Page 54 of His Stolen Bride

ALINA

Mikhail comes for us after dark, a few hours after the war council has been adjourned. He doesn’t announce himself, but Enzo opens the door and steps aside, and I already know who it is before I look up from helping Oisin with his shoes. “We’re going out,” Mikhail says, his voice even, like he’s just laying down a fact.

Oisin straightens and looks at him first, then at me. “Out where?”

“Dinner,” Mikhail replies. “Not long.”

I rise slowly, watching his face for tension or second thoughts, but he’s settled, already committed to the choice. “Out as in out?”

“Yes.”

There’s no time for me to register surprise. Mikhail hasn’t ever done something like this. In fact, I don’t recall sitting down to dinner with him as a couple. I glance at Oisin, who’s already tugging at his sweater.

“Can I wear the blue one?”

“You can,” I say, and he darts toward the wardrobe without waiting for more.

Mikhail stays where he is while I pull on my jacket, and when Oisin comes back half dressed and impatient, Mikhail kneels to help him with the buttons without being asked. It’s efficient, quiet, and practiced enough that it doesn’t feel like a performance, and that unsettles me more than anything else.

The drive out is smooth, two vehicles ahead and one behind, spaced just enough not to look like an escort. I sit in the back with Oisin tucked against my side, my arm around him out of habit, and I clock every turn and slowdown while pretending I’m not. Mikhail keeps his eyes forward, but I can tell when he notices something by the way his shoulders shift.

The restaurant is small, warm, and crowded enough to matter, with close tables and no private rooms. Mikhail opens the door and lets Oisin walk in first, then follows without touching either of us, and that detail lands harder than any show of protection would have.

We sit near the back, and Oisin climbs into the chair and stills himself the moment he realizes Mikhail is watching. A menu lands in front of him, and Mikhail slides it closer.

“Pick,” he says.

Oisin squints at the pictures, then at the words. “This one.”

“Read it,” Mikhail says calmly.

Oisin sounds it out, then looks up. “Chicken.”

“And?” Mikhail prompts.

“And potatoes.”

“And?” he says again.

Oisin glances at me, then back at Mikhail. “Tomatoes,” he says, then adds thoughtfully, “cut small.”

Mikhail’s mouth shifts just enough that I catch it. Not a smile, but interest. He looks at Oisin, not the menu. “You like them like that.”

Oisin nods. “They’re better.”

That’s news to me. I’ve spent years picking tomatoes off his plate.

The waiter leans in. “Pepper okay?”

Oisin hesitates, then looks at Mikhail like this matters. “Not too much.”

“Mild,” Mikhail says easily. “And keep the sauce on the side.”

Oisin’s shoulders relax like a decision’s been handled properly. “Dessert?” he adds, hopeful but careful.

“After dinner,” I say without heat.

He looks between us. “Chocolate.”