37. Kiera
KIERA
The ride back to the estate is silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio as Luca communicates with the other security vehicles.
I sit pressed against Emil's side in the back seat, my hand clutching his uninjured arm.
His other arm hangs at his side, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage one of his men fashioned from a torn shirt.
He hasn't said a word since we left the club. His jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on something outside the window that I can't see. The streetlights cast moving shadows across his face, highlighting the hard line of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders.
I want to say something. Anything. But the words stick in my throat.
Someone shot at us. At him. Because of me, or because of him, I don't know. But the bullet found its mark, and now there's a wound in his arm that could have been so much worse.
Unless it was another attempt at me. With the Mafia, who knows? Maybe we were both the target and the shooter figured he'd at least get one of us.
When we finally pull through the estate gates, I feel some of the tension leave my body. The familiar sight of the sprawling grounds and the lit windows of the main house offer a strange comfort. Safety. Or at least the illusion of it.
The car stops at the front entrance, and Luca is out first, opening Emil's door. Emil moves to exit, and I see him wince. Just a fraction of a second, but I catch it.
"You're hurt," I say, my voice a bit sharp but with a little tremor in it.
"It's nothing." He steps out of the car, his movements controlled and deliberate.
"It's not nothing. You were shot."
He turns to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "I've had worse."
The casual way he says it makes my stomach twist. Of course he's had worse. This is his life. Violence and danger and bullets are probably as common to him as going to the gym is to me.
Luca escorts us inside, and we head straight to the medical wing. The doctor is already waiting, a middle-aged man with graying hair and steady hands. He doesn't ask questions, just gestures for Emil to sit on the examination table and begins cutting away the makeshift bandage.
I stand in the doorway, watching. The wound is angry and red, a deep graze along the outside of his upper arm. Blood has dried in dark streaks down to his elbow, staining his shirt sleeve.
"Clean entry and exit," the doctor says, his voice clinical. "No fragments. You're lucky."
"Lucky," Emil repeats, his tone flat.
The doctor cleans the wound quickly and efficiently, and I see Emil's jaw tighten, the only sign that it hurts. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't flinch, just sits there like a statue while the doctor works.
"It'll need stitches," the doctor says. "And antibiotics to prevent infection."
"Fine."
I watch as the needle pierces his skin, pulling the edges of the wound together. Each stitch is precise, methodical. Emil's eyes never leave the wall across from him, his expression blank.
When it's done, the doctor wraps the arm in clean white bandages and gives Emil a bottle of pills. "Take these antibiotics twice a day. Keep the wound clean and dry. Come back in a week so I can check it."
Emil nods, sliding off the table. He's still wearing his blood-stained shirt, the fabric torn and ruined. He looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual.
"You should rest," I say.
"I'm fine."
"Emil—"
"I said I'm fine." His voice is harder now, brooking no argument.
I bite back my response and follow him out of the medical wing. We walk through the quiet halls of the estate, our footsteps echoing on the marble floors. When we reach the corridor where our rooms are, he stops.
"Get some sleep," he says without looking at me. "We'll talk in the morning."
Then he's gone, disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, before heading to my own room. The space feels too large and empty. I change into pajamas and climb into bed, but sleep doesn't come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Emil throwing himself over me. The blood spreading across his shirt.
He could have died.
The thought hits me like a freight train, stealing my breath. He could have died protecting me. He did get shot! What if that bullet had lodged into his chest instead of grazing his arm?
I roll onto my side, pulling the blankets up to my chin. My heart is racing, my mind spinning with images I can't shake.
When did this happen? When did I start caring about him so much that the thought of losing him terrifies me?
I'm supposed to hate him. He's a criminal, a killer, a man who operates outside the law and doesn't apologize for it. He forced me into this engagement, into this life, and I should resent him for it.
But I don't.
Somewhere along the way, between the arguments and the passion and the quiet moments we've shared, he's gotten under my skin. I care about him. More than I should. More than is safe.
And seeing him bleeding tonight, knowing he'd been shot because he was protecting me, had nearly undone me. Had scared the hell out of me in a way nothing else in my life has. Not even when my parents died and Kevin took over the parenting roles.
I press my face into the pillow, trying to calm my racing thoughts. But it's useless. Sleep won't come, and the fear won't fade.
Hours pass. I watch the shadows on the ceiling shift as the moon moves across the sky. Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I drift into a restless sleep filled with gunshots and blood.
When I wake, sunlight is streaming through the windows. I feel groggy, disoriented, like I haven't slept at all. I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.
In the mirror, I look pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I look like I feel. Wrung out and worried.
I dress in jeans and a soft sweater, then head downstairs. The smell of coffee draws me toward the kitchen, but as I pass Emil's office, I hear voices.
I slow, recognizing Emil's deep rumble and Luca's measured tones. They're talking about something serious, their voices low and intense.
Without announcing myself, I walk closer and stand in the doorway.
Neither of them notices me at first. Emil is sitting behind his desk, his injured arm resting on the armrest. He's wearing a dark gray shirt, and the bandage is visible beneath the sleeve.
Luca stands across from him, a tablet in his hands.
"We need to narrow down the list," Emil is saying. "Start with anyone who's made threats in the last six months."
"That's still a long list, Pakhan." Luca swipes through something on the tablet. "Dmitri Volkov is at the top. He's been vocal about his grievances since you took over the shipping contracts."
"Volkov is all talk. He doesn't have the resources for something like this."
"What about Sergei Kozlov? He lost a significant amount of money when you shut down his gambling operation."
Emil leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Kozlov is a possibility. But he's more likely to come at me directly, not through Kiera."
"Then there's Viktor Petrov. He's been trying to expand into your territory for months. Taking out your fiancée would destabilize you, make you vulnerable."
"Petrov is smart enough to know that killing Kiera would start a war he can't win."
Luca scrolls through more names. "Alexei Sokolov. He blames you for his brother's death."
"His brother was skimming from the family. He knew the consequences."
"Doesn't mean Alexei sees it that way."
They continue listing names, each one accompanied by a grievance. Some are trivial, petty disputes over territory or money. Others are serious, blood feuds that go back years.
I listen, my stomach sinking with each name. There are so many. Too many.
How will they ever figure out who's behind the shootings with a list this long?
I must make a sound because both men look up suddenly, their eyes landing on me. Emil's expression doesn't change, but Luca straightens, closing the tablet.
"Kiera," Emil says. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I was just…" I gesture vaguely toward the kitchen. "Getting breakfast."
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder what he sees. Exhaustion? The fear of losing him?
"We're almost done here," he says.
I nod, but I don't move. I can't. My legs feel weak, and I lean against the doorframe for support.
So many names. So many people who want to hurt him through me.
"Are you okay?" Emil asks, his voice softer now.
"I'm fine," I lie.
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. "Go have breakfast. I'll join you in a few minutes."
I force myself to move and walk away from the office and down the hall. But the conversation stays with me, the names and grievances echoing in my mind.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the table, but I don't drink it. I just stare at the dark liquid, my thoughts spinning.
This is my life now. Danger and violence and a list of enemies so long, it seems impossible to track them all.
I don't know how long I sit there before I hear footsteps. I look up to see one of the staff members approaching.
"Miss Walker, there's a delivery for you at the front entrance."
"A delivery?"
"Yes, Miss. Fabric and supplies, I believe."
The wedding dress. I'd almost forgotten.
I follow the staff member to the entrance, where several large boxes are stacked. The fabric store must have sent everything else I ordered. I sign for the delivery and have the boxes brought to my room.
For the rest of the day, I lose myself in the work. I spread the fabrics out on the floor, comparing colors and textures. I sketch and measure and cut, my hands moving with a purpose that quiets my racing mind.
The wedding dress takes shape slowly. The silk feels like water beneath my fingers, smooth and cool. I work on the bodice first, pinning and stitching, adjusting the fit until it's perfect.
Then I move on to Emil's clothing. The charcoal gray fabric is rich and elegant, and I can already picture how it will look on him. Strong and commanding, but with a subtle edge that's uniquely him.
Hours pass. The light outside shifts from bright afternoon sun to the softer glow of evening. My back aches from hunching over the fabric, but I don't stop. I can't. This is the only thing I have control over right now, the only thing that makes sense.
A knock on the door startles me. I look up, realizing how late it's gotten. The room is dim, lit only by the lamp on the desk.
"Come in," I call, quickly gathering the fabric and hiding it behind the bed. I want it to be a surprise.
The door opens, and Emil steps inside. He's changed into dark jeans and a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The bandage on his arm is stark white against his tanned skin.
"You've been in here all day," he says, his eyes scanning the room.
"I've been working."
"On what?"
"Just… projects." I stand, brushing fabric lint off my jeans. "How's your arm?"
"Fine."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much."
I don't believe him, but I don't argue. "Did you eat dinner?"
"Not yet. I came to see if you wanted to join me."
The offer surprises me. After last night, after everything, I expected him to keep his distance. But here he is, standing in my doorway, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Sure," I say. "I could eat."
We head downstairs to the dining room, where the staff has already set the table. It's just the two of us, the large room feeling intimate despite its size.
We eat in relative silence, the clink of silverware the only sound. I sneak glances at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when he moves his injured arm.
"Have you made any progress?" I ask finally. "With the list?"
"Some. We've narrowed it down to a dozen possibilities."
"A dozen." I set down my fork. "That's still a lot."
"It's better than fifty."
"Not by much."
He looks at me, his dark eyes intense. "We'll figure it out, Kiera. I promise."
I want to believe him. I want to trust that he can keep me safe and find whoever's behind this before they try again.
But the fear is still there, coiled tight in my chest.
After dinner, we walk back upstairs together. When we reach my door, he stops.
"About the wedding," he says.
"What about it?"
He hesitates, and I see something flicker across his face. Uncertainty, maybe. Or doubt.
"We should talk about the details. The guest list, the ceremony—"
"I thought the wedding planner was handling all that."
"She is. But there are decisions that need to be made."
I cross my arms, studying him. "You've been avoiding this conversation."
"I've been busy."
"You're always busy."
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as frustration. "It's complicated."
"What's complicated about planning a wedding?"
"Everything." He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes that makes my breath catch. "Kiera, I need to ask you something."
"Okay."
He takes a step closer, and I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "Would you want to go back to your old life? Not get married?"