Page 97 of His Stolen Bride

MIKHAIL

My men are moving, and Vladimir’s men are deciding whether to run, die, or join me. I tighten my hold on Alina’s hand. This is the part where I’m supposed to leave her and go finish it. This is what a leader does, but I can’t bring myself to leave her. Enzo shifts. “Mikhail, we need you upstairs.”

“I’m here,” I say.

“Mikhail.”

I look up at him. “I said I’m here.”

Enzo’s eyes harden. “He’s still alive.”

“I know.”

“He’ll try to get to her.”

“I know.”

Enzo takes a breath like he wants to argue, then he swallows it. “Fine. Two minutes. Then you move.”

Two minutes.

I can do two minutes.

I lean closer to Alina, mouth near her ear again. “When you wake up, you don’t talk to anyone except my people. You don’t answer questions. You don’t bargain.”

Her lips move, barely. No sound comes out.

I keep my voice low. “I’m going to say something, and you’re going to hear it, even if you can’t answer.”

Enzo’s gaze flicks to me. He knows what I’m doing. He doesn’t interrupt.

“You can leave,” I tell her. “Not tonight, not in the middle of this, but after. I’ll erase you. I’ll erase the boy. You’ll get papers that work, money that’s clean, routes that don’t get you killed. You’ll go wherever you want. You won’t owe me anything. You won’t answer to anyone. You won’t see me again unless you decide to.”

Her breathing stays steady, but her fingers twitch once in my grip.

Good. She’s hearing me.

I keep going because if I stop now, I won’t say it later.

“I won’t track you again. I won’t keep anything on you. You’ll be free for real. If you stay, it will be because you choose it, not because you’re trapped.”

Enzo’s voice cuts in, quiet and tight. “Time.”

I glance at Alina’s face. She’s still out, but her brow is faintly furrowed, like she’s fighting against the drug.

I press a quick kiss to her forehead, and then I stand. The second I step away, something in my chest tries to follow her and chain me to the bed. I snap it off.

I’m not doing that here. Enzo falls in beside me as we leave the room. The doctor stands against the wall, breathing hard, eyes wide.

“Stay,” I tell him.

He nods quickly. “I will. I will.”

We move down the corridor. Another door opens ahead, and a man runs out with a pistol, face slick with sweat. He sees us and stops like he hit a wall. He lifts the pistol, then hesitates.

That’s the crack.

Enzo shoots him in the shoulder. The man screams and drops the gun. He goes down to his knees.