Page 103 of His Stolen Bride

Enzo’s phone buzzes. He checks it and gives me a short nod. “Your mother’s fine. House is sealed. Oisin’s still asleep.”

Good.

I carry Alina toward the van, but she shifts in my arms, weak but stubborn.

Her lips brush my jaw as she tries to speak again.

“Don’t,” I tell her.

She does anyway.

It’s a whisper, broken and rough, but clear enough to cut straight through the noise.

“I’m staying.”

28

ALINA

“Mama.”

Oisin’s voice is right in my ear, soft and serious, like he’s saying my name the way he says a rule.

I try to open my eyes and my body argues first. Everything feels heavy, thick, like I’m pushing through wet cement. My throat aches when I swallow, my tongue tastes metallic, and my head is sore in a slow, stubborn way.

“Oisin,” I blurt out, because that’s the only thing that matters enough to force me awake.

A small weight presses against my chest.

He’s on top of me, curled up like he’s guarding his spot. His hair tickles my chin. His breath is warm against my neck. One of his hands is fisted in the front of my shirt like he fell asleep holding on and didn’t let go.

I blink until the room sharpens.

I’m in a bedroom I know. Not mine from years ago. Not some borrowed hotel room. This is the estate. The one I came back to and swore I wouldn’t get swallowed by again.

The curtains are drawn. The light is muted. The air smells clean, like soap and linen and whatever Mikhail uses that isn’t cologne and isn’t trying too hard.

Oisin’s face is inches from mine. His gray eyes are wide, intent, and too old for him. “You’re awake,” he says, like he’s confirming a fact.

“I’m awake,” I whisper.

He touches my cheek with two fingers, carefully, as if I’ll break if he presses. His little mouth tightens. “You went away.”

“I didn’t,” I say, and my voice cracks because my body’s still catching up. “I’m here.”

His gaze flicks to my throat. I can tell he notices the faint bruise there, even if he doesn’t know what it means. Kids notice everything. Especially the ones who learn early that adults lie to keep them calm.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks.

I force air in through my nose slowly. “No. Not the way you think.”

He frowns. “Did someone yell at you?”

I almost laugh, but it comes out like a breath. “Yes.”

“Who?”

I don’t answer directly because I don’t want his brain attaching a name to fear. “A bad man,” I say. “He’s gone now.”