Page 76 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

“How are you?” he asks, and the question is so simple and so directly meant that it thaws something in my chest.

“I don't know yet,” I tell him honestly. “I think I will be fine.”

He nods, choosing not to press the matter anymore. In his nod is the understanding that this answer is real and sufficient. That is one of the things about him that truly endears him to me.

“My parents like you,” I tell him.

“Your mother assessed me,” he replies.

“That means she likes you. I think she only bothers assessing people she thinks are worth the effort.”

He pauses, his exhales washing over my lower lip.

"And your father?" he asks.

I remember how he squeezed my shoulder at the door, eyes moving between me and Mikhail when he had seen us at the airport, calculative about a person he is deciding to trust.

“He's still deciding,” I murmur. “But he's a thoughtful person. The fact that he's still deciding means he hasn't ruled it out.”

Mikhail's arm tightens around me, briefly and completely, like I’m going to run away if he doesn’t. I cup his jaw tenderly, the way I have been putting my hand there at the moments when nothing else is the right language, feeling the small movement of the muscle, the jaw that has been set for four days finally relaxing.

“Come here,” I say.

For a long moment, he just looks at me and something that looks a lot like relief, grief, and hunger all at once on his face.

“My biggest fear recently has been losing you,” he whispers.

“Never.” My voice trembles. “You don't get to lose me.”

Then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is long. It’s not frantic but slow and purposeful, like he's relearning the layout of my lips. His tongue slides against mine, slow and hot, and my hands fist in the front of his shirt, pullinghim closer, pulling him down to me. He tastes like a mix of coffee and whiskey and something deeper, something that's just him.

My Mikhail.

The world narrows to the wet sound of our mouths, the stutter of his breath against my cheek, the way his fingers slide back into my hair, tilting my head to kiss me deeper.

I don't know how long we stand there, but it’s long enough that my lips feel swollen, long enough that the tension in his shoulders finally, finally drops.

“Take me to your room,” I murmur against his mouth.

He pulls back just far enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, and there's a hesitant question there. This man—this dangerous, tattooed, lethal man—is standing in my arms asking silent permission to touch me.

Permission that he has always had.

“Please,” I say.

He takes my hand.

We climb the stairs together, and it feels like a pilgrimage. Each step takes us further from the fear and the running and the nights spent working together in his office, too terrified to do anything but hold on.

Each step brings us closer to something we've been denying ourselves since that nightmare began.

His bedroom door closes behind us, the curtains already drawn.

Mikhail turns to me, and I see the shift in his body—the way his posture changes, the predator softening into something else. Something that belongs only to me.

“Tell me what you want,” he says lowly.