Page 86 of His Stolen Bride

He steps closer again. “You should be grateful. I could’ve dragged you here. Instead, you walked in.”

“I did,” I say.

“Because you’re smart,” he says. “And because you’re tired.”

I nod once. “I am.”

He reaches out and tilts my chin up with one finger. It’s intimate. It’s practiced. I do not pull away. “You’ll learn,” he says. “Submission looks better on women like you.”

I let my eyes glass. “I don’t have strength left.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Vladimir says.

He withdraws his hand and straightens his jacket. “You’re exactly as desperate as I hoped.”

25

ALINA

Vladimir’s smile holds as if he’s waiting for me to argue, to flinch, to prove I’m still a problem. I let my shoulders drop instead.

“I am,” I say quietly. “Desperate.”

He nods, pleased with himself, and goes back to his drink like he’s earned it.

“Good,” he says. “We can finally speak like adults.”

I keep my hands in my lap. Fingers folded. Nails biting skin just enough to keep me present. The capsule presses near my throat when I swallow, a small, steady reminder that I’m not here alone, even when it looks like I am.

Vladimir takes his time. He walks to the window and watches the river as if he owns that too.

“Vienna’s a funny city,” he says. “It likes to pretend it’s above everything. All those old buildings. The museums. The music. Everyone acting civilized while they sell each other quietly.”

I don’t answer. I let him keep talking.

He turns back and looks at me again, slow, obvious, like he expects me to blush. He doesn’t get it.

“You know what you are?” he says.

“A person,” I reply.

He laughs once. “A person. Sure. You’re a symbol. You’re a contract. You’re a clean name that doesn’t scare bankers. You’re the kind of wife a man can show in public without looking like he’s crawling out of a basement.”

My teeth tighten. I soften my face instead.

“I was married already,” I say.

“Yes,” Vladimir replies. “That’s why this is satisfying. Mikhail thought he could take what was promised and make it permanent. He thought that stamp on a paper meant more than my claim.”

“You’re still talking about paper,” I say, voice mild. “For a man who says he prefers force.”

“I prefer results,” he corrects. “Force is loud. Results are quiet. Quiet keeps borders open.”

He walks around my chair again, close enough that I feel his body heat. He stops behind me and rests a hand on the backrest like he’s testing what I’ll tolerate.

I don’t move.

“Tell me something,” he says. “Did Mikhail teach you to sit pretty like that, or did your father?”