Page 91 of His Stolen Bride

The man by the wall opens it. Another man enters, older, clean, wearing a suit that reads medical more than soldier. He carries a slim case.

Vladimir gestures lazily. “Doc.”

The doctor’s eyes flick to me, then away. No expression.

Vladimir points at my drink. “She’s nervous. Fix it.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

Vladimir doesn’t even look at me. “You’re not. You’re useful, so you stay functional.”

The doctor steps closer. “It’s only a vitamin shot,” he says, tone bland. “It’ll steady you.”

I keep my face tired and compliant. I lift my sleeve without being asked.

Inside, my pulse climbs.

The doctor swabs my skin, and the cold makes me tense as he brings the needle in.

I hold my breath as it pierces, and Vladimir watches my face like he’s waiting for me to beg, but I don’t.

The doctor depresses the plunger, and heat spreads under my skin fast.

I blink once, and then I blink again, and the room shifts slightly, not spinning, just loosening at the edges, and my body feels three steps behind my brain.

“What did you give me?” I ask sharply.

Vladimir laughs. “Smart girl. You felt it.”

My throat begins to feel heavy, and my tongue starts itching. Tears rush into my eyes as I swallow hard, and the capsule presses back, still solid and present. It’s still transmitting the signal, and that’s most important. The moment Vladimir moves me, it’s the only way Mikhail will find me to bring me back.

Vladimir leans forward, elbows on his knees, and his smile turns cruelly satisfied. “You thought you were the only one who could act tired,” he says.

I try to stand. My legs refuse for half a second, then obey badly. I catch the chair arm. My hand shakes.

The doctor steps back. The guard by the wall shifts closer. Vladimir’s voice stays calm. “Sit,” he says.

I force myself upright again and sit because I need to look like I’m still choosing it, even now.

He tilts his head. “You walked in here thinking you were clever,” he says. “Thinking you’d bait me. Thinking you’d make me talk.”

I keep my eyes on him. “You did talk.”

“I did,” he agrees. “Because I wanted you to hear what I had to say.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You performed well enough to at least deserve that.”

My stomach drops. I keep my face neutral with effort. “You knew.”

“I knew the moment you walked in,” Vladimir says, pleased with himself. “Your posture wasn’t that of a victim, Alina, and I’ve been around enough victims to know. You were playing broken, but you weren’t broken. You were measuring exits.”

My breath comes faster. My lungs still work, but my body just isn’t cooperating.

Vladimir points at me. “You want to know what you are?” he says. “You’re bait.”

He stands and steps closer, stopping directly in front of me, and lifts my chin with two fingers. His touch makes my skin crawl. “You want to know the best part?” he murmurs. “I let you in because I wanted him to move. I wanted Mikhail Morin to show his hand.”

I force my mouth to shape words. “He won’t.”

Vladimir laughs quietly. “He already has.”