Page 78 of His Stolen Bride

Mikhail’s mouth curves. “I asked.”

I pick up the cup, my hands steadier now, and I take a sip. It’s exactly how I remember, and that makes my eyes burn.

Mikhail doesn’t touch his food right away. He watches me eat first, and he does it the way he watches Oisin, attentive and controlled, catching the small things. When I get sugar on my thumb, he reaches across and wipes it with his napkin without asking.

I inhale sharply. “You do that a lot.”

He doesn’t pretend. “I notice things.”

“I know,” I say.

His gaze holds mine. “You’re still going to that meeting.”

“Yes,” I reply.

He nods once, then he finally takes a bite of strudel, as if he’s proving he can eat while the world burns. “Then tonight is ours.”

I stare at him. “Tonight is a tactic.”

He shakes his head. “Tonight is a choice.”

My pulse kicks. “Mikhail.”

He leans forward slightly. “Alina.”

The owner disappears into the back, giving us space, and the quiet presses in. Mikhail’s hand slides from mine to my wrist, and his thumb presses there like he’s checking my pulse. Then his fingers tighten, and he stands.

“Come here,” he says.

I blink. “Here?”

He nods. “Now.”

I stand on legs that don’t feel steady, and he steps close enough that the table is behind me and his body is in front of me, warm and solid. His hands slide to my waist, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

“You’re thinking,” he says.

“I’m always thinking,” I answer.

His eyes lift back to mine. “Stop for one minute.”

My breath catches. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he says, and his voice is calm, and it lands like an order that’s also a promise. “With me.”

My stomach flips. He dips his head, slow enough that I could pull away, and I don’t. His mouth touches mine, gentle at first, then firmer as my hands grip his coat like I need something to hold. He kisses me again, deeper, and heat spreads through me in a way that makes my knees soften.

His hands tighten at my waist, then he shifts me back a step so my hips press the edge of the table. The plates rattle softly. He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak against my lips.

“You’re going to win tomorrow,” he murmurs. “You’re going to walk in and control him.”

I swallow. “And you’re going to let me.”

His mouth curves. “I swore.”

I lift my chin. “Then act like it.”

His eyes darken, and his hand slides up my side, then under my jacket, palm flat against my ribs. I gasp at the contact, and he uses it, pulling me closer, kissing me harder. My hands move to his neck, my fingers sliding into his hair, and the gray at his temples is right under my touch, real and warm and unfairly attractive.