Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Harper
Spring had arrived in New York, but the cold still cut to the bone. Inside Orlov Manor, though, the air had turned thick and scorching.
Everything changed after that night I burst into his study while he was injured—that night reeking of blood and antiseptic. It was like we were burning down our sham marriage and filling the space with something close to greed.
Oak logs crackled in the fireplace. I sat on the plush carpet in the bedroom, a massive vintage leather trunk spread open before me. The popping wood echoed through the quiet room, firelight dancing across the dark hardwood like my racing heart.
"Harper."
His voice came from the doorway, low and rough in that way that was uniquely his.
I didn't need to look up. That scent—the one only he carried—had already drifted into my lungs.
Kirill walked in, still carrying the bite of wind and snow from outside. He yanked at his charcoal silk tie with visible irritation, tossing it onto a nearby armchair. His tailored suit jacket followed, discarded just as carelessly.
He strode toward me. Without warning, he reached around from behind, hands locking around my waist.
"Ah!" I let out a sharp gasp.
The world spun. He scooped me up like I weighed nothing, pulling me tight against his chest.
Thank God Anna bolted from the room—even thoughtfully shutting the door behind her. I couldn't handle another mortifying moment like last time, when Boris caught us with my collar half-undone.
Kirill had been like this lately.
Once that barrier broke, the ice sculpture of a godfather vanished. In his place was a man who was intense, direct, almost clingy.
It was like he'd unlocked something. Every day, the first thing he did when he saw me was bind me to him.
"Kirill, put me down. I'm packing—"
"Anna can handle the luggage. I don't pay dozens of people to watch you kneel on the carpet folding cashmere."
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, the bridge of his nose brushing the sensitive skin behind my ear. He inhaled deeply, his warm breath ghosting over my pulse point and sending shivers racing down my spine.
"Besides," his voice came out muffled, touched with exhaustion, "I haven't seen you all day."
He was complaining. The mafia godfather was complaining to his wife about being neglected.
It made me want to laugh, even as something sickeningly sweet bubbled up inside me.
"I just wanted to help you organize some of your scattered clothes."
"I think you have more important duties right now." He deposited me on the bed, nipping at my neck just hard enough to draw out a low moan, then pulled out a pristine white box stamped with the gold logo of Manhattan's most famous French patisserie.
"Picked it up on Fifth Avenue," he said flatly, like it was nothing.
But I knew that shop. The most pretentious bakery in all of New York, where their signature lemon tarts sold out by three every afternoon. Getting one usually meant standing in line for two hours.
"For me?"
"Who else in this house likes things sour enough to strip enamel? Olga?"
I pictured Olga eating a lemon tart and nearly laughed out loud. The old-school aristocrat believed any bold, sharp flavor was an assault on the palate. She only drank tea and ate scones as bland as clouds.
I opened the box. A single lemon tart sat inside, crafted like a work of art, smelling impossibly fresh.
I picked it up but didn't bring it to my own mouth.
"Want to try?" I looked into his eyes, pulse quickening. I never would have dared this before.
Kirill paused. He glanced down at the yellow pastry, brow furrowing slightly—he hated sweets, hated anything sour even more. Olga had mentioned that once.
But I wanted to see. Maybe he'd break his own rules for me.
He met my gaze, then opened his mouth and bit off most of the tart.
His lips grazed my fingertips, tongue accidentally brushing my finger pad with a warm, wet touch. The sensation shot straight up my arm and down my spine like electricity.
"Just this once," he muttered.
"Good?"
He didn't answer. He swallowed, then suddenly leaned in and caged me against the mattress, hands braced on either side of my body.
"Too sour." His voice came out rough. "I need something sweet to balance it out."
Then he sealed my mouth with his.
Lemon zest, cream, and the sharp burn of liquor from his mouth exploded on my tongue. He kissed me deep, like he wanted to devour me whole.
His palm slid down my spine, rough calluses dragging against silk pajamas in a way that turned my limbs to water. Finally, his hand pressed hard against the small of my back, crushing me against him.
"Mmm..." I couldn't breathe, fingers weakly clutching at his shirt.
My face burned. My heart was about to leap from my chest. Even though we'd already been intimate, even though he'd acknowledged what I was to him, I still couldn't get used to this intensity.
Maybe because it was too good. Like a dream so vivid you're terrified of waking up to nothing.
After Kirill left, I'd planned to see Rihanna, but Anna intercepted me in the hallway where she was directing workers moving a new carpet. She dropped what she was doing and sidled up, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Did you hear, ma'am?" Anna's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes gleaming with gossip. "That old witch—oh, I mean that woman who always gave you trouble, Maggie—the nursing home fired her this morning!"
I stopped. "Fired?"
"Not just that!" Anna waved her hands excitedly. "The police showed up at the hospital. Someone reported her for cooking the books and abusing patients. When they hauled her away, she was screaming like a stuck pig. I'd bet money she's looking at serious time."
I stood frozen. Maggie had been Olga's previous caretaker.
She knew things, so she sucked up to Olga constantly—though Olga always gave her the cold shoulder.
After I took over, Maggie took her resentment out on me, skimming my overtime pay and dumping the worst jobs on me.
I'd complained to Olga once at home. I'd even stopped Olga from sending people to crack the woman's skull open.
But apparently, I hadn't stopped someone else.
"Oh, and," Anna clearly couldn't keep secrets, "those two rich girls who trashed you—the Sterling girl's sidekick.
.. God, this morning's news was insane. Their family business completely collapsed.
The IRS and FBI raided them at the same time.
Their sports cars and mansions got seized this afternoon. "
My grip on my bag tightened until my knuckles went white.
In New York, there weren't many people who could dismantle a decades-old enterprise overnight.
I had to know this wasn't a coincidence.
At dinner, the food smelled incredible, but my mind was elsewhere.
I cut a small piece of steak, stealing glances at Kirill seated at the head of the table. He sipped his wine, face cold and aristocratic, impossible to read.
"Maggie... that was you, wasn't it?" I finally gave up, setting down my fork to stare at him directly. "And those two girls' families."
Olga sat to the side, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, eyes dancing between us with a knowing smile.
Kirill's hand paused mid-swirl. "Yes."
Just like that. No hesitation.
"But Kirill..." My voice rose slightly with urgency. "That's two family businesses. And Maggie didn't really do anything... maybe a warning would've been enough. Isn't this overkill?"
"Overkill?" Kirill finally looked up. He set down his glass with a sharp clink.
His gaze held nothing but absolute certainty. "They treated my wife that way. They should be grateful I've been in a good mood lately, or they'd be in five pieces at the bottom of the ocean."
My mouth opened, ready to argue. Logic said this was wrong. Destroying two families, putting so many people out of work—the retaliation was too brutal.
I should talk him down. Tell him this was too extreme.
But my heart was pounding. My wife—he said it so naturally, like the whole world should know I belonged to him, that no one could touch me.
That feeling of being fiercely protected—I'd never experienced it before. It made me shy and thrilled at once.
My face burned hotter. I had to look down, pretending to smooth my skirt to hide my flustered state.
"Well said!"
Madam Olga laughed suddenly. She took a delicate sip of wine and raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, dear Harper, don't look like that." The old woman smiled warmly. "This is what Orlov men are like. If he can't repay insults to his woman a hundredfold, he doesn't deserve to sit where he sits. Kirill, you did well this time."
I sighed, picking up my fork again. "At least you could've told me first," I muttered.
Kirill's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"You don't need to know the details of taking out trash." He cut off the topic. "Now let's talk business. Next week, once I wrap up the current projects, we're leaving."
I blinked. "Leaving? Where?"
"Russia."
He leaned back in his chair, long fingers tapping absently on the dark table.
"Back to my homeland. I need to handle some things. And I want to show you the manor where I grew up."
My heart skipped a beat. The fork nearly clattered onto my plate.
Russia. His homeland. Kirill was opening the door to his past, inviting me in.
This acceptance meant more than any sweet words ever could.
"Really?" I whispered, voice dreamlike, hardly sounding real to my own ears.
"The private jet's already arranged." He stood, walking behind me. Hands braced on my chair back, he leaned down to murmur in my ear, hot breath tunneling inside, voice low enough only we could hear but filthy and seductive all the same.
"You'll love it there, Harper. I'm going to pin you down on my old bed and fill every inch of you."
"Kirill!"
I gasped. God, how could he say something like that here, now? Madam Olga was sitting less than six feet away! If she heard...
I shot a panicked glance at Olga, terrified she'd caught it.