Page 46 of His Stolen Bride

I stand without haste and move toward the kitchen corridor, keeping my hands visible and path steady. I let my jacket fall open enough that my own men can see the weapon at my side if they need it. The gunman takes two more steps in, and his head tilts as he clocks the kitchen door, and he adjusts his angle to keep that corridor in view. He knows what he's here for.

Alina pushes through the kitchen door with her tray, and the boy follows, and she looks back once. This time, her fear shows, and it’s not for herself, but the child. The gunman's hand goes under his coat, and his elbow lifts.

I see the pistol, register the line to the kitchen door, and choose speed, not cover. The time for subtlety just ended. "Down!" I shout.

15

ALINA

The gunshot cracks through the catering hall before my mind can catch up to what my eyes already saw, and the first thing I register is Mikhail standing ten feet away, real and solid and impossibly here. I don’t think about how or why because my body reacts faster than fear or recognition ever could.

I drop hard, pulling my son down with me, my arm locking around his middle as we hit the floor together. Plates shatter nearby, and someone screams from the far side of the room while chairs scrape and tip as people scramble away from the sound. Another shot goes wide and punches through glass, and Oisin cries out once, sharp and frightened, before I pull him tighter and turn my body so I’m between him and everything else.

“Stay down,” I tell him, my mouth close to his ear. “Don’t move. Don’t look.”

He clutches my shirt with both hands and does exactly what I say, his face buried against me, his breathing quick but controlled enough that I know he’s listening.

Men surge in from every direction, and I hear boots pounding against tile and voices overlapping in confusion and command. One voice cuts through the rest, sharp and unmistakable, and even before I process it fully, I know it’s Mikhail. He’s giving orders in a tone stripped of anything unnecessary.

Two shots answer the first gunshot, one after the other, close enough that I feel the vibration through the floor. They’re clean and controlled, and then the noise stops so suddenly that it feels wrong, like the room itself is holding its breath.

I keep my head down even after the shooting ends. Silence doesn’t mean safety here. Oisin shifts against me, and I tighten my hold just enough to keep him still without hurting him. My heart is pounding hard enough that it makes my ears ring.

A firm hand grips my shoulder.

“It’s clear,” a man says, and his voice isn’t Mikhail’s. He sounds professional, steady, like this is exactly what he was trained for.

I don’t move right away. I lift my head slowly and scan the floor around us, checking angles, exits, hands, and weapons, because habit doesn’t shut off just because fear wants it to. I see one body near the door, covered quickly by a jacket, and I look away before Oisin can follow my gaze.

That’s when I feel Mikhail’s presence again, closer now, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with his size. I don’t look at him yet because once I do, this becomes something else entirely.

“Oisin,” I whisper, smoothing a hand over his hair. “You’re okay.”

He nods once against me, still holding on.

I don’t move. I don’t trust clear.

Another man crouches in front of us, weapon still raised. “No secondary,” he says. “One shooter. Down.”

Mikhail’s boots stop inches from my face.

“Alina.”

I flinch at the sound of my name, then hate myself for it. I lift my head slowly. He’s right there. Real. Older. Harder. His eyes are locked on me like I might vanish if he blinks.

Oisin shifts against me and peeks up.

Mikhail sees him.

The change in his face is immediate and brutal. Not soft. Not gentle. Shock, then something darker, then control slamming back into place.

“Get out of the room,” Mikhail says. “Now.”

People move fast. Customers are pushed toward exits. Staff are herded back. Chairs are righted. Someone throws a jacket over the body on the floor near the door. I don’t look at it.

Mikhail crouches in front of me, lowering himself to eye level.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.