Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Kirill
Those goddamn Italian bastards.
Tonight should've been routine. I'd just left an arms deal at the docks, heading back to the manor.
When the car pulled into the intersection near the docks, I spotted several vehicles parked where they shouldn't be.
But it was already too late. Just as I was about to tell the driver to turn around, the explosion hit. The bomb was rigged under the chassis—those bastards must've planted it while I was inside making the deal.
Flames shot into the sky. The shockwave tore the car door off its hinges. If my instincts hadn't made me kick the door open and roll out at that split second, I'd be lying in the morgue right now.
The driver died instantly. But I wasn't in great shape either—the wound on my left belly cut deep to the bone, and at least two ribs were broken.
I didn't go to the hospital. Didn't even call Boris.
The situation was too fucked up. I couldn't let anyone know I was injured—especially not those Italian vultures circling the Orlov family like we were fresh meat.
But that didn't mean I wouldn't make them pay.
I flagged down a cab and went straight back to the manor. Sat on the couch in my bedroom, disinfecting my wounds. The sting of needle and thread through flesh kept me conscious. Blood kept flowing, but I couldn't afford to care.
The door handle suddenly turned. My nerves went taut, right hand instinctively reaching for the gun at my side.
The door opened. Harper walked in.
She looked like hell. Hair a tangled mess, eyes swollen like peaches, face streaked with tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away. That ratty old coat she wore looked like something pulled from a dumpster.
I frowned. Olga had filled an entire walk-in closet with haute couture for her. She wouldn't wear a single piece. Had to dress like a homeless woman just to piss me off.
But the next second, when she saw me, that misery on her face—the kind that irritated me—turned to horror.
"Kirill?"
She froze in the doorway, staring at my blood-covered hands, face paler than mine.
"Get out."
That was my first reaction. I quickly grabbed my jacket and covered the gash on my abdomen, trying to hide the pathetic wound. I didn't want her to see this.
"You're hurt!" Harper didn't listen. She dropped her bag and rushed over like some reckless idiot. "God, there's so much blood..."
"I said get out!" I raised my voice, but from the blood loss, it had no force—just came out hoarse and pitiful. "Don't you understand English?"
Harper was already in front of me. She dropped to her knees on the carpet, trembling hands reaching for my wound. "I'm calling an ambulance—"
"Don't." I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "It's just a scratch."
Her tears dripped onto the back of my hand, scalding and irritating.
"Who..." Harper sobbed, voice shaking. "Who did this to you? Why would this happen?"
I was silent for a moment. Damn it, why should I explain any of this to her?
"Italians." I finally spoke, voice cold as ice. "Probably the Dante family from San Francisco. Julian, that bastard—he's always had it out for me."
"Then you should call the police! You should—"
"The police?" I laughed coldly, pulling at my wound. I sucked in a sharp breath. "You think the cops can handle this kind of thing? I've got plenty of ways to make him pay."
Harper bit her lip. Tears still streaming, but she didn't back down. She grabbed the medical kit from the table, stubborn as hell. "At least let me treat your wound."
Her tears kept falling on the back of my hand, burning and maddening.
Damn it. Why was she crying? Why did she look so panicked?
I'd been ignoring her for days. Treating her like air. Even yelled at her in the study. But now that I was hurt, she was on her knees beside me, crying over the man who'd screamed at her.
Actually, that night after Harper left with her friend, I'd regretted it. I thought about going to find her. Thought about apologizing. Thought about saying I'd gone too far.
But I didn't.
Because I realized something more terrifying—I'd started caring about how she felt. That kind of caring scared the hell out of me. I couldn't let myself fall in. Couldn't develop a weakness for anyone.
I knew exactly what that kind of concern meant, and it felt dangerous.
I didn't want to go through that kind of pain again. Keeping things within the bounds of our transaction—that was the safest distance, both for my peace of mind and her safety.
"Harper, stop the act." I released her hand, looking at her coldly, using the cruelest tone I could muster. "Don't make it seem like there's some great love between us. It's disgusting."
The room fell deathly silent.
Just my breathing and the ticking of the wall clock.
Harper knelt there, face white as paper. She looked at me, the light in her eyes slowly dying, replaced by hollow despair. That look made my heart clench—hurt worse than the wound.
"Get out." I looked at her, ordering viciously. "Don't make me say it twice."
Harper's lips moved, like she wanted to say something, but in the end, nothing came out. She slowly stood up, movements stiff as a puppet. She gave me one last long look, then turned and ran from the room, hand over her mouth.
The door didn't close, so I could hear her footsteps fading down the hallway, that suffocating silence settling over me again.
I won.
I'd driven her away, kept my dignity, drawn the line.
But I felt no sense of victory. Instead, a massive emptiness and regret washed over me like a tide, nearly drowning me. I stared at those few drops of her tears on the carpet, suddenly feeling like a complete bastard.
"Fuck."
I cursed under my breath, reaching for the first aid kit on the table. But blood loss made me dizzy. My hand slipped. The kit crashed to the floor with a bang, gauze and alcohol rolling everywhere.
I slumped back against the couch, closed my eyes, and felt my life draining away with my blood.
Served me right. I'd just successfully driven away the person trying to save me.
Should I call Boris? Might expose that I was injured, but better than actually dying here and becoming a punchline for my enemies.
Suddenly, rapid footsteps.
I opened my eyes, hand instinctively moving toward the gun.
Harper was back.
She carried the large backup medical kit from downstairs. Her eyes were red as a rabbit's, nose tip red too—clearly she'd been crying hard outside. But her expression was unexpectedly furious.
She strode over and slammed the medical kit down on the coffee table with a bang.
"What are you doing back here?" I frowned. I didn't understand. After everything I'd done to her, all those vicious words—she should hate me. Why would she come back? Why would she still give a damn if I lived or died?
"You don't need to worry about me." I turned my head away, but my voice had weakened. "I can handle it myself."
"Be quiet."
Harper cut me off.
"Have you lost your mind?" I tried to wave her away. "Don't touch me! I don't need you meddling!"
"I told you to shut up!" Harper suddenly exploded. She grabbed my flailing wrist and pinned it to the armrest. She wasn't as strong as me, but in that moment, her presence overwhelmed mine.
"Listen, Kirill Orlov." She stared at me, eyes brimming with tears, but her gaze fierce as a lioness protecting her cub. "You can divorce me and kick me out tomorrow. But right now, my professional ethics will never allow me to stand by and watch someone die!"
I looked at her.
Her face was flushed with anger, chest heaving violently. Those brown eyes that usually avoided mine were now locked on me, unblinking.
In this world, no one dared control Kirill Orlov. The last person who tried—his ashes were scattered in the Neva River.
I opened my mouth, wanting to scold her. But in the end, I just forced out a cold snort from deep in my throat and turned my head away.
"Don't expect overtime pay."
Harper didn't waste another word.
She quickly opened the medical kit, snapped on rubber gloves. Her movements were surprisingly skilled—cutting away my shirt, cleaning the blood, disinfecting.
When the alcohol swab touched the edge of the wound, I couldn't help but hiss.
"Hold still." Her voice softened slightly, but remained tense. "This is going to hurt. There's glass embedded in there."
She picked up the tweezers, completely focused on the wound.
I gritted my teeth, forced myself to relax my muscles, but my gaze involuntarily fell on her.
She was too close. So close that if I lowered my head just slightly, my chin would touch her forehead.
At this distance, I could see the tiny freckles across her nose, like scattered cinnamon. Completely different from Genevie. Genevie pursued perfection, demanded her face be flawless. I used to think that was beautiful. Now, I had reservations.
Harper was focused. That professional calm stripped away her usual timidity, making her look... exceptionally attractive.
Only now did I notice her long lashes, a tear still clinging to the ends, trembling with each blink, driving me crazy.
"Done."
After who knows how long, Harper snipped the last piece of tape. She exhaled and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. A few damp strands stuck to her cheek.
"The wound isn't deep. No organ damage, but you've lost a fair amount of blood.
" She gathered up the blood-soaked gauze scattered around, speaking in an eerily calm tone.
"You might run a fever tonight. There's ibuprofen in the kit.
Don't get it wet for the next few days, and no strenuous activity, or the stitches will tear. "
I looked down at my neatly bandaged abdomen. The burning pain had dulled to something bearable.
"Not bad." I squeezed out a dry compliment.
Harper didn't respond.
She stripped off the rubber gloves and tossed them in the trash, then straightened up, took half a step back, and looked at me in silence.
My fingers instinctively tightened on the armrest. An ominous feeling crawled up my spine.
"Kirill." She spoke, voice soft.
"Yeah?" My Adam's apple bobbed.
"There are some things I think we should clear up." She took a deep breath, looked me straight in the eye with devastating honesty. "I'm sure you know I like you."
My heart skipped a beat.
Guessing was one thing. Hearing her say it out loud was another. But before I could process that sentence, her next words hit me like ice water.
"I know it's stupid. Even though we signed an agreement, even though I know we're from two different worlds, I still made that mistake." She pulled at the corner of her mouth, producing a smile uglier than crying.
I panicked a little. She was calling her feelings for me a mistake? What was she planning to do next? Correct it? Take it back?
"Harper, I—"
"Don't talk. Let me finish." She cut me off, no accusation in her tone, just heartbreaking clarity. "I know now who that woman in the portrait is. I'm not holding onto any illusions. I don't want to make you uncomfortable in this house. You've already helped me more than enough."
"What do you mean?" I narrowed my eyes, voice turning cold.
"I mean we're going back to the original terms. I'll honor the contract, keep playing the good wife. But starting tonight, I'm moving to the guest room. If Olga gets suspicious, or if we need to put on a show, I can sleep on the floor in this room. Or the couch."
She looked at me, eyes hollow, as if she'd already extracted the soul that loved me.
"I won't bother you anymore. And I won't... delude myself into thinking I can have your love."
I looked at her, eyebrows knit tight.
Wasn't this exactly what I'd been after? An obedient, uncomplicated wife. Harper looked so calm now, so rational—exactly what I'd demanded from the start.
She was planning to take her heart back, close the door, and kick me completely out of her world.
Panic.
A massive, unprecedented panic punched through my heart. Worse than seeing her cry earlier. Worse than the gunshot wound in my abdomen by ten thousand times.
How could I let her go?
Harper finished speaking. Seemed to think there was nothing left worth staying for. She picked up the medical kit and turned toward the door.
"Goodnight, Kirill."
Watching her walk away, my body reacted before my brain.
"Stop!"
I ignored the searing pain in my abdomen and shot to my feet. The movement was too sudden—I felt the stitches tear slightly, warmth flooding out. But I didn't care.
I closed the distance in two strides and grabbed her wrist.
"Ah!" Harper stumbled from the force. The medical kit crashed to the floor.
I didn't give her time to react. I yanked her back hard and crushed her against me.
"Let me go!" Harper started struggling. Her elbow hit my wound in the chaos.
I grunted, cold sweat breaking out instantly. My vision went black for a second.
But I didn't let go. Instead, I locked my left arm around her waist and pinned her between me and the wall, like I wanted to fuse her into my bones.
"Are you insane? Your wound!" Harper felt me trembling and didn't dare move anymore. She could only look up at me, eyes full of terror.
"Yeah, I'm insane." I was breathing hard, pressed my forehead to hers, stared into her eyes, and felt my sanity crumbling. "Where do you think you're going? Guest room? The floor? Don't even think about it."
"You chose to come back. Don't think you can escape me now," I said coldly.
"What do you mean?" Harper's voice shook.
I lifted my head to look into her eyes, fingers gently stroking her cheek. Once. Then again. Until Harper's face slowly turned red.
"Harper, you win."
Harper stared at me blankly, tears welling up again. But this time, light rekindled in those eyes.
"So..." she asked carefully, grabbing the collar of my shirt, eyes locked on mine without blinking. "Is this... a confession?"
I looked at her expectant face, heart melting completely.
"Yes," I said solemnly. "From now on, you're absolutely not allowed to sleep in the guest room. Not on the floor either. You sleep in this bed. Next to me. You're my wife, Harper. The only one. The real one."
"Kirill..."
Harper choked out my name and rose on her toes, kissing me with trembling lips.
That kiss tasted of tears, of blood, and of desperate, post-catastrophe sweetness. I tightened my arms, deepened the kiss, and wanted to absorb her into my bones and blood.
I was finished.
From the moment she'd turned around and rushed back into that blood-soaked room, I knew—I'd never let go of this hand for the rest of my life.