"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 unexpectedlyfurious.
She strode over and slammed the medical kit down on the coffee table with a bang.
