shop, the kind of place where a child can press her face to the glass and point at what she wants, and a woman at the counter will smile and pretend she doesn’t see bruises on a father’s wrist.

I haven’t been in here since I was twelve.

The owner is older now, hair gray, eyes still sharp. She looks up, she takes in Mikhail, then she takes in me, and her expression shifts like she recognizes something she doesn’t want to name.

“Closed,” she says automatically, then she looks at Mikhail again and recalculates. “We’re closed.”

Mikhail’s tone stays polite. “I booked it.”

The woman blinks. “You did?”

“I did,” he confirms, then he glances at me. “You used to come here.”

My lips part. “How do you know?”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small slip of paper. “Sofia told me. You mentioned it to her when Oisin said he wanted strudel.”

I stare at him. “You planned a date off a comment.”

“Yes,” he says, and he doesn’t apologize. “You don’t get many good memories. I wanted one in front of you, not behind you.”

My chest tightens. The owner clears her throat. “You want the back table?”

Mikhail nods once. “Yes.”

We sit in the corner where I used to sit with my hands folded and my stomach tight, waiting for my father to finish talking to whoever he needed to impress. The table looks smaller now. The chair feels different under me. My hands shake, so I lace them together.

Mikhail watches my hands, then he reaches across and covers them with his, firm and warm.

“You’re safe,” he says.

I swallow. “Don’t.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t make it sound easy,” I answer. “It’s not easy.”

He nods once. “I know.”

The owner brings plates without asking. Apple strudel, still warm, cream on the side, powdered sugar dusted over the top. Hot chocolate in a thick cup, the kind I used to beg for.

I stare at it, then I laugh quietly, shocked. “She remembers.”