Page 56 of His Stolen Bride

Sofia’s smile grows bigger. “All the time.”

“What kind?”

“The good kind,” she answers. “With trains and dogs. Oh, and snacks!”

Oisin’s eyes light up. He hops off the stool and points toward the hallway. “Come. I have books.”

He grabs her hand without hesitation and starts towing her out like he’s already decided she belongs to him. Mikhail watches it happen, something unreadable crossing his face, then he looks at me. “I’ll be right outside.”

I nod.

Oisin pauses at the door, peeks back at me. “Good night, Mama.”

“Good night, love,” I say.

Then they’re gone, Sofia laughing softly as Oisin chatters at full speed about trains that go fast and trains that stop too much. The door closes, and the room feels suddenly larger. Mikhail doesn’t speak right away. He just stands there, jacket still on, eyes on me like he’s recalibrating.

“You handled that well,” he says finally.

“So did you,” I reply.

He nods once. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. I follow him down the hall and through the glass doors to the enclosed balcony. The city glows beyond the glass, its noise softened by thick panels and steel framing. He opens the small fridge, pulls out two beers, and hands me one. “You’re serious,” I say, surprised.

“I said sometimes,” he replies gruffly, already opening his.

We lean against the railing, not touching, close enough to feel each other’s heat. “You didn’t ask me,” I say after a moment. “About Sofia.”

“I watched him,” Mikhail answers. “He chose.”

“He trusts quickly,” I say.

“No,” Mikhail says. “He trusts accurately.”

I glance at him, and he’s already watching me, eyes dark and intent. Silver threads catch the light at his temples, and it makes him look unfairly good, dangerous in that way that pulls attention whether he wants it or not. “You’re staring,” he says mildly.

“I’m assessing,” I counter.

“Lie better,” he replies.

I laugh despite myself, and something in his expression eases.

“You’re tired,” he says, quieter now.

“So are you.”

He lifts his beer, takes a slow drink. “I’m used to it.”

“I’m not,” I admit. “Not this kind of tired.”

He shifts closer, close enough that my shoulder brushes his chest. He smells clean, sharp, familiar in a way that makes my stomach flip. “You kept him alive,” Mikhail says. “You kept yourself alive. I won’t pretend I don’t understand why you ran.”

“That’s new,” I say.

“I learn,” he replies. “Slowly.”

Silence stretches, charged but not awkward. “Alina,” he says, using my name like it matters. “I won’t take control from you. Not with him, and not with you.”