Page 59 of His Stolen Bride

“Damn, you’re a mess,” I mutter, kissing up her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat as I keep fucking into her, drawing out her high. Her breath is ragged, eyes glassy, but she’s still with me, still pushing her hips up to meet mine. “You want more, don’t you?” I ask, my voice a low snarl, and she nods, whimpering, her body still trembling under me. I grin, dark and hungry, and pick up the pace again, slamming into her with everything I’ve got. “No running from me again,” I tell her, one hand sliding up to grip her bound wrists, pinning them harder to the post as I thrust deep, feeling her stretch around me. “This pussy, this body—all fuckin’ mine.” She moans at my words, her legs wrapping tighter around my waist, pulling me in, and I can’t hold back much longer, the pressure building fast, my balls tightening as I rut into her like a damn animal.

“Fuck, I’m close,” I grunt, my voice strained, and I look down at her, meeting her hazy gaze. “Where do you want it, baby? Outside?” I ask, slowing just a fraction, giving her the choice, though every part of me wants to stay buried in her heat. Her eyes flicker, desperate and wild, and she shakes her head, voice raw as she speaks.

“No—inside me, Mikhail. Come in me, please.”

Her words snap the last of my control, and I groan low, my grip on her hips bruising as I thrust harder, faster, chasing that edge. “Fuck, you’re gonna take it all,” I say, teeth gritted, and she nods, moaning, her body arching up to meet me.

“Fill me up,” she whispers, and that’s it—my vision blurs as I come, hard and deep, spilling into her with a growl, my cock throbbing as I pump every last drop, flooding her tight heat until I’m spent, hips jerking with the aftershocks.

“Goddamn,” I mutter, collapsing over her, bracing on my elbows so I don’t crush her, my breath hot against her neck as I try to steady myself. She’s trembling beneath me, still tied, still full of me, and I can feel the mess we’ve made, the warmth of my release mixing with her slickness as I stay buried inside. “You okay, malyshka?” I ask, voice softer now, kissing along her collarbone, and she nods, a shaky breath escaping her lips.

“Yeah—fuck, yeah,” she murmurs, and I smirk, pulling back just enough to look at her, her face flushed, hair a wild mess. My hands slide down, gripping her thighs again, and I give a slow, lazy thrust, just to feel her gasp one more time, still sensitive from it all.

“You look so good like this,” I tell her, eyes raking over her bound form, and I can already feel the hunger stirring again, even after that.

I lean down, capturing her mouth in a hard kiss, tasting her, owning her, and she kisses back, just as hungry, even with her wrists still secured. “This night is far from over,” I warn her, pulling back to untie the silk from the post, but keeping her hands bound together as I shift my weight, planning my next move. Her eyes widen a fraction, but there’s trust there, mixed with that same need, and I know she’s ready for whatever I’ve got next. My cock twitches inside her, already hardening again, and I’m not about to let this end anytime soon.

She responds too, and I fuck her once in the bed, and once more on the sofa. That’s all we do until dawn shows her bare bones, because in the last six years, I’ve missed Alina’s soul and her body, and this is me taking it all back.

I wake before dawn with her weight still draped over me, her breathing slow and even, her hair warm against my throat. We never made it back to the bed. The sofa holds us instead, cramped and imperfect, and I don’t move even when my leg goes numb. I stay still because this feels final in a way I didn’t expect.

This is no longer about reclaiming what was taken. It’s about keeping what I’ve just regained.

She stirs once, presses closer without opening her eyes, and something in my chest tightens hard enough to hurt. I’ve slept beside women before. I’ve woken up in worse places with blood on my hands and decisions already made. This is different. This is dangerous.

I watch her later with our son, quiet at the breakfast table, brushing crumbs from his sleeve, correcting him gently when he reaches for the knife wrong. He looks up at her like she’s the center of the room, and she smiles at him like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. I’ve built empires that didn’t feel as solid as this moment.

Hope takes root before I can stop it.

That’s the problem.

Hope makes you visible, predictable, and vulnerable to men like Vladimir who don’t want territory. They want leverage.

By noon, I’m already moving pieces. I shift routes without announcing it. I pull men from old assignments and replace them with ones who’ve never answered to anyone but me. I burn two contracts that were profitable but exposed, and I greenlight an audit that will scare half the city into silence.

My comms light up just after dusk.

Confirmed movement.

Kosov assets repositioning.

Primary interest: the child.

I don’t respond. I look through the glass at Alina, at our son curled beside her on the couch, safe for now, unaware of how close the world is pressing in. Vladimir wants to move the child, but that’s not happening. Not on my watch.

20

ALINA

The message reaches me in daylight, in public, with Oisin holding my hand and talking about a dog he wants to name after a cartoon train.

That’s how I know it’s Vladimir.

He doesn’t send men in black to announce themselves, and he doesn’t send threats to your front door like a teenager who wants credit. He sends a cutout in a place where there are witnesses and exits and noise, then he counts on your self-control doing the rest.

We’re in a market a few streets off the main ring. Mikhail’s detail keeps a respectful distance, close enough to react and far enough to avoid turning this into a parade. Oisin walks between me and the stalls, his shoulders brushing my coat, his eyes bright and curious and too trusting. I keep my pace steady and my face neutral while I buy apples and bread, and I don’t flinch when someone brushes past me too close.

The touch is slight. A bump at my hip. A voice near my ear saying, “Sorry,” in a Viennese accent that’s practiced.