Page 21 of His Stolen Bride

Mikhail’s eyes don’t move. “It happened an hour ago.”

I shake my head hard, because if I say yes, it becomes real. “She doesn’t go anywhere alone.”

“She did today,” he replies.

“Why?” I say, and my voice breaks. “Why would she go?”

Mikhail doesn’t answer that. He looks past me toward the door. “Enzo.”

Enzo appears fast, like he was already coming.

Mikhail’s voice turns cold. “Get the details. Hospital, status, witnesses. Now.”

Enzo nods once and leaves.

I’m still shaking my head. “No. No, no, no.”

My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the desk. The edge digs into my palms, and I welcome the pain because it’s something I can name.

Mikhail stays where he is and watches me, and there’s something tight and held in the way he does it, like he’s already moved in his head and stopped himself at the last second.

I look up at him, and the anger hits, sudden and wild. “You said she was safe.”

Mikhail’s eyes flash. “I said she was under watch.”

“That means safe,” I snap.

“It means monitored,” he says, voice tight now. “It means I knew where she was. It does not mean I can stop a bullet in a city street.”

My chest burns. “You could have moved her.”

“She didn’t want to leave,” he replies. “She didn’t want to be brought here. She fought it.”

I stare at him, and the grief rises so hard it makes me dizzy. “Then she died because she didn’t want to be trapped.”

Mikhail’s gaze hardens. “She died because someone sent a message.”

The words hit through my panic. I grab onto them because they give shape to chaos. “To whom?”

Mikhail’s mouth tightens. “To me.”

My hands start shaking again. “This is because of you.”

“It’s because of what your father did,” he snaps back, and now his anger is fully in the room. “It’s because someone thinks they can take what’s mine and hurt me through you.”

I flinch at the word mine, and I hate myself for it because it still does something to my body even now.

I can’t breathe properly. I press a hand to my chest and try to force air in.

Mikhail steps closer. “Sit,” he orders.

“I don’t want to sit,” I choke out.

He grabs my elbow firmly and guides me to the edge of the bed and pushes me down, then he crouches in front of me so I can’t look away from him. His eyes lock onto mine. “Breathe,” he says, voice rough.

I try. I fail.

Tears spill anyway. I press my hands over my face, and a sound comes out of me that I don’t recognize. It’s too broken to be a sob. It’s too raw to be a scream.