64. CONTRACT
ariella
Alistair has spent so long existing as something untouchable in my mind that seeing him asleep beneath white hospital sheets feels fundamentally wrong.
Men like him belong in laboratories hidden beneath cities—behind reinforced glass and armed guards, with equations spread across blackboards and blood staining expensive gloves.
They don’t belong attached to heart monitors.
They don’t lie unconscious while nurses whisper outside the room.
They don’t take bullets for anyone.
His torso is wrapped in thick bandages where the Crown’s first bullet tore through him. The second had lodged itself in his thigh.
I remember the sound more than anything else.
The gunshot.
The smell of burning metal.
The way his body moved before his mind could.
Alistair calculates everything. Even the probability of betrayal.
He once said in one of his lectures that emotions are simply chemical reactions misinterpreted by poets.
Then there goes the bandage across his shoulder, the place where I stabbed him in the heat of emotions.
And still he’s the same person who stepped between me and the bullet without a single calculation.
People believe monsters stop being human. I believe monsters are simply humans who discovered kindness hurts.
Alistair just forgot that lesson for one second.
With devastating certainty that I can finally see him.
Not as the professor. The manipulator. Or the Dominion’s perfect creation.
Only as a lonely man who spent his entire life believing he was incapable of love, and still chose to stand between me and death.
He’s still a human underneath it all.
The doctors assured us that no vital organs had been damaged. The first bullet had missed everything that mattered by what they called a miracle and what Alistair would probably call a statistical inevitability.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours discovering that miracles are much louder than what people imagine.
They sound like heart monitors.
They smell like antiseptic.
And they look like the man sleeping while the one who loves him waits for proof that he intends to wake up for her.
A knock sounds against the door. I don’t answer.
Adrian walks in anyway. Asher follows behind him, carrying two folders.
Neither of my brothers looks particularly rested, even though it’s been a whole day since we had that conversation.
They stop beside the bed.
Asher studies the sleeping man for a long moment. “He looks terrible.”
“He was shot twice.”
“Uhh… I think I preferred him more when he was trying to dismantle international organizations instead of collecting bullets.”
“He still dismantles international organizations.”
“Yes, but now he does it while creating paperwork for me.”
I look at the folders in Asher’s hand. “What are those?”
“Recruitment packages,” he says.
I blink. “For him?”
He nods.
By the time the sun came up, every television channel in the country was talking about the fall of the Triarch Dominion.
News anchors called it the largest criminal network dismantled in decades.
Financial analysts called it the collapse of a shadow empire.
Social media, in its infinite wisdom, had already decided that CynoTech had somehow marched into the underworld and dragged an entire illegal organization into the light.
Our stock price climbed.
Our reputation climbed even faster.
The company that had once been famous for software and innovation is suddenly being called a symbol of justice.
No one knows the whole truth.
No one knows that the quiet professor who had dragged me out of a psychiatric ward, hidden me, lied to me, and eventually taken two bullets for me had been standing at the center of all of it. The main masterpiece behind the unexpected rise of CynoTech.
My family certainly didn’t. As far as they knew, Alistair saved me from HINR and took bullets for me. Perhaps that was enough.
A quiet sigh draws my attention back to the bed.
Blue eyes have blinked open and are already watching us.
“Alistair,” the relief hits me so suddenly I forget to breathe. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
A faint crease appears between his brows, as though waking up to find all of us standing around his hospital bed is a mild inconvenience.
He’s still not used to people genuinely caring for him.
“I appear to have survived,” he says quietly, his voice rough from exhaustion and blood loss, but his eyes remain on mine. “You may stop looking as though the doctors have delivered unfortunate statistics.”
Relief hits me so hard that happy tears sting my eyes, even though I’ve absolutely no idea how long he has been awake.
“I was unconscious for less than a week, I assume, and you reorganized my entire life. Impressive efficiency,” he says to my brothers and tries to sit up, immediately regretting it.
A flicker of pain crosses his face before he buries it beneath that familiar mask of indifference.
Without thinking, I slip one arm behind his good shoulder and help him settle back against the pillows.
Asher folds his arms.
“I’d make a joke about shooting your other thigh because that one seems to have been left out, but Ariella would hit me.”
“Absolutely, you jerk.”
He looks genuinely pleased with himself. “Worth it.”
My hand shoots out and hits his leg. He yelps.
“Violence really is a Keinston’s love language,” Adrian says with a sigh.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh.
Alistair studies the three of us for a moment. “I appear to have joined a deeply concerning family.”
“You absolutely have,” Asher says. “There are no refunds.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve already passed the entrance exam,” Adrian chimes in.
Alistair glances down at the bandages wrapped around his torso and thigh before looking back at them with sarcasm.
“I was under the impression that the entrance exam involved surviving attempted murder.”
“That was only the interview process,” Asher replies.
Adrian reaches for the folders with the exhausted expression of a man accepting responsibility for a disaster. “Now that we’ve confirmed you’re capable of remaining alive for at least five consecutive minutes, we can discuss employment.”
Adrian picks up one of the folders. “As CEO of CynoTech, I’ve reached a conclusion.”
Alistair sighs. “Should I be concerned?”
“Probably. We require a Chief Research Officer,” and hands him the contract.
Alistair looks at the papers. Then at Adrian. Then, back at the contract, skimming through the page.
“You understand that employing me is an objectively terrible decision.”
“Most of my decisions are.”
“I’m wanted by multiple governments.”
He isn’t exaggerating.
The televisions outside this room are still showing photographs of Dominion members who had escaped.
Interpol notices. Government statements. Blurry security images.
Alistair’s photograph appeared often enough that I had to physically look away from the screens.
The founder was dead, but the other two co-founders had somehow escaped. Two senior council members had vanished. Several researchers are still missing.
The authorities had converted the entire affair into an international manhunt.
Which is exactly why we are hiding inside a private clinic owned by one of CynoTech’s subsidiaries.
Apparently, being rich enough allowed my brothers to redefine the meaning of discreet.
Adrian glances at the contract. “We appreciate experience.”
“I’ve committed acts that would violate several international treaties.”
Adrian nods thoughtfully. “We’re a technology company. Adaptability is important.”
“I engineered illegal human experimentation.”
“Excellent research background, by the way.”
Even Alistair seems uncertain whether they are joking or not. “I’m beginning to suspect this is a trap.”
Adrian gives his ever-familiar business-coded smile. “We simply prefer long-term investments, Hertley.”
I watch them.
Three brilliant men discussing felonies as though they are debating weather forecasts.
Alistair rests the contract carefully on his bandaged torso. “You trust me?”
“No,” Asher answers immediately. Adrian shakes his head simultaneously. “Absolutely not.”
“Then why offer me the position?”
Asher leans against the wall. “Because our dumb little sister here insists you keep taking bullets for her.”
I grab the nearest object from the bedside table—a rolled-up hospital magazine—and smack him across the bandaged cut on his forearm with it.
He lets out a short laugh this time. “See? Assault. Exactly what I predicted.”
Alistair watches the exchange with unsettling calm before his eyes shift toward my hand.
“You should be careful with that,” he tells Asher. “She has a documented tendency to escalate.”
His fingers lift just enough to indicate the wound hidden beneath the collar of his hospital gown.
A blush from embarrassment immediately creeps up. I don’t want to meet his eyes.
Asher stares at the two of us. “You say that like it’s a perfectly normal courtship ritual.”
“Unfortunately, I happen to have very limited experience,” Alistair admits.
Adrian pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t fucking believe this is my life.”
Asher’s expression softens, only slightly. “And because any man insane enough to do that belongs with this family.”
Alistair’s expression barely changes.
Someone else would miss it. I don’t. I’ve known him for long enough to notice every minor thing about him.
Adrian reaches into his jacket and produces a pen. He offers it to Alistair with all the solemnity of a peace treaty.
His fingers tighten around the pen. Then he signs and hands Adrian the papers.
Adrian takes the contract. “Excellent.”
Asher nods once. “Welcome to CynoTech.”
Alistair looks at him. “I suspect I should be offended.”
I clear my throat. Three pairs of eyes turn toward me.
Finally, I reach into my bag to take out the folded papers resting inside.
I place the folded document on top of his lap.
Alistair lowers his eyes to it. One eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly as he sees what I got for him to sign now, with mine already there.