Page 109 of His Stolen Bride

“No,” I say. “I don’t want him living in my head any longer than he has to.”

Mikhail’s mouth tightens slightly, approval again. “Good.”

I look at him and say, “Did you mean what you told me?”

His brow creases. “What I told you?”

“The exit,” I say. “The papers. The money. The promise you wouldn’t track me.”

His face goes still again. “Yes.”

“You’d have let me go.”

“Yes,” he repeats, and there’s no hesitation. “If that’s what you wanted.”

My chest aches.

“Why?” I ask, because I need to hear it.

Mikhail’s gaze holds mine. “Because I’m done holding you by force.”

My heart twists painfully, and in that moment, all I want is to reach out and hold him in my arms. “And because,” he adds, voice lower, “I don’t want my son learning that love is a cage.”

My throat burns again. I blink once, fast, and steady my breathing.

“Come here,” he says.

I don’t move immediately. My body hesitates, old habits flaring. Mikhail’s hand lifts slightly, palm open, not grabbing.

It’s an invitation. I stand, slowly, and step into him.

His hands land on my waist first, firm, grounding. Then he pulls me closer like he’s been waiting to do it since last night and didn’t allow himself. I press my forehead to his chest and exhale.

His hand slides up my back, a steady stroke, and it’s so simple that it nearly breaks me.

No strategy.

No performance.

No counting exits.

Just this.

“You scared me,” he says into my hair, voice rough.

“I know,” I whisper.

“You don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” I say, and this time, it’s not a promise I’m forcing out. It’s a choice I’m claiming.

Mikhail’s grip tightens. His mouth presses to my temple, then my hairline.

I tilt my head, letting him.

My body remembers him fast. Heat. Weight. The way he fills space like he owns it but never feels sloppy.

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.