Page 83 of His Stolen Bride

“I do,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I like this.”

“I know.”

He stops an arm’s length away and doesn’t touch me. That’s the hardest part. His restraint is loud. I can hear it in his breathing, in the way his hands stay loose at his sides instead of pulling me in. “You look calm,” he says.

“I’m not,” I answer. “I’m holding it together.”

That gets a nod of approval from him. “Tell me you’ll be alright,” he says.

“I will.”

“Not like that,” he says, voice dropping. “Say it like you mean it.”

I step closer until the space between us disappears. My body knows his before my mind does. The heat. The weight. The way standing this close feels like stepping into a current.

“I’m coming back,” I say. “I’m not disappearing again. I’m not leaving you with questions. I’m not leaving him with anything he can keep.”

His hand lifts before he stops himself. He exhales sharply and lets it fall again. “If he touches you⁠—”

“He won’t,” I say. “Not in the way you mean.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

I smile thinly. “It’s true.”

He studies my face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s carving it into something permanent. Then his control slips just enough.

His hand comes up and cups the back of my neck, firm and warm. The contact hits me hard, immediately. My breath catches despite myself.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

“You don’t get hurt,” he says. “You don’t let him think he owns you. You don’t forget who you are.”

“I won’t,” I say. “Because I know exactly who I belong to.”

His thumb presses lightly under my jaw. “Careful.”

“I am,” I say. “That’s why this works.”

For a moment, he just holds me there, forehead nearly touching mine, his grip steady, grounding. The rest of the world doesn’t exist. The war doesn’t exist. There’s only this narrow slice of time where he’s allowed himself to want me without consequence.

Then he kisses me. I respond instantly, hands sliding into his shirt, fingers curling into warm fabric and muscle beneath. He makes a low sound in his throat and deepens it, one hand still at my neck, the other sliding to my waist, anchoring me to him. I feel his restraint fraying, feel the tension in him like a held breath that’s been waiting days to break.

“This isn’t smart,” he murmurs against my mouth.

“No,” I agree. “It’s necessary.”

He kisses me again, harder this time, like he’s sealing something between us, like he’s marking the moment so neither of us can pretend it didn’t happen. I press closer, needing the contact, needing the reminder that I’m real and here and not already gone.

His lips trail briefly to my jaw, my ear. “If this goes wrong,” he says, voice rough, “I will burn everything to get you back.”

“I know,” I whisper. “That’s why I can do this.”

He pulls back slowly, like tearing himself away costs him something he can’t afford to lose. His hands drop. His face closes. The leader settles back into place.

“You walk out that door,” he says, “and you do it like you’re already lost.”