Page 23 of His Stolen Bride

His eyes drop to my hands, then lift.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he says, voice low.

“I know,” I whisper. My throat hurts. Everything hurts. “I’m not ordering. I’m asking.”

I lift my face. I don’t give myself time to think, because thinking will stop me and I don’t want to stop.

“I can’t do this alone,” I whisper.

Mikhail’s gaze pins me. “You’re doing it,” he says. “You’re standing.”

“I’m standing,” I agree, breath shaking. “I’m also falling apart.”

His eyes flick to my mouth again, and the heat in his stare turns my grief into something jagged.

I hate him for it.

I hate myself for responding. My fingers tighten in his shirt. “Tell me what to do,” I whisper, and it’s the most humiliating thing I’ve ever said, because it’s surrender, and I know it.

Mikhail’s eyes darken. “Careful,” he says. “You don’t say that to me unless you mean it.”

I swallow. “I mean it.”

His hand rises, cups the back of my head, and pulls me in.

The kiss is not soft or patient. It takes my mouth, steals my breath, and drags a sound out of me that I try to swallow back.

My hands slide up his chest, gripping harder, and he holds me there, locked against him, as if he’s decided that if I’m going to break, I’m going to break in his arms.

6

ALINA

I’m trembling, my fingers still knotted in Mikhail’s shirt as his mouth crushes mine. This kiss isn’t a collision of grief and heat that I can’t pull away from. His hand grips the back of my head, holding me in place, and I don’t fight it. I don’t want to. My chest heaves against his, my breath ragged, and every part of me feels like it’s splitting open. I hate him for this, for making me feel anything other than the hollow ache of losing my mother. But I need it too, need something to anchor me before I drift into nothing.

His other hand slides down to my waist, fingers digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my clothes. The pressure sends a jolt through me, but I lean into it anyway. I’m furious—at him, at the world, at the gaping hole in my life that just got ripped wider. My nails scrape against his chest as I grip harder, like I can tear through the shirt, through him, through everything I’m feeling.

“You don’t get to break now,” he growls against my lips, his voice rough. It sounds less like a comfort and more like a command. “Never show your enemies your weaknesses, Alina.”

A shiver runs up my spine, which he clocks immediately. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not used to people trying to destroy me,” I mumble.

“Really?” He chuckles deeply. “I almost never notice anymore.”

I pull back just enough to glare at him, my breath hot and uneven. “I’m already broken.”

His eyes flash, and for a second, I think he might shove me away. Instead, he tightens his hold on my waist, yanking me closer until there’s no space left between us. “Then let me put you back together.”

The words hit me like a punch, igniting something feral in my chest. I don’t want to be fixed, not by him, not like this. But my body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach as his hand slides up my back, claiming every inch it touches. I shove at his chest, not hard enough to push him away, just enough to let him know I’m still fighting. “You don’t get to decide that.”

His grip on my hair tightens, tilting my head back so I’m forced to meet his gaze. “You asked me what to do, Alina. This is it.”

I want to snap back, to tell him to go to hell, but the way he’s looking at me—possessive, unapologetic—shuts me up. My lips part, and before I can stop myself, I’m kissing him again, hard and messy as I pour every ounce of my anger into it. He meets me with equal force, his tongue pushing past my lips, taking control in a way that makes my knees weak. I hate how much I crave it, how much I need to lose myself in this instead of the pain.

His hands are everywhere now, rough and insistent, sliding under my shirt to grip my bare skin. I gasp against his mouth at the contact, the heat of his palms searing me. My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, not because I’m nervous but because I’m too damn mad to be patient. I get two undone before I give up and yank at the fabric, hearing a faint rip that I don’t care about. His chest is solid under my hands, warm and unyielding, and I dig my nails in just to see if I can make him flinch.

He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs my wrists, pinning them behind my back with one hand while the other cups my jaw, forcing my face up. “Keep pushing me,” he warns, voice a low rumble. “See what happens.”