Page 120 of His Stolen Bride

Oisin huffs, then grabs my hand and Alina’s, like he’s decided we’re a unit and that’s final. He drags us toward the kitchen.

Alina follows, and I follow her.

Later, when the house settles and the calls stop for a few minutes, I find Alina in the library, and she’s standing by the window, looking out at the grounds like she’s measuring a life she can finally build instead of run from. I step behind her, not close enough to trap her but close enough to be there, and I say, “You did well today.”

Alina doesn’t turn and says, “You mean I didn’t embarrass you?”

And I reply, “I mean you made them listen.”

She lets out a breath and admits, “I was shaking inside.”

And I say, “I saw. You did it anyway.”

She turns then with her eyes sharp and says, “You still have more to clean up,”

I answer, “Yes.”

And when she adds, “And I’m still going to be looked at like a weakness,” I tell her,

“Only by stupid men.”

Alina’s mouth twitches and she says, “There are a lot of those.”

I almost smile as I agree, “Yes.” Silence settles again, not heavy and not dangerous but real, and I reach for her hand while she gives it to me.

I bring it up and press a kiss to her knuckles, and she watches me like she still can’t fully believe this version of me exists. Then she says, “What happens when the next man decides he wants what Vladimir wanted?”

I don’t lie when I answer, “Then he dies.” Alina nods once and accepts the reality without flinching, and I take a breath because this is the part I don’t control with bullets or contracts. I look at her and ask the one question that matters more than any territory. “What do you want the future to look like, Alina?”

33

EPILOGUE

ALINA

Oisin wakes up and announces the day like he’s in charge of it.

“Morning,” he says, loud enough to fill the room.

I open my eyes to sunlight on the wall and the weight of a small body climbing into bed without asking permission.

He crawls over me, then over Mikhail, then settles between us like this is where he’s always belonged.

Mikhail doesn’t pretend to sleep through it.

He turns his head, hair messy, eyes half open, and asks, “What are you doing?”

“Checking,” Oisin says, very serious.

Mikhail’s brow furrows. “Checking what.”

“That you’re both here,” Oisin replies, like it’s obvious.

Mikhail’s face shifts. He sits up slightly, not towering, not commanding. He meets Oisin at eye level on the bed. “We’re here.”

Oisin studies him. “Promise.”

Mikhail doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make it a joke.