“On the operation,” I clarify.
Hurt comes alive in her eyes, but she masks it almost instantly. Months in the Bratva orbit have taught her how to bury what she feels.
She faces the screen stonily again.
“Then let’s finish what we started.”
I nod and force myself to stay professional. Damian Ignatov doesn’t make mistakes over women—especially not the one woman capable of tearing down everything I’ve built.
But awareness has weight, and it settles thick between us.
When she leans closer to point at a fragment of code, her shoulder brushes mine again. This time the contact sends a pulse through me, sharp and unwelcome.
Harper exhales slowly.
“Damian… we’re running out of time.”
“I know.”
“And out of people we can trust.”
“I know.”
“And out of—”
She stops. She doesn’t finish the thought. But I hear the end of the sentence anyway.
Out of room. Out of excuses.
We work in silence again, but it’s not the same silence as before. It stretches like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap. When the next layer of Anton’s code finally cracks, I feel the return of a familiar spark between us.
Her shoulders loosen, like a bowstring that has retired after a long war.
She turns to me, her voice fierce and determined. “We can do this.”
With a clarity that feels like being punched, I realize that I trust her more than I trust anyone else in this house. Her hurt face appears behind my eyes, and guilt begins to churn in my gut, rotten and green.
There’s been countless times that I have shut her out like this. It’s for a valid reason, of course, but I can’t stop myself from wanting to hear her voice, even if it’s to say something to spite me.
I lean back, the leather chair creaking beneath me. It’s a small sound, swallowed almost instantly by the electronic drone. In here, time seems suspended, like we are frozen in a space of our own making. It’s hedonistic and the most stupid thing I could be doing with a woman like her.
She looks up, too tired to guard whatever expression rises first. Her voice is hoarse.
“What?”
The words just push up, scraping like something long buried and jagged. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Harper sets her tablet down slowly, as if any sudden movement might send me retreating back behind my armor.
“Okay.”
My chest feels too tight.
“You know my father died the night Anton disappeared,” I say, keeping my tone even, a surgeon’s blade held still. “But I’ve never told anyone what I walked into that night.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t interrupt. If she did, I might stop.
“The office was torn apart,” I continue. “Drawers emptied, desk overturned, blood on the floor—just a smear at the edge of the carpet. His chair was still spinning when I got there.”
