Page 102 of His Stolen Bride

Enzo’s gaze flicks to Vladimir’s body. “That it?”

“That’s it,” I answer.

He nods once. “Let’s get you back to her.”

We move fast now. The building is ours, but chaos still leaves corners sharp.

In the hallway, men are being zip-tied. Some are on their knees. Some are face down. Some are bleeding and screaming.

I don’t stop. I head straight for the stairs.

Down to the medical corridor, the doctor is still pressed to the wall like he’s glued there. His eyes follow me with panic. “She’s waking,” he blurts.

I go into the room.

Alina’s eyes are open—not fully focused, but open. Her gaze finds my face, and her throat works like she’s trying to swallow and the drug is still fighting her.

I’m at her side again. My hand goes to her cheek, careful, grounding.

“Hey,” I say, because I don’t have better words right now. Her lips move. A whisper tries to form and fails. “Don’t talk,” I tell her. “Just look.”

Her eyes open and close slowly like she’s forcing them to stay on me. “It’s over,” I say. “He’s done.”

She blinks once.

Then twice.

Her fingers twitch, and she tries to lift her hand. It shakes. I take it and hold it firmly. Enzo stands at the door. “We’ve got ten minutes before anyone outside realizes what happened and starts asking questions.”

“Let them ask,” I say.

Enzo’s mouth tightens. “They will.”

“I know.”

I look back at Alina. “You did it,” I tell her. “You walked in, and you walked out alive.”

Her throat works again. She swallows, and I see the faint movement near her neck where the capsule sits, hidden.

Her eyes glisten for a second, and she blinks it away like it’s a weakness she refuses to show.

That’s her. I slide my arm under her shoulders, careful of the IV line the doctor has placed. She’s light in my hands, too light, and it pisses me off. “I’m going to carry you,” I say.

Her lips part again. A sound comes out this time, thin. “No.”

“Yes,” I answer, and I don’t argue.

I lift her, and she makes a small, involuntary sound, pain or frustration, I can’t tell. Her arms try to move. She doesn’t have the strength. I hold her against my chest and turn toward the door.

Enzo steps aside, eyes scanning the hall. “Path’s clear.”

We move. Bodies line the corridor now, some alive, some not. My men keep their faces blank. This isn’t celebration. This is cleanup.

We hit the stairwell. I take it one step at a time because I won’t jostle her more than necessary. Her head rests against my shoulder. Her breath is warm through my shirt.

She’s conscious enough to track where we’re going, but she’s drifting. I tighten my hold.

Vans are waiting. Men are moving in coordinated lines, loading weapons, packing evidence, wiping prints. It’s automatic. It’s not pretty. It’s what keeps us alive tomorrow.