Page 1 of His Stolen Bride

1

PROLOGUE

ALINA

The Morins are the most dangerous family running contracts out of Vienna, and I wouldn’t have cared about that if Sergei Morin, the younger brother, hadn’t come to collect at my mother’s door. No “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “Do you need anything,” not even a polite knock that waits for an answer. It’s three knocks, fast, then the door handle testing once, then another knock.

My mother freezes at the kitchen table. Her tea sits untouched as her eyes flick to the hallway, then back to me. “Don’t open it,” she whispers.

I’m already up.

We’ve spent four days sitting in this little apartment and trying to breathe around the fact that my father is dead. The police call it a robbery, a mugging gone wrong. I’ve repeated those words in my head so often, they feel stamped into my skull.

Robbery. Wrong place. Wrong time.

If I don’t repeat it, I start thinking about other explanations, about the men my father used to call “friends”, the way he always had cash for cigarettes even when the fridge was empty, and the way he’d smile at me and say, “It’s getting better, Alya. Just give me a little time.”

I gave him my time, my twenties, money I didn’t have. There’s nothing left to hide behind, so I open the door.

Two men stand in the hallway, both in dark coats and built broadly. They’re looking past me, not at me. Then the third man steps forward, and I understand immediately that he’s the reason they’re here.

Sergei is in in his early thirties. He’s tall and lean—not starving-lean, but controlled-lean. He has dark hair combed back neatly, a sharp jaw, and blue eyes that hold mine without blinking. He wears a tailored coat that fits him too well to be bought off a rack.

He takes one look at my face and decides he’s going to speak first. “Alina Morozova.”

I don’t answer. I keep my hand on the door edge, ready to slam it.

He glances over my shoulder, toward the cramped kitchen where my mother sits. His gaze pauses there long enough to tell me he’s clocked her as leverage. Then he looks back at me and smiles without teeth. “My condolences,” he says.

My throat tightens. “Why are you here?”

He extends his hand. “To discuss business.”

I don’t take his hand.

Sergei doesn’t care. He drops it and steps half a pace closer. The men behind him stay where they are, still, silent. “I’m here to collect what your father owed.”

My stomach turns. “He’s dead.”

“Yes,” he replies. “I’m aware.”

I swallow. “Then whatever he owed died with him.”

Sergei’s smile stays in place, but his eyes sharpen. “That isn’t how this works.”

I want to laugh or to scream. Instead, I keep my voice even because I’ve learned something about men who come to doors uninvited. If you give them emotion, they treat it as permission. “What do you want?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay calm.

“You,” he replies casually with a little incline of his head. “You’re the debt.”

My pulse thuds hard, once, then again. My mother stands so fast, her chair scrapes. “No,” she says, voice shaking. “No, you can’t.”

Sergei turns his head, not fully facing her, but acknowledging her presence. “Mrs. Morozova.”

My mother goes pale. “What do you want from us?”

He looks back at me. “Your husband agreed to an arrangement. He promised your daughter to me.”

My mouth goes dry. “You’re lying.”