Page 105 of His Stolen Bride

I try to sit up and my body protests. My head spins.

Sofia’s hand appears at my back immediately, steadying me. “Slow,” she says under her breath.

Mikhail’s mother doesn’t repeat herself. She just waits, water still offered, like she knows I’ll do what I need to do and she doesn’t need to baby me. I take the glass. My hand shakes a little more than I want it to.

I drink. The cool water hits my throat and stings.

I swallow again, slower.

The capsule is gone. They removed it after. I remember Mikhail’s men around me, quick hands, Sofia’s face close, telling me not to fight it. I remember Mikhail’s voice, saying my name like a command. It’s strange, waking up without that tiny, hard reminder lodged near my throat.

It’s quieter inside me.

Oisin watches every movement. When I lower the glass, he asks, “Did you win?”

Sofia snorts before I can answer. “That’s not how⁠—”

“Yes,” Mikhail’s mother cuts in calmly. “She did.”

Sofia’s eyes widen slightly. She glances at me, like she’s surprised Mikhail’s mother would give a child a straight answer.

Oisin’s shoulders drop a little. He nods once. “Good.”

Then he climbs back into my arms like the decision is final.

Mikhail’s mother turns her gaze to me, and her eyes are sharp in a quiet way. “You’ll eat,” she says.

I open my mouth to argue and don’t, because I don’t have the strength for pointless fights. “Okay,” I say.

“Good,” she replies, like we’ve completed an agreement.

Sofia shifts her weight. “He’s downstairs,” she says to me, keeping her tone neutral.

My stomach tightens on instinct.

Oisin hears it anyway. “Papa,” he says, bright and immediate.

The word still hits me in a place I don’t fully control.

I don’t correct him.

I don’t say Mikhail.

I don’t say no.

Because after last night, after the van, after the way Mikhail carried me out like I weighed nothing and everything at the same time, I can’t pretend this is still a temporary arrangement.

I made a choice.

I said it out loud.

Sofia reads my face and softens. “He hasn’t come up because he didn’t want to crowd you,” she says. “He’s also been on the phone with about ten people who sound like they’re afraid of him.”

That sounds right.

Mikhail’s mother lifts the bowl of broth from the tray and offers it next. “Eat,” she repeats.

I take it, sip slowly. It tastes like salt and herbs and actual care. My chest tightens again, and this time, it’s not fear. Oisin leans into me and watches Sofia. “Are we safe?”